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ABOUT ME

About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.

Saturday, January 2, 2016

I have no idea what day it is. Plus, quit bitching about your gift cards

First, there was Thanksgiving. I think I ate something at some point but with three children and family in town, I can't actually be sure. I do know that my mother stole dinner rolls from the restaurant we were at and that she shoved them into Cam's diaper bag because I found them wedged into a side pocket—and I ate one the next morning for breakfast.

Then, Christmas. Everett choked on a popcorn ball, and my brother Ted gave him the Heimlich. I cleaned up the vomit; he went back to eating. Ho, ho, ho! I tried to give my mother her gift:



Isn't the wreathe beautiful? My mother—who is impossible to buy for because she already owns everything that's pretty in the world—fell in love with it at an antiques store nearby, but there was one catch: I had to buy the door it was hanging on too. Ask me how much fun it was to teeter through the antiques store, Everett in tow, trying to get a door out the...door. Now ask me how long this door will sit in my living room because my mother drives a compact car and lives three hours away.

Rather, ask Chuck. He's ready to set it on fire.

Then, Everett's birthday. He turned five. My God, five. We had a small party for him at our house—kids, watch out for that door!—with friends from school. They raced around the living room, playing hot potato with balloons. We had a pinata. Pizza. Cupcakes. They left. I popped two Advil and went to bed at 4 p.m.

Then, New Year's. We put Cam to bed at 8 p.m. and sat down with a bowl of popcorn—Everett, please chew this time!—to watch the celebration in Times Square. Big mistake. BIG mistake. We jockeyed between ABC and NBC. We weren't safe from the smut, even on CNN (in case you missed it, Kathy Griffin disrobed). D'oh! Jenny McCarthy was "turned on" by her co-host at 8:15 p.m. Why waste time? Not like kids are watching.

After a few minutes of watching some musical performances, Junior wanted to know why women "always sing and dance in bikinis, but not men."

"Because women don't believe enough in their talent and capabilities to not sell their bodies."

"Oh."

"Please marry someone who keeps her clothes on," I begged my boys.

I fell asleep at 10 p.m. Chuck woke me up at 12:15 a.m. and lovingly wiped away the drool. Oh, shut up—everyone drools.

And now, my birthday. Number 41. Quite honestly, I don't even care at this point. I'm dying to get back into my routine of work and school so the days can stop seeming like one giant blob of naps and breakfast at noon and pajamas at 3 p.m. and "where's the dog?" and eating cheesecake for lunch and stepping on Paw Patrol figurines in the shower. I feel like an ass, bemoaning the fact that there's yet one more thing to celebrate, but I don't even think I can get drunk at this point.

Guess what though? Because I love vodka and because Chuck got me this kick ass shot glass—"For you," he told me affectionately, "my intoxicated Wonder Woman"—I will rally.



And then I will collapse. But I won't have dishpan hands. Not me, not ever.*

*I will, however, probably still have a door with a wreathe on it in my living room. And you bitch about gift cards—hah!

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