Diary of a MILF in Progress

Because I really need to get the 'smoochy time' post away from the top of the page

Christ on a cracker, I am tired.  I am gearing up for my next board meeting and the end of the school year in rapidly approaching (concerts! class picnics! figuring out how to fulfill the final required service hours!) and I have a cold.

In other words, I am useless.  So what if there are amusing stories in my life, like my Elder Son's new habit of peeing in the driveway?  Or angsty yet heartwarming tales of my recognition of my rapid downward spiral (eating disorder red flags? check.  setting myself up for inappropriate situations? check. retreating from the people who keep me sane? check.), and the emotional strength to stop myself from hitting bottom?  Eh.  Can't put the words into something worth reading.

Hang in there, faithful readers.  Mid-June will come soon enough, and I'll get my shit together enough to regale you all with stories of my insane in-laws, dysfunctional birth family, neurotic offspring and stupid-ass co-workers.  Because Lord knows there will be plenty of blog fodder coming the further we get into summer.

Oh, romance is not dead

The Husband just called a bit ago to check in, since he'll be home in a few more hours after being gone since Thursday.  He requested that I get the house picked up, to get the kids situated for tomorrow morning (packing lunches and checking backpacks and such) and he asked about how the offspring had behaved in his absence.  I told him of the overall demeanor of the demon children little sweeties.  He's checked in each day while he was gone, letting me know how the band performance went, or what line the gang was waiting in at the amusement park, or letting me know what yummy thing he had ordered for dinner.

Then he said that as soon as I put the kids to bed, we would have plenty of time "to get smoochy."  Since being on my own with all three kids for three straight days, and trying to get all of the housework/grocery shopping/blahdeblah while keeping them from killing each other (or going off the deep end myself) is just the thing to get me in the mood. 

At least my cranky pants make my ass look good

I'm in a pissy mood.  This may be explained partly by my lack of sleep.  My lack of sleep can be explained by a combination of being sad that my hockey team was eliminated from the playoffs last night after some questionable calls in the 3rd period and overtime, and partly by my allergies.  Perhaps I am in a pissy mood because The Husband has been working a lot and therefore is under sooo much stress, and I am therefore both handling the stress of picking up his slack and dealing with him bitching about his stress.  In any case, this is my venue to bitch about the things that piss me off.

I do not want to hear my cubicle neighbor complain about  how overworked she is, since she has plenty of time to have loud conversations about what she is buying her mom for Mother's Day, and about other people's boyfriends being jackasses, and about her newly renovated kitchen (digital pictures of which she feels the need to show to everyone who enters our cube farm.)  I also wish she didn't make such a huge fucking deal about how she and Casey were CPR training partners for the past two years, so she has to wait until he has signed up for training this year (she is in charge of tracking the registrations) before she can choose which session to attend.  When I see Casey at happy hour in a few days, I will have to remind him to sign up so that she will Shut.the.Hell.Up.

I hate going to training on how to use the oh, so complicated (note my sarcasm) A/V equipment in the conference rooms, and having people make it much more of a deal than it is.  OK, so the conference call used the touch screen instead of an actual phone.  But, seriously, the touch screen has a freaking phone keypad and a button that says "Call," so the process for making the call is Just.Like.Using.the.Phone.

I have dance class tonight, and will therefore be missing dinner at home.  I left two choices of dinner in the fridge for The Husband.  Is that enough for him?  NO.  I also have to give him every option of what to have WITH the main dish.  As though he cannot open the goddamned freezer to see that vegetables we have, and look in the goddamned pantry to see that rice/pasta/potato side dishes are available.

Seriously, world, don't make me have to get my boots dirty.

I am not really a typical girl

I am so pumped that the Caps won tonight, I can barely see straight.  Maybe the wine I was drinking contributes to it (they said "rock the red," so I had me some shiraz), but I have to say that The Husband is about to get lucky.

Pain in the...

As a child, I took ballet classes.  By the time I was in middle school, I was taking 4-5 classes a week and sometimes performed en pointe.  But, since I knew I would never be a good enough dancer to actually be a professional (even in the corps), and wanting to have a life other than in the dance studio, I quit.

For a year or two in high school, I took some beginner classes with my old teacher, acting as sort of a teacher's aide while attempting to get back in shape.  That fell by the wayside once I went to college and got busy with life.

I was back in the dance studio last night, with a group of adults of varying degrees of experience and abilities.  My turnout is shot, my calves are fat (so my legs don't nestle together nearly so well as they did when I was a pre-adolescent), and I don't have nearly the sense of balance that I used to.

But most notably, I am using a set of muscles that have been dormant for a very, very long time.  As I get further into this class, my ass better become way more perky, since it's being put through such agony right now.

Nudge, nudge, hint, hint

If any of you can think of a way to get the Husband to see this

without telling him about this blog, let me know.  'Cause he's not really so good at the "buy a Mother's Day gift for the mother of your children."  He's more the "wait until the last minute and ask wife if she's taken care of Mother's Day cards/gifts for everyone except herself" type, and often asks me what I want the night before.  The best example of this was when he waited until the Saturday of Mother's Day weekend to ask, then came home from his shopping to ask me for a photo to put in the picture frame he had just purchased at Target.

The billiard cafe is my "Tony Anthony's"

Episode 13 of season 1 included the dinner in which my namesake, in a moment of double date awkwardness, identified the perfect comfort food.  I'm allergic to shellfish (not lemon peels) and prefer a 'tini of the flirty kind, but otherwise, I'm on board.

I'm quite the go-getter, after all

Casey stopped by my cubicle this afternoon, since our paths have not crossed in some time and he has seen me in the hallways a bit already today.  We caught each other up on recent meetings, and upcoming happy hours and such.

"This is the first you've seen of my new space, isn't  it?" I asked.

"It is...how come they moved you, anyway?"

"Who knows," I replied, rolling my eyes.  "I think they just wanted to move some of Dennis' staff closer to him, and so they bumped me to a less desireable location.  And, because I am just that kind of a person, I did what needed to be done."

"There you go," he said, "throwing yourself on the grenade."

"Well, I do what I can to make other people feel good."

A sly smile crossed Casey's face.  "I have a few ideas in that regard," he said.

"Well, you know I aim to please," I replied, my sly smile matching his own.

"Now, that's what I like to hear!"

You know, it's really good to have people appreciate the lengths I am willing to go to for my colleagues.

I may not be 'Kristen,' this isn't too bad, either

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And I thank my lucky stars for this behavior...

You know, The Elder Son may yell and throw stuff and annoy his sister when his medication wears off and he's overly tired, but he's not plotting any murders or anything.