Let’s move past the fact that I am posting this on Saturday. There are lots of great blog posts on the Interwebs, and since not all of my reader(s) are on The Twitter, I’m going to start posting a few of my favorite reads from the week here too. It’s also a cheap way to say I posted on Friday when I am otherwise often too tired/busy/inebriated.

Of course I reserve the right to never do this again if I don’t feel like it.

This Ermahgerd post on Hollow Tree Ventures gave me a laugh attack. Something about the combo of that hideous meme photo and the corresponding phrases hits me square in my 12-year-old funny bone. Her Ermahgerd texting also reminded me of something I would do (I still might). Perhaps I love it all so much because it’s remarkably similar to Kristin Wiig’s Target Lady from SNL, which is one of my all time favorite characters.

On the flip side, this post on Mothers and Mistakes made me weepy and felt so relatable. Lately I’ve had a lot of these Mom vs. Mommy moments with my 4-year-old as she exerts her growing independence and I keep figuring out how to meet the needs of two kids vs. one. Someone always seems to come up short. And this week I kept looking at her thinking I can’t believe how much she’s starting to look like a real kid, not my baby anymore, wishing that could slow down just a tad.

As mentioned, my husband and I were avid nappers before we had kids.

When we got married, the pastor had us each complete a questionnaire about ourselves. We both indicated a deep passion for super important things like family, loyalty to one another – oh, and napping. This apparently stood out to her – perhaps because she’d never before seen two 30-year-olds so openly and enthusiastically profess their love of laziness – so she mentioned it in the ceremony as evidence of our compatibility.

This is how you find a soulmate, people.

But for obvious reasons naps are hard to come by these days. On the rare occasion when I do make an effort, something always goes awry – the 4-year-old barges in, my husband blows his nose (so loud you can’t imagine), every noise-making toy in the house gets used at once. The disappointment is not worth the energy.

Somehow my husband still manages to squeeze them in. In part because he can nap anywhere. Cars, planes, the floor, the yard.

The Napping King in action (granted he earned this one after building a swingset, but the point is – location matters not)

I’ve caught on to a few of his favorite tactics over the years. He always hands me the keys when we’re driving anywhere further than 5 minutes. By minute 6 he has his eyes closed, head propped up in his hand, mouth slightly agape.

If my daughter gets to watch TV, rest assured my husband is the one who offers to “supervise” this activity. Honk shoo on the couch commences immediately thereafter.

But one of his best moves is the sneak attack. He will just up and disappear from a room with no mention of his intention. He quietly slips away, usually to our bedroom, tucks himself in, and steals a nap.

He has pulled this one off in a variety of settings, but the worst was when his parents were visiting. He just wandered out of the room in the midst of a conversation and left me to entertain them. This was before we had kids to distract everyone and keep meddling visiting grandparents busy.

After a while I finally left the room to look for him, worried he may have injured himself in the basement. Or more likely, gotten stuck in the bathroom with no toilet paper.

When I discovered him sleeping soundly, I gazed lovingly at his peaceful face, and whispered softly in his ear, “WAKE. THE F*CK. UP.” That was the incident that tipped me off to his stealthy nap strategy.

So last weekend I was quite pleased with myself when I flipped the tables on him.

I was mega tired after night #153 of poor sleep. So after breakfast, when the baby was napping, and my husband and daughter were finishing breakfast, I quietly walked out of the kitchen, climbed back into bed, and TOOK THE LONGEST UNINTERRUPTED NAP THAT I HAVE TAKEN SINCE HAVING KIDS.

Genius. Epic. So so gratifying.

Now that I’ve tasted nap success, moving forward it will be a battle to see who sneaks away the quickest. May the best mom win.

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On Napping: I found this post on Crappy Pictures to be very relatable, and funny, about the struggle for a decent nap.

Last night I went to a Neil Diamond concert with my mother. I wasn’t super jazzed when she invited me, but my dad pooped out and she needed a seatmate. So I went halfheartedly, thinking hey – at least it’s a night out of the house.

As I fought the crowds on the way in, I remembered – oh right, I hate crowds. So I grimaced with annoyance as I got elbowed on all sides, listening to old people freak out about which line was moving faster. SWEET GEEZUS WHICH LINE?!?

My irritation grew as the smell of bad perfume seared my nostrils, and the sight of one too many sequined tops blinded me. I could be home on my couch watching The Bachelorette right now, damnit.

The mood brightened a wee bit when I found my mother waiting with an extra glass of chardonnay for me. That’ll numb the pain.

As we waited for the show to begin, I watched in fascination as the oddest array of people took their seats around us. A ton of gray hairs, lots of animated and chatty women in their 40s and 50s, the occasional younger person here and there. It ran the gamut, and reminded me a bit of the crowd at Costco last week.

The woman on the other side of my mom leaned over and squealed, “I hope you don’t mind if I sing and dance the whole time!” My mom happily replied, “I won’t mind if you don’t!”

More chardonnay, please.

This was actually my fourth Neil concert, and the third time I’ve seen him with my mom. Despite my hesitation to go last night, I have a deep affection for the man. He was the soundtrack of my youth. I remember my mom singing and dancing to his music in our living room growing up. The Jazz Singer album was one of her favorites, so I have a strong emotional attachment to that one too.

For that reason, I feel the need to preserve the integrity of those memories. I get annoyed when drunk college students sing “Sweet Caroline” at karaoke. I tell myself they are posers and that’s probably the only Neil song they know.

I was also reluctant to go last night because last time I saw Neil in concert, almost 10 years ago, I remember he sat down on the stage at one point and I honestly thought he might not be able to get up. He was no spring chicken. Of course he did get up, and the show was great.

But this time, at age 71, I feared it would be even more likely to feel like Neil should have retired his sequins by now, before he breaks a hip on stage, shattering his pelvis and my childhood memories.

As the lights dimmed in the arena, I took another swig of my chardonnay and prepared for the geriatric display.

But the moment the band started to play, I got goose bumps. When Neil waltzed out, I shit you not – I got teary. Turns out that man still has swagger to spare. Sure, he moves a tad bit slower, and his ears are larger than life these days, but he’s still got it. For the next two hours he lit up that arena, crooning his finest tunes, swaying those tender hips, and making the ladies swoon.

I clapped and sang the whole time, and couldn’t believe the big goofy smile on my face. I also teared up more than once (how can you not during “Hello Again,” right??). It may have been the chardonnay. In fact, it most definitely was at one point. But as I looked around at that random audience, singing and dancing unabashedly, I thought to myself, these are my people.

Well done, Neil – you never disappoint. Thanks, yet again, for the memories.

My sister is 8 months pregnant with her first child. When I visited her last week, it was fun to help her get ready for what lies ahead. I installed her car seat, helped her sort through baby clothes, assembled her baby swing – all those things that, when you’ve never done it before, can easily overwhelm.

I couldn’t help but feel a bit of deja vu, remembering when I was in that pre-baby, hugely pregnant state. The idea of giving birth, let alone raising a child, is so surreal. You’re kind of ready, in part because you only have one shirt that fits and can’t take another day of swollen fingers and cankles, and yet you are totally unprepared.

I could see that expression on her face at times. I tried to reassure her that it’s normal to feel that way – but on my flight home, I worried I may not have been the most comforting resource.

One day she was having cramps and felt like the baby had dropped. I asked her, “Does it feel like a hand is about to stick out of your vagina?”

“Uhhh, yes..?”

“That’s normal.”

That’s how I ease her nerves? Give her a haunting image of the baby clawing its way out?

She asked me how I knew when I was in labor. I repeated what I heard several times when I was pregnant with my first, and what is easily the most useless piece of guidance you can give to a first-timer: “When it’s the real thing, you’ll know.”

Honestly – what a dumb thing to say. Clearly the person doesn’t know, or they wouldn’t have asked.

In the end I don’t know if any words would’ve been very calming. Everyone has to endure and figure it out for themselves anyway.

But witnessing her in that state – on the precipice of motherhood – I was reminded how it is the end of so many things. She and her husband eat dinner at 9 pm. They light candles on the table and discuss their day without interruption. As I scrounged for snack food, I found kale chips and brie. No cheese sticks or juice boxes in sight.

The thing that struck me most was her approach to laundry. As she washed baby clothes, she opted to air-dry several items on a rack so they wouldn’t lose their color in the dryer. Ahahaha. These days I’m winning if I manage to rinse out the poop before I shove something into an overstuffed washer, and it all goes into the dryer on the same setting.

The poop I’m referring to here is from a baby. When I poop my pants, rest assured I always rinse it out.

One of the things my husband and I miss most from our pre-baby days is the ability to take a nap. Weekends consisted of Home Depot trips, some other stuff, and NAPS.

I am intrigued to see what my sister will be like as a parent. How will it affect her? How will her personality translate to motherhood?

Apparently she wondered the same thing when I was pregnant. When she arrived at my house to meet the baby, I was changing a diaper and the first thing I did was exclaim, “You just missed the biggest poop!” In her words, that’s when my role as a mother clicked.

I’m just realizing – do I have some sort of poop fetish?

Obviously life will change for my sister. She may not have time for candlelit dinners anymore. Then again, maybe she will if she makes it a priority. Sometimes I wish I put more effort into retaining my pre-kid pleasures (aka more naps).

But when I think about what’s in store for her – the unimagineable love you have for your child, and the deep, soul-fulfilling joy that parenthood brings – I am so happy for her, and excited for it to be another experience we can share. It’s well worth those missed naps 99.9% of the time.

Always give yourself leeway for the occasional day when you’d rather crawl back into bed.

I just got back from visiting my sister in California. She has fabulous taste in home decor. Her style is clean, modern and fresh. She loves art and always has new paintings or decorative pieces for me to ogle. It’s like she lives in a catalog, and I always love to see what’s on display.

Occasionally her art selections have had a darker edge to them. Like the year she gave me a picture of 3 dolls for Christmas, one of which was headless. I wanted to like it. I smiled and said it was cool. Because I knew it was – if it were in her house. But in my house, hanging behind my papasan chair* and next to a cheap IKEA print – it would’ve been the thing that left visitors thinking, “I wonder if Amy is a serial killer.”

*Please note I no longer have a papasan chair. I got rid of it in 2005…only 10 years past its prime.

This week I was visiting my sister in her new house. She was giving me a tour, and upon walking into her bedroom, I said, “I like your bedding.”

She replied, “I’m surprised you don’t recognize it. I got it off your Pinterest page.”

This caught me off guard. I looked back at the crisp white duvet cover, realized why it looked familiar, and uttered the first thing that came to mind: “You BITCH!”

I am a JV level Pinterest user. I initially loved it, and pinned things I thought were cool, some of which I truly wanted for my house. Then I remembered – oh right, I am poor – and it wasn’t as fun anymore to lust after things I could never afford.

What once was mine (on the Interwebs)

Hence my belligerent response to my dear sister poaching that dreamy, unattainable duvet cover. I know, I know – sharing is the purpose of Pinterest. It’s not fair to fault her.

But I need to blame someone for this painful reminder of my financial status. I mean, even her dog has a nicer bed than me.

I recovered quickly from my foul-mouthed reaction, and assured her that I thought it looked great and I was happy for her to have it. It looks better in her house than it would in mine anyway.

But I cannot deny that as my own twisted form of payback, I used a ton of paper towels when I was there.

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Updated:

On Pinterest: If you do have a zeal for Pinterest, this is a great post by The Next Martha about how to beautify your boards.

Progress has finally been made on the aforementioned swingset debacle of 2012.

The wounds were still too fresh to take photos over the many days my husband spent putting the beast together. I stayed inside not doing laundry.

But last weekend he added the slide and a few finishing touches, and my daughter is now using it.

Hallelujah – she loves it. I’m pretty sure divorce papers would be on the table if she didn’t.

Of course after my husband dug out substantial amounts of grass and dirt to level the ground it sits on, we realized that hard rocky terrain underneath the trapeze bar is not ideal.

So, why not add one more cost! Today we got wood chips to put under it.

Alas I think the hard labor is finally done.

As a final step, I said I would apply a fresh coat of stain to it. Let’s see if I actually live up to that promise.

That was supposed to be the end of this blog post.

But then.

I looked outside and saw my husband scooping out the final load of wood chips. It’s clear that when he shoveled the last pile off the driveway, he also scooped off a layer of dirt & moss – which is now sitting on top of the pile in the truck.

Instead of skimming off the dirty moss chunks, he just shoveled it into the playpit with the rest of the chips.

Now, that might not sound like a tragedy. But I have a hard time paying money for pristine cedar chips to then shovel a bunch of fricking dirt into it. AmIright? I’m not talking tiny dirt flecks – these were sizeable clumps of wet mossy dirt.

So I went outside to ‘discuss’ my concern with him. Needless to say this did not go well.

Note to self – when the husband is on hour 6 of a 2-hour project, always compliment the work that’s been done thus far before suggesting how it should be done differently.

We agreed to disagree on the importance of this matter.

So as he packed up his tools, I picked dirt out of the wood chips with determination and intensity. I have no doubt that if the neighbors were watching, they wondered how severe my OCD is.

Someday this swingset will only bring joy, not marital discord. Someday.

Warning: This post includes poop talk.

Prior to deciding I would quit my job, we remodeled part of our house. For the master bathroom, we purchased a Toto toilet.

I had never heard of the Toto brand before. I was happily browsing the likes of American Standard and the Home Depot brand.

But then I had three different people, including our contractor and architect, recommend we get a Toto. They all repeatedly sang its praises in terms of design and quality.

So, being the easily-influenced person that I am, I started to want a Toto. I researched prices. On the high end, there are models that are $5,000+. If you have that much money to spend on a crapper, well, I won’t waste my time berating you because you sure as shit (pun!) aren’t reading this blog.

But on the very lowest end, I found a model that – if purchased from a wholesaler online – was twice the price of our other toilet. For the master bath – my first ever ‘master bath’ – I convinced myself it was worth the splurge. Part of my deluded logic was that I will likely live in this house when I turn 40 in a few years. And damnit, I deserve a nice toilet when I’m 40.

So I bought it.

After months of use, it pains me greatly to report that this toilet is by far the poorest functioning toilet in the house.

How so, you ask?

The toilet does not flush down all of the contents of the bowl. Remnants, shall we say, are left behind.

So several times a week, I stick my hand into that expensive Toto toilet, and wipe away fecal matter.

That’s right. I paid top dollar to manually wipe stool out of my toilet.

Is it my poop? My husband’s? Or maybe the guy who was here fixing the shower? (I’m pretty sure this happened once, and the memory still haunts me.) I don’t know! That’s part of the fun!

On many levels, THIS HORRIFIES ME.

There is the obvious poop-wiping part. I don’t think I need to explain why this is horrendous.

But now that we are pinching every penny, triple-thinking every purchase – the fact that I paid MORE for this toilet than my perfectly-functional, regularly-priced toilet makes me ill.

Pretty on the outside. Where dreams go to die on the inside.

I have a feeling this may be why it was the cheapest model. It would’ve been nice if they at least sold it with a pair of rubber gloves.

The moral of the story? When it comes to the place you poop, focus on the flush, not the design. I lost sight of this, and was hellbent on getting a sleek modern toilet that would feel like a throne on my aging buttocks.

My husband, damn him, said it best early on when advising me to buy the Home Depot brand instead, “It’s just a toilet, Amy.”

Right. I get that now.

The reality of our financial status now that I’m not working is finally setting in, and it ain’t pretty. We are 10 days into the month and have about $42 left in our bank account. Ok it’s not that bad, but it’s not much better.

We splurged on a grocery trip the other day and spent $130 for about 2 days worth of food. One of the extravagant purchases was white raspberries.

Look at them. Such rare beauty. Only available for a short window of time. And priced accordingly.

Symbols of wealth and opulence

As I was near tears paying our bills later that day, my husband rightly pointed out that this type of purchase no longer fits with our lifestyle. Who do I think I am buying these rich person berries?

So I am savoring every one I eat, knowing it will be the last. My daughter has grown fond of them and now requests them instead of the red ones.

I oblige, but am torn – part of me thinks, “Yes, let the child enjoy them – she should experience exotic new foods as a means to enrich her life.” But part of me thinks, “Hell no, you can’t possibly appreciate the value of these fancy berries.”

Another area of excess? Paper towels. I use far too many. So I am trying to cut down by re-using them, or using washcloths. The other day I saw a spill and used my sock to clean it up in an effort to conserve. And because I was too lazy to get up.

So paper towels are also now for rich people in my mind.

Paper towels and raspberries. Luxuries. Status symbols. Things that make me realize I probably need to nut up and get rid of the cable TV so my family can eat and spill food without worrying it may bankrupt us.

My dad had us over for a BBQ on the 4th of July. My mother is visiting my sister, so this week has been an eye-opener in terms of how my dad would function without her. Let’s just say I’d fear for his intestinal tract.

On Monday he was headed to the grocery store to stock up for his week as a bachelor. He had the following items on his list:

• Wine
• Beer
• Scotch
• Bacon
• Eggs
• Cheese
• Chips
• Crackers
• Steaks

Is there even one complete meal in there? I asked if he might want to add a fruit or vegetable to the list. He laughed and shrugged off that crazy idea.

When we showed up on the 4th, the only item he had to serve was the steaks. Enormous steaks. If I hadn’t brought vegetables and a side dish, I’m not sure he would’ve cared or noticed.

This is the man who, last year on the 4th, mistook a package of snickerdoodle cookies for hamburger buns, grabbed two of them, sandwiched them around his burger, and proceeded to eat the whole thing without realizing it. The only thing he said midway through was, “This bread sure is sweet.”

After dinner he saw me eating a cookie, and asked why I was eating bread. At that point we discovered his error, and it was the first time my daughter saw me laugh so hard I cried. She was very confused by this phenomenon.

Sometimes I think if I were a male I would have followed in my dad’s dietary footsteps. I can’t argue with anything he had on his grocery list (except the scotch – my choice would’ve been vodka).  And I admit that going over on the 4th, a part of me was pleased knowing there would be some salty crap to eat.

However I have learned that if I want to be able to move, poop or find any enjoyment in life, I need to balance it out a bit and ingest other items as well. But it doesn’t come naturally. In fact this may be why grocery shopping is so hard for me. If I went with my instincts, I’d clear out the Pringles supply and eat half of them before I was home.

While at my dad’s on the 4th I opened his cupboard, just to see if there was anything else to offer. This is what I discovered:

The musical fruit

Nine cans of beans. Nine. Was this his lunch & dinner menu for the week?? Thankfully I took him out, had him over, and brought him a few meals this week. My mother returns tomorrow, and I’d say she owes me one.

This morning my husband ran out of clean undershirts. Apparently I have not been keeping up on laundry duties. I’m guessing this is hard for him to understand given I am home all day. Add to that the fact that he sees me frequently checking Twitter or blogging – as if it’s my job.

Because let’s be honest, I’m sort of pretending that it’s my job. Last night he came downstairs to tell me something, and I shoo’d him away because I didn’t want to be distracted as I finished a blog post. A BLOG POST.

I have an average readership of three people, two of whom live in this house. I doubt the world will end if I don’t publish my deep thoughts about unicorns or my bunion in a timely manner.

But it brings to light the fact, albeit a sad one, that my Internet activities are the one thing I do just for me these days. I obviously knew that quitting my job would mean the loss of regular adult conversations and the end of using my brain in any strategic capacity.

But I didn’t consider the many other little ‘me’ things I would lose. Like riding in the car by myself on the way to the office. Or getting a latte by myself. Or going to the bathroom by myself.

I’m not complaining. That’s a lie. I am complaining a bit. But in proportion to the amount of complaining I did when I was working, this is minor.

I remain so grateful that I am able to take this hiatus, spend more time with my kids, and change the pace of my life, even if only for a short while. And I truly love grocery shopping at 10 a.m. on a Wednesday with my fellow senior citizens.

But if I return to work in a year, I do wonder whether I will look back on this as that weird phase when I turned to the Internet for camaraderie and laughter. Ohmygodthatsoundssolame.

Kind of like I wonder if I’ll look back on this as the year my husband slept in the basement instead of our bed. Coincidence?

Geezus when I look at those two statements, it’s shaping up to be a banner year for our family.

After I told Twitter it wasn’t the boss of me a few weeks ago (ohmygodthatsoundssolame – savemefrommyself), I do feel like I’ve stayed true to my pledge to make sure it doesn’t conflict with my life priorities. For instance right now my oldest child is watching TV, the baby is floundering around in her pack-n-play, and I just let a pot of boiling water overflow on the stove because I wanted to finish this post.

Just kidding. (No I’m not. But once the water spilled I stopped writing and now I am finishing this post after the kids are asleep in their beds and my husband is asleep on the couch.)

Anyway, I am looking at this blogging escapade as a chance to offload all the words that would otherwise junk up my brain, and free therapy while I figure out what the hell to do with myself next.

In the meantime, I need to at least make sure my husband has clean underwear every day.