Category Archives: Holidailies 2009

And on the 31st Day, She Rested

So if you’re a regular here, you may have noticed an increase in volume, lately.

For the second year in a row, I took up the challenge of Holidialies.

Posted every got-dang day from December 7 until today.

It wasn’t hard.

It wasn’t easy.

It was a beautiful motivational tool, one which “made” me write at a time of year when it would be easiest to put it off.  A time of year when I probably need to write the most.

I am grateful to Jette & Chip, the people who give their own time to make Holidailies happen.

I’m very thankful and slightly a-blush that 3 of my posts were deemed  “Best of Holidailies“-worthy.

I thank everyone who came over from the site to check me out.  I am thankful for the new (to me)  writers I found there.

And now, I’m going to take a nap.

(I’m probably lying.  I’m a terrible napper.  I am, however, an incredible pisser-away of time, so I’ll probably just go with my strengths.)

Feliz cumpleaños, señoras!

Christmas birthdays probably blow.

People give you christmasbirthday presents, a lot of your friends are away on vacation, Jesus completely steals your thunder, and you have to act like it’s all cool.

You know what else blows?

Birthdays right after Christmas.

Everyone’s hung over, feeling bloated, and broke.

The odds for a good birthday are kind of against you.  Unless you are a chick who is so awesome, your birthday has no choice but to be a reflection of your awesomeness.

Not one, but two totally rockin’ bloggers I happen to be friends with happen to have post-Christmas birthdays.  On the same day.

Please join me in wishing Kitty and Rassles each a HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!  IN CAPITALS, BECAUSE THAT INDICATES YOU REALLY MEAN IT!!!

I realize neither of you is named Emma, but the love? That's real.

(Image via Cake Wrecks.)

Which brings me to me.

My birthday is exactly one month after Rassles and Kitty’s birthday.

It’s a demographic-jumping year for me.  I’m leaving the coveted 17-34 group.  Off to the purgatory of the pre-middle aged.  The only things marketed at me are beige carpeting and Sheryl Crow CDs.

I want to turn thirty-five in a blaze of glory.

So how do I go about making that happen?

All ideas are welcome.

(But just so you know, here’s some things I won’t do:

Wear heels over 2 inches.

Eat kale.

Get a perm.

Drive a Yugoslavian car.

Shank a bitch.


Go to a movie starring Kate Hudson (I find her off-putting.)

Lick a metal pole.


Take public transportation.

Wear lace-up anything.

But other than that, anything is fair game.)

A Mother’s Tears

I look about a hundred years old, tonight.

My eyes are exhausted.

Literal tablespoons of tears fell from them.

It’s not what you think.

I spent a good part of tonight laughing.  Laughing until I couldn’t breathe, until I was actually scared that this was how I was going out of this world.  And then I laughed some more.

I’m sure that one day, when The Boy is older, he will want to be funny.  He will try to get laughs.  And I probably will laugh.  But right now, when he’s not even trying?

Oh holy shit.

We’re discussing tomorrow’s Show & Share, for school.  His teacher asks the class to bring in an item that begins with a specific letter.  They’ve been working their way through the alphabet, and they’re up to “O”.

He’s mulling over his options.  We have no owls.  Oil can be messy.  He thinks for a bit.

Then he asks me, “Mom?  Can I have an empty jar?”

“But it’s not ‘J’ week, it’s ‘O’ week,” I try to tell him.

“I know.  I’m taking an ‘Odor’.  I need a jar to fart in.”



If you’re ever pissed off, tired, sad, at wit’s end, here’s what you need to do:

Grab some Mad Libs.

Find a six-year-old boy.



I go over the basic concept with The Boy, nerdily excited to explain nouns and verbs and adjectives.

He’s getting the hang of it.

He’s starting to rattle off words, as soon as I ask for them.

“Give me a plural noun.”


“Now an adverb.”


“A part of the body.”


Yep.  That’s the first body part that came to my baby boy’s mind.  The taint.  Which, unlike many 6 year olds, he has a word for.

I could defend my skills as a parent.  I could make excuses as to where and how he may have heard that word.

But my eyes and stomach muscles are tired.

So instead, for the first time anywhere in the world, The Boy’s First Mad Lib.  Enjoy!

When you go to the beach, you must take along a big blanket, a thermos bottle full of fruit juice, lots of suntan goo, and a couple of folding chairs.  Then you put on your socks so you can get a beautiful red to last you all summer.  You also should have a big hat to keep the sun off your taint.  You can also bring a short lunch, such as hard-boiled houses, a few lion sandwiches with mustard, and some bottles of goofy cola.  If you remember all of the above and get a place near a clean lifeguard, you can sunbathe quickly all day.

I am, as you can imagine, incredibly proud.  So proud it would bring a tear to my eye.  If I had any left…

The Murraying Kind

I don’t think this is my daughter’s first time around.

Although she’s only 3 in this life, I’m pretty sure she’s had a crack or two at this planet, previously.

If I had to guess when her last life here on Earth took place?  I’ d say somewhere in the 1950s.

Because she has the soul of the Perfect Housewife.

She’s been able to crack eggs, one-handed with no shell bits in the bowl, since she was one and a half.  Last year, she asked for her own vacuum cleaner. (I didn’t think she was serious.  She was.)  Her grandmother called me while The Girl was at her house, asking when we’d baked pies.   I laughed out loud.  (We don’t make pies, we buy them.)  She went on to explain that The Girl was using an old-fashioned, crank-handled apple peeler.

(Image from here.)

With no help.  And no instructions.

I had no explanation.

The Girl is never without a baby doll, who she is potty training and diapering and burping, and no she can’t just leave them and come have lunch because she is responsible for them, duh.

And when she’s not taking care of her babies, or cooking, or cleaning,

she’s playing Marrying.  (Which, in her own particular dialect, comes out sounding more like “Murraying”.)

I do not understand.

I have never, ever pitched marriage to her as a plan.  I’m not against marriage, per se.  I just don’t see it as a destination.  But I think she does.

She finds weddings fascinating.

She marries everything to everything else.

Barbie & Ken get married.

Her spoon and her fork get married.

When left with nothing else, she’ll even marry crayons.  (Can you imagine Blue talking about the wedding night to his blushing bride, Red? “Oh, I am gonna color you so hard.  You won’t be able to tell where the Blue starts and the Red ends.  When we get done there’s just gonna be a big puddle of purple left, you dig?  Aw, yeaaah!”  Anyway…)

We had a moment, tonight.  To be by ourselves and talk.

I asked her why she wanted to get married.

She just smiled.

I asked how old she thought she should be, when the deal goes down.

“How old were you?”

I told her I was 23, and that was too young.  She nodded, agreed.

“Are you going to marry a man or a woman?”

She laughs, looks at me like I’m slow.  She will marry a boy, she says, because she will want to have babies.  I start to explain that families with 2 moms can have babies, and families with 2 dads can have….but she senses this explanation is going to be bigger than she has patience for, so she tells me she will have 2 babies.  One will be named Tito, the other Apple.  (P.S., the boy is Apple.)  And she tells me that one day Tito and Apple will have babies, and that she will be their grandma, and….

I interrupt.  “You know, you don’t just get married.  You have to be married.  And when you get married, you promise you will stay married.   For your whole life.”

She tells me she knows that, stops just short of rolling her eyes at me.

And she tells me that’s why she is going to marry a nice boy, so she will like him for her whole life.

“What would a nice boy be like?”

According to The Girl, a nice boy will kiss you on the forehead and buy you fries and pick up the babies when they cry and open the car door for you.

(Image from here.)

She’s not entirely wrong, you know.  She’s kind of got a lot of the elements figured out, already, at the age of 3.

Nearly as figured out as I did at the age of 23.

Family – A Play in One Scene

“Oh my god.  This is it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to post today.  I’m going to miss a day of Holidailies.”

“Ooooh, that sucks.  Didn’t you miss a day when you did it last year?”

“Nope.  Posted every day.  But I have nothing today.  Na to the da.”

“Just write about your day.”

“What about it?”

“Well, you could write about The Boy, the diarrhea, ….”

“I’m not writing about poop.  I’m just not.”

“Did anything happen that wasn’t poop related?”

“No.  No it didn’t.”