Diary of a Tired Mom: Dead of Winter Edition

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I’m afraid that all of my motivation and Type A-Ness was housed in my uterus. It’s been nearly six weeks since its removal, and I don’t feel like running, eating vegetables, eating less Christmas chocolate, writing, cleaning, educating my children (which I am managing to do anyway – whether quality education or not), or really much of anything else.

I mean, I kinda want to do those things, but my ability to make myself is….lacking.

I am positive that my motivation has been morcellated and yanked out through my bellybutton in confetti-sized pieces. I signed a lot of paperwork for that surgery, but I know I didn’t approve that.

My Only Hope is that it is actually the deadly mixture of the cold hellish depths of winter and the lack of uterus that is actually causing this steep decline in productivity, and that, come spring, I’ll be a normally contributing member of society yet again.

Which brings me to this pondering…

The idea of New Years Resolutions is the stupidest idea of the entire human race. Amie’s comment on this post caused me to ruminate on the absolute awful timing of this concept, and I think we need to lobby for legislation to be passed to END THIS IDIOCY.

How could there be a worse time to try and make huge overhauling lifestyle and diet changes than right after the end of the holidays (depressing!), when we still have loads of chocolate (yum!), in the deepest, darkest, coldest part of winter (we need those carbs to survive!), and besides the fact that January in general is proven to be the crappiest month of the year?

We are literally torturing ourselves into extinction with New Years Resolutions. This is probs what happened to dinosaurs and dodos.

In their place, I propose that we should have Daylight Savings Time* Resolutions. A clunkier naming, sure, but so. much. smarter. We shall diet and exercise when we get our extra hour of daylight back, when Spring is starting to peek around the corner, and when hope fills the world once more, when fruits and vegetables are available in abundance – that’s when we have the energy and mental fortitude for such things as resolutions!

*OBVIOUSLY, I would rather pass legislation to stay in Daylight Savings Time all year round, but if I can’t do that, No More New Years Resolutions is a close second.


You know that bizarre list of traditional wedding gifts that includes romantic notions such as tin and wool? I think we need to make that list more practical and rewrite it to be entirely made up of re-buying wedding presents as they run out of their useful lives.

1st Year: You don’t have any money, but you’re still coasting by on fresh wedding presents. Anyway, your love is gift enough. Maybe splurge and buy a bag of celery.

2nd Year: There is definitely a random minor appliance you got for a wedding present that was a lemon and has now quit working. Is it a can opener? Iron? Vegetable chopper? Replace that bad boy. Otherwise you’ll spend the next five years frustrated that you didn’t.

5th Year: Your comforter is old and has pills on the fabric, not to mention that nasty stain from that one time you tried to drink cranberry juice in your bed while half-sleep. Plus, you probably hate that design by now. This year’s New Traditional gift is: ALL NEW BEDDING!

6th Year: Those three times you’ve actually attempted to iron, you definitely melted something. From now on, every attempt to flatten wrinkles will also include appliqueing old burnt plastic onto the item of clothing. But just throw the thing away. You’re never going to figure out the ironing thing, and the dryer plus a damp washcloth works passably for your level of domesticity.

8th Year: Yo – truth time. Your towels are disgusting. They’re ragged on some edges and pulled into tight spirals on others. They have bleach spots even though you’ve never used bleach your entire marriage. The gift of the year is towels. Your butts will thank you.

10th Year: You are on your second toddler and he has now thrown away all your forks and half your spoons, leaving you to attempt to shovel steak into your mouth on your ridged grapefruit spoon. It’s time for the gift of silverware. But don’t buy that ridiculous $50-a-place-setting kind that you received as wedding presents – at this stage of your life, it’s best to invest in the 108 piece box set on clearance at TJ Maxx. You still have a toddler, after all.

11th Year: Did you know you were supposed to replace your mattress last year? Happy Anniversary! Go lay on 257 mattresses and freak out about the most anxiety-inducing purchase you’ll ever make. And – spoiler – you’ll still pick the wrong one. Then you will attempt to use The Force to hurry along the next ten years so you can try again to get it right. (You won’t.)

17th Year: Your bowls are all chipped, and your plates are ravaged with silverware scrape lines. This year’s traditional gift is a new set of casual china. Plus – c’mon. Your taste in dinnerware was crap when you gleefully danced through Macy’s with that delightful registry gun. Now it’s time to get something you really like.

…But no matter how many years you’re married, the gift of the year is NEVER a Kitchen-Aid mixer, because those things never die – even if you’d really like an excuse to get one of those fancy multicolored ones.


24-36 hours after I cut onions (no less, no more), when I take a hot shower, once the room gets steamy, my shower is filled with the smell of fresh onion – as if I were standing in the middle of a 500-acre onion farm and just pulled up a perfect onion bulb. I believe that my skin is an organic diffuser that is specially adjusted to diffuse the onion’s essential oils. My superpowers are marketable – that is, unless everyone has this skill. Please report in immediately.

When Being an Early Adopter Spins Out.

I am aware and annoyed that the world tends to hate on new things as they come along, picking apart all of the potential dangers and drawbacks before anyone has had a chance to even try them.

Remember when Pokemon Go came out? All the news stories were about people walking over cliffs or wrecking cars (or the possibilities of those things potentially happening) rather than the fact that an entire people group just emerged from their video-game-playing-basements and were all of a sudden getting loads of exercise and Vitamin D and even human interaction.

(I still marvel at the shocking paleness I witnessed those first few weeks when Pokemon Go was THE THING. I’m pretty sure some of those people had never visited outdoor parks in their lives before said parks contained Snorlaxes and Squirtles.)

The 80s in particular were full of this judge-first hobby – especially in Southern Christian circles. The Smurfs were satanic. Dungeons and Dragons was double satanic. Yoga would turn you into a new age witch. And speaking of witches, don’t forget about Stevie Nicks because she was totally a witch. Oh and now that we’re talking about music, any song played backwards will tell you to worship Satan (did you know that Congress actually held hearings on this issue??) And DO NOT read the clouds in “Aladdin” or look at the cover of “The Little Mermaid” or YOU WILL SEE THINGS.

It even carried over to the 90s when Harry Potter was the echelon of all things Satanic. Too far, too far.

I find this outlook endlessly pessimistic and more-than-a-bit off-putting and am seriously happy that the 80s are over. As such, I always try to give things a good, hard, first try before identifying their potential downsides. Why not look for the benefits of new ideas rather than the drawbacks?

With one exception.

Since the moment they emerged in an explosion of fad and frenzy, I have DETESTED fidget spinners.

Detested isn’t a deep enough word. Loathed, perhaps. Abominated. Is that a thing? I abominate fidget spinners.

I abhor the quiet, smoothly fizzing sound when other people use them around me (“isn’t this a No Fidget Spinning section of this restaurant? No? Please seat me in the No Fidget Spinning section – I’m allergic.”) and I am disgusted by the feeling of them spinning around on the top of my own finger, and I despise them spinning between my thumb and index finger. They literally make me shiver with horror. They give me the total heebs. And actual chill bumps.

Of course, every member of my family with the exception of myself owns and regularly carries one of these horrible devices. Including my husband. Even though he conceal carries, it grosses me out just knowing that vile thing is in his pocket.

Before he realized my intense repulsion by The Fidget Spinner, Chris came home one night with a surprise for me and each of the kids. He played it up, acting like he was the best in all the world (which he is. Or was, until this night.)

After presenting the children with thrilling trinkets for which they hugged him and thanked him profusely, he finally pulled out my surprise – and as I’m sure you’ve already figured out, it was a fidget spinner. But not just any bland old fidget spinner – it was a fidget spinner printed with graffiti, and therefore he looked at me expectantly, happy that he’d hit upon one of my many and varied interests.

IMG_2910“My” Fidget Spinner is the one on the far left. Though I would never claim such vileness as mine.

I’m pretty good at faking thankfulness for gifts I’m not thrilled about, but my complete enmity toward these items made me recoil and scream out “EW! I can’t stand Fidget Spinners!” and push it across the table as if it were a box full of hissing cockroaches.

His face fell and I immediately felt bad. And both kids began begging for my rejected gift.

“OOOH DAD! Can I have it?” “No can I have it?” “I’d really love to have it!” “So would I!”

“You could have at least pretended to like it and told me later so that I didn’t have to figure out which kid to give it to.”

I apologized profusely, but stayed vigilant in my absolute refusal of his inappropriate gift.

(It later got used as bribery to get Noah to behave for like three whole days and was totally worth it.)

(Poor Ali. If only she required more bribery, she too could own more fidget spinners.)

Although Ali and Chris are moderate enthusiasts, Noah has become a collector of Fidget Spinners and Widget Spinners (what he calls the two-sided ones) of all sizes. He pines after them and begs me to search Amazon for newly released ones. I do not demonize these pursuits (at least out loud), even though I cringe with thought of the sound of yet another softly spinning object in my house. Instead, I press on, supporting my family and even my son’s horrific obsession.

Even though fidget spinners just have to be Satanic.

On Discovering That I’m a Prodigy.

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The year of 2017 will be forever remembered as the era where I made a monumental breakthrough on my journey of self-realization. If I were given one of those standard employee reviews where they asked me what my strengths and weaknesses were, before 2017 would be lacking a vital component of who I am.

Because 2017 was the year my husband acquired an NES Classic. Just before they were discontinued forever, might I add. It was for sure fate guiding my husband’s obsessive impulses so that I could discover my greatest ability.

I am a Dr. Mario genius.

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I had played it as a kid and remember being fairly good at the game, but we didn’t own it so I was not aware of my remarkable savant tendencies in the particular skill set that this game requires. Both playing on my own and in a two player game, I am STUNNING. My mind works in just the right way so that I can dominate, knowing instantaneously where the ideal place to land each dual-colored pill is. I can plan ahead, making sure that each killing of a virus is actually a double or triple virus kill, therefore sending extraneous and devastating blocks into my opponent’s pill bottle.

Lest you’ve forgotten your own childhood Dr. Mario experiences, the game works somewhat similarly to Tetris, in that you’re trying to clear stacks of similar colors. Except in this game, the plot is a bit thicker – you’re trying to cure viruses* with pills – three same-colored pill halves stacked on top of a virus clears it. Or if you’re just making a stack of pills, four same colored pills clears out.

When playing one player, I can continue the game indefinitely, despite the growing number of viruses at every level. The only thing that stops me is my eyes – they start to water and see double after a while – just like our mothers warned us, Nintendo will destroy your eyes.

When playing two player, each player selects their own level of difficulty, thereby leveling the playing field with a Dr. Mario handicap. When Chris and I play against each other, I choose level 11 or 12, and he chooses level 5. I have over double the number of viruses he has and that nearly makes it fair – but not quite, to be honest. I still savagely beat him 99% of the time.

Thankfully, Chris enjoys his regular beat down.

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Every time I play, I am re-amazed at myself. It’s as if I suddenly realized that I’ve always known how to fluently speak Russian but had just never encountered a Russian speaker to reveal my talent.

I have since been trying to analyze these previously untapped skill sets and figure out how to apply them in real life, becoming a multi-billionaire by my ability to sort the stock market, or analyze computer code to find (computer) viruses, or something. But I have yet to identify a profitable application of my genius. Perhaps I need to visit my old college advisor. But for now, I guess I’m just going to have to go on the video-game-entertainment circuit, wowing intent crowds with my ability to eradicate viruses in a stunningly efficient manner.

* Despite my love for this game (due mostly to my own mastery of it), the premise does slightly annoy me, as all us mothers know that “It’s just a virus” means “There is no pill in the world that can cure your kid right now so you just go on home and enjoy the misery of your sick kid until that virus runs its course over the next 7-10 days and also enjoy the fact that you just wasted a $35 co-pay.” So either Dr. Mario has made a breakthrough and found a pill that cures viruses, or this game is a complete lie to humanity. I’m putting my money on Dr. Mario being a pill-slinging savant. Just like me.