A Valentine To Remember.

I have strong personal convictions about Valentine’s Day.

I think it is inanely stupid.

It’s contrived, it’s expected, and it’s downright annoying.

It forces single people to feel sad, it obligates non-single people to feel pressured to write something disgustingly mushy on Facebook, AND it’s the single worst night in the year to attempt to eat out, making one choose to either a) wait 4 hours to be packed in like sardines at a prix fixe meal out, or b) COOK AND WASH DISHES AT HOME.

WHY would we allow something so ugly into our culture*?

I mean sure, Chris and I celebrated it for a number of years at the beginning of our relationship – until that beautiful day that we got comfortable enough in our love to have that most romantic conversation.

“I think this is stupid.”

“Really? I do too!!”

We would much rather celebrate romance on our anniversary. It’s ours and we don’t have to share it with every other couple on the globe.

Welcome to the romance of the cynical.

* Feel free to disagree with me. You may find Valentine’s to be the most romantic, loveliest of holidays and that is 100% fine. Continue to enjoy the pinkest and reddest of days and by all means don’t let me sour you toward it.

Anyway. My lack of disregard for this holiday is why, when my Dad texted me Tuesday morning and asked if he could stop by, I didn’t even think for a second that it had to do with Valentine’s. I wondered for the next 30 minutes to what exactly we owed his visit. Although it’s not unusual for Dad to stop by, his text implied more than the usual “I’m dropping by.”

He walked in with a big red envelope in hand.

“I brought you a Valentine.”

Now. I derive 105% of my cynical genes from my Father.

This was clearly a confusing turn of events.

I opened my Valentine to find a handmade card, in my Mom’s writing. So this was a joint card….still feeling a bit odd.

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And then I opened it. And I remembered why my parents are THE best parents in the world.

FullSizeRender 63“Twisted” is the word that is obstructed by Herman’s Grade A Packaging, just in case you couldn’t figure that out via context.

Have you ever seen such a perfect way to celebrate this holiday?

No. You haven’t. Because my parents just created it.

After I opened the card and gushed at my Dad’s thoughtfulness, he pulled out another baggie.

“It’s a two-for-one day!”

That’s right. I was gifted not one, but TWO dead mice for Valentine’s Day. No $200 bouquet could top such a thoughtful, personalized gift.

I squealed with happiness.

“I even had a Valentine’s balloon in my roadkill kit that would have expired today if I hadn’t found something!!”

Dad beamed, obviously proud of his perfect timing.

After he left, Noah and I headed out to the driveway in bare feet, and I put the rubber gloves in my kit to use for the first time – after all, Herman and Marge would have to be posed.

I got them how I wanted them, but the plastic stem of my balloon kept popping off the ground, sending Herman rolling over.

Carcass Models are such divas to work with.

I finally had to employ my toes to hold the stem down, then had to crop out the tippy top of my big toe to finally capture the essence of the moment.

Yes, I had gotten what I wanted. Now it was time to write A Valentine Tale worthy of the image.

Herman and Marge the Valentine Mice s

Marge tried to feign excitement about Herman’s proud cheesy gift of an oversized balloon – she knew he loved her to death, after all – but all she really wanted was for him to have not been such an idiot when he decided to make their home near that tempting, deadly, beautiful, terrible Mouse Trap Subdivision.

And that’s how I received the best Valentine’s Day gift ever.

Diary of a Tired Mom: New Year, New Rambles.

Musings, stories, and random observations of a tired mother don’t always promise to make sense.


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Saturday morning, as I was driving to my favorite place to run, which happens to be in the middle of Birmingham’s fanciest suburb, I saw a fully grown man,

with a salt and pepper beard,

skateboarding down the road,

in a bathrobe,

that was printed in a fine leopard print.

I took a picture of him as I drove by.

I swear he posed an especially serious face just for me. Because he KNEW I’d have to take a picture.

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For that one moment, finding him was better than finding roadkill.

You be you, sir. You. Be. You.


Later that afternoon, I was attempting to make my way quickly through the drive-thru at Starbucks. I was behind a little car with a large “I Love My Labradoodle” sticker.

The Barista asked through the loudspeaker, “Can I help you?”

“I just need a few minutes to read the menu, thanks.”

I watched as the few minutes turned into more few minutes, and pondered to myself that perhaps this was not why drive-thrus were invented. You shouldn’t have need to read the whole menu if you’re choosing to stay in your car.

Finally they drove forward, and I quickly gave my order, assuming the Barista needed some decisiveness in her life.

As it became the Labradoodle LoveMobile’s turn at the window, I watched in horror as the Barista brought all the lunch options, fanned out in her hands, and held them out the window, three at a time, to show the indecisive driver what the options were.

SHE HAD TO SEE THE ACTUAL LUNCH OPTIONS, y’all.

And then she didn’t purchase one.

If you need to see actual food before ordering, please for the love of all that is even 1% right in the world, GO INSIDE TO ORDER.


What if you substituted “pelvic floor” for “dance floor” every time you heard it in a song? I found this is a fun pasttime, until I realized that “why don’t you kiss me on the pelvic floor?” is a somewhat bizarre question, and Michael Jackson’s “Blood on the Pelvic Floor” is just a really unnecessary topic to sing about.

So instead, every time you’re watching some serious movie or the news and you hear the term IED, replace it with IUD. The Korean terrorists throwing intra-uterine devices at Jack Bauer is downright pleasurable to imagine.


I realized the other day that I’m lash privileged. I’ve always had extremely thick, long eyelashes because my body hair grows approximately an inch an hour.

But. I allow my lash privilege show when I scoff at all the outlandish things other people do to have long eyelashes.

Fake lashes? So much trouble. And you would put those on for work? How is that a worthwhile operation?

That prescription that may cause heart failure as a side effect? Really? Are lashes worth all that??

But I’m not allowed to have an opinion. Because I’m lash privileged.

However I am not, apparently, eyebrow privileged, as I have one eyebrow that has decided to go prematurely grey. Yes, sadly my left eyebrow has gone rogue and keeps growing multiple white hairs, despite the tenacious grasp of youth that my right eyebrow maintains. I find this quite upsetting.

Maybe my entire left side is weird because I also have one rogue hair on the left side of my ribs that will grow to the floor, except that I yank it out for fun and amusement twice a year. And also if I rub the inside of my left elbow, it makes the left side of my jaw tickle-itch in a horrifically annoying-yet-fascinating way.

Do all left-handers deal with such body trauma as this?


Those matching underwear ads on Facebook draw me into their made-up fantasy every time. Chris and I need matching underwear. Look how frolicsome their lives look! But what are the chances that mine and my husband’s matching underwear would be clean at the exact same time? And furthermore, that the kids wouldn’t be totally weirded out by us wearing no pants at the dinner table?

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Has anyone named their kid hashtag yet? Because the ability to easily refer to one’s kid’s actions would be really fun. #Poop #Jerk #Mess #TimeOut #ScrewedUpAGAIN


Noah likes making up gibberish, and pairing words and phrases that he feels like sound good together.

Trouble is, he has some seriously refined taste.

He’s played with the word “Dammit” on many occasions.

(He swears he made it up.)

We had to forbid all made-up words that began with the letter f last month because they all tended to include the same four letters.

(He’s never heard that word.)

On Friday, he was repeatedly calling me, in a sing-song voice, “Hot Butt.”

(He’s never heard his father call me that.)

And on Saturday, as I was chasing him up the stairs while teasing and goading him, he screamed out, “Somebody get this Nasty Woman away from me!!”

(He’s never heard our president call an opponent that.)

I feel like he *may* have a supernatural power of word and phrase osmosis. That or he’s getting up in the middle of the night and watching television.

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But my bet is that the kid is a foul language savant.

A Round-Up of the Random.

Let’s have a round of not-at-all-important distraction, shall we?

As I’m sure you can tell by the way I live my life, designer copy paper is an absolute requirement. So thank goodness Staples had this deal on Cynthia Rowley’s designer case of plain white copy paper.

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…Because my paper deserves better than to come in a standard box. And it should absolutely be locked up in a security box so nobody swipes it before I get there.

We have some extremely interesting realtor names in this town, and now we have balding aliens to add to the crazy. I guess the real estate bubble on Mars finally burst.

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There’s nothing like studying Alabama History and learning that Hernando De Soto was a horrifically awful person who ravaged our state, murdering and stealing his way through it in the attempt to find some vast amount of hidden gold, to take the fun out of Family Fun park.

IMG_2467No. Not Awesome.

This pig has thigh gap. And I do not. The world is broken.

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Filed under “cars you do not want to rear end.”

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This is the home screen of my son’s iPad. I feel like I should go ahead and be looking into mental institutions for his future residence.

IMG_3214Who hurt you, Noah?

I went to the library to escape politics for just a second and read words unrelated to our current state. I failed.

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And then I failed even harder.

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I’m so glad they put that warning on this book. I once had a friend whose child’s brain LITERALLY exploded from doing one of these without parental supervision. But then again, who doesn’t have that friend?

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I feel like TMZ should have Googled the phrase “popping a squat” before utilizing it on dear Prince Harry.

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And now I can’t erase the mental image of Prince Harry wearing these shorts(?).

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This billboard caught my attention the other day. First for the fact that waist trainers are something that apparently belong on a billboard. Then for the verse reference.

IMG_3878For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a tiny waist.

And finally, my Text of The Month award goes to….my sister-in-law.

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Good thing he has superhero powers to fight germs.