OH, shit. LB learned how to say No.

*sigh*

Happy NO NO NO NO NO Year to us!

May yours be filled with yes yes yes yes.

I love tubs. I love files. I love cabinets, boxes, shelves with baskets.

The office organization isle in Target is my porn.

Today I reached a climax of total distress with the amount of shit laying around the house. I make lists. I clean things. I put the clothes IN TO the closet, not NEXT TO it (do I hear an amen? Amen.) I dust. I clean the kitchen floor. I know it’s anal. I’m aware of it. But I like having things in a place and if there is no place for it, then it doesn’t belong here.

We went up to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to get some totes for me to organize the new items (read: way too much crap) we got for Christmas. I mean, items such as this lovely ceramic stationary holder, which has amazing detail that, if you don’t know anything about me and called me Ashley all the time, is exactly what I would want. I digress though, there are many more of these gems in our stack o’ shit and damnit, I needed stuff to put the stack o’ shit away up in the attic with.

So we get home, I crawl into bed totally exhausted and LB is sleeping. “Come talk to me about what we’re going to do with all our shit,” I say, really not meaning it as a turn on. Of course, three minutes into the discussion on where to put the old computers and why on earth he needs those binders from work to stay in our spare closet, I rip off his clothes and have my way. Not to be one to kiss and tell (stop laughing!) I’ll just tell you that I don’t care what it takes to get the libido going. Call me Monica, fine fine, but after having a baby, having house guests and being a wee bit emotional, I’ll take all the turn ons I can get. Even if it’s the plastic tub from Target. Rauuurr.

Mrs. Flinger goes Thursday Thirteen (again). My Thursday Thirteens are public and can be found here.

We had a date night. A DATE NIGHT, people. As in, no baby, a movie, coffee (without chasing the toddler) and dinner. IN. A. BAR. With a drink! And.. did I say this? NO. BABY.

Sad thing is, there are a few things that are different now that we’re parents. Like…

• I totally noticed how loud the previews of the movie are. “Are they *trying* to make people deaf? MY God!”
• I was appalled at the age of children at Harry Potter. “This is PG 13! *I* am a litte freaked out here. Why did they bring their five year old?!”
• When Raffi came on in the bar (I am so not shitting you here) I could name that artist in three notes or less. “OH! Raffii!” (Que singing “Five Green and Speckle Frogs)”
• The possibly sweetest thing one can ever hear, after royally pissing off the husband when getting completely sidetracked by a 60% off shoe sale at Mervyn’s, is “I don’t want shoes, I just want you. We can go shoe shopping with the pooper.”
• I can fart at the bar and he will just keep talking about things like football and fields and teams and totally ignore the stink. However, he’ll grin and say, “Let’s just keep talking” when he does it, but still, how sweet is that?

And, some things just never change.

• He opened the door for me to get in the car. Once. But hey! Once!
• We came in to greet my parents and fill them in on the date.
• There will be no sex tonight.

My battery is dying. (Literally) I’m whiped out. It’s midnight. It’s been an emotional few days. I’ve had two glasses of wine and now I decide to blog? Hellya. I may say something I regret but Internet! I need you!

I’ve been held captive by the family. Please send for help.

Must. Blog.

In the mean time, enjoy a short clip about the end of the world as we know it. Peace.

Y’all, I wanna wish you the happiest holiday… Merry Christmas! I know I, for one, will be off making the yule tide gay. I sincerely wish you the greatest holiday with your family and friends and loved ones. Peace on earth and may all your children sleep through the night while visions of winning the lottery and stickin’ it to “the man” dance in your heads.

May all your friends understand your emails and take nothing wrong.

May all your dogs not crap in the garage.

May all your house guests use the spare half bath to do their makup and may all your Inlaws hold their tongue about how much weight you still need to lose.

And may all your nieces and nephews behave and may all your FIL let your children sleep (especially for Little Miss.)

Merry Christmas!

Our Christmas tree has turned Mary Kate (or was it Ashley?) Olson and stopped eating. It refuses water. It will not drink even though the basin is full. The little needles are beginning to dry out and become brittle and fall. It doesn’t have long now.

This sounds a wee bit more appealing, to die a little every day, then put up with the current living situation. I will go apeshit and my head will spin three-sixty and fire will begin shooting out of my eyes. Don’t push it. Seriously.

Today my tits boobs turned three years old. That’s right, folks. Three years ago these puppies braved the knife and took off about one to two pounds per boobie. (I’ve been informed that while they are smaller, they still do not perk and thus are not “tits” but rather, the saggier counter part “boob”.)  While I was informed that getting the reduction may cause me to have trouble breast feeding, I wouldn’t trade my decision for two minutes. Honest to god, you people who think bigger is better are just sorely wrong. I’m sorry, but *you* never got a black eye from running. *You* don’t have to wear three, yes three, sports bras to chase the dogs. *You* never had blisters on your tits

monmouth boobs from attempting to work out. And so, here I am, six years ago:

And now:

Here’s my Thursday Thirteen! I’ve done it before, but I hope to be a regular: