Kanye West is...

..a total fucking douche bag. I mean, I'm not going to say that I didn't think someone else should've won that award, but, seriously, what a piece of shit. Him and his girlfriend. That kills me to say. Not really. Pains me is perhaps more appropriate. "Through the Wire" was genius", and he helped produce a lot of Jay-Z's best shit, but that was just god awful.
And, to add insult to injury, Beyonce comes out looking like a goddamn saint through all of this. Of course. Is there anything she can't do? Could she just please go and cure some diseases, stop the war, and eradicate mosquitoes now?
I love that Obama called him a jackass, and really, what's the big deal about that anyway? I like a president who watches sports, drinks a few beers, and calls people out every now and then. I like it that our president is an actual person who's in touch with pop culture in addition to politics. I like it that he has opinions and feelings and thoughts that aren't so carefully worded all the time. I LOVE it that his wife wore a dress from Target.

Raise a Glass!

Seriously, how good is Casal Garcia Vinho Verde? At $5.99 a bottle from Central Street market, with an ice cube in it, and served with something that includes at least a little bit of chourico. I love that wine.

Betty Crocker I'm not!

At the risk of sounding egotistical, I can decorate a mean cake. It started out with my sister and I decorating Will's first birthday cake, and has taken on a life of its' own since then. My good friend had the chance to take a cake decorating course, and was generous enough to pass on lots of her knowledge and pointers to me. I would say that I am relatively creative, and work pretty well with my hands; all things that are useful in cake decorating.

However, the yin to my decorating yang is the fact that I cannot bake worth a shit. No lie, my baking efforts fail at least half of the time. I love to cook, and think I do pretty well at that, but baked goods of all types elude me. I hate any type of baking from scratch. I am far too impatient and pay nowhere near enough as much attention to detail in order to churn success after success out of my kitchen. I think, too that it may have something to do with my disdain for math. I once fucked up a box of brownies. And by once, I mean once recently.

We are a big Pick Your Own family, and the blueberries this year have been INSANE! But, really, how many raw blueberries can one family eat? A few weeks ago, I baked a blueberry pie that was so great I decide to make another one the week after. The second pie's bottom crust was completely undercooked, inside the sugar was grainy and the top edges completely burnt.

But, hope springs eternal here in my kitchen, and I've got to do something with all of these friggin' blueberries. So, you can imagine my surprise when I produced this little gem late last night.

What you are looking at my friends is a slice of fresh blueberry coffee cake. A brand new recipe, made perfectly by me, of all people on the first try. I did not lose count of how many scoops of flour half way through. Nor did I miscalculate the stick of butter being a 1/2 cup, not 1/4 as I've learned OVER and OVER in the past.

One of my favorite times of the day is when I wake up and have my first cup of coffee. This cake made it even better this morning.

Like Jon and Kate

I'm back with the new shit...

So, let me be the first to write what perhaps all of you may be thinking. Where the hell have I been? Seriously? Did I get sucked into a vortex of bad reality TV? Have I been vacationing on the Hamptons? No, no. Nothing nearly as exciting.

When you're a mom of 3 kids all under the age of 5, or really any adult, regardless of sex or offspring, there are only so many hours (or minutes or seconds or whatever time your life allows) you can dedicate to being online. I used to spend a large portion of my time on the "internets" with Perez Hilton and reading local obituaries. A bit macabre, I know.

Then, I joined Facebook. I would check in on my "friends" all the time, give quick, clever (in my mind) updates about what I was up to, and even direct people to my blog which I wasn't updating nearly as much as I should have been. At first, it was really fun, and it was actually great to reconnect with some people I hadn't seen or talked to in a while. And I actually forgot how much I liked some people and realized I missed them.

But, after a while, Facebook really started to bum me out. I started to feel like my life, somehow, wasn't quite as good as the lives of my former coworkers/ roommates/ classmates. Why? Why did the grass seem so much greener? Why did it appear that certain women seemed able to balance motherhood, a career, and marriage effortlessly; still finding time to be "hitting the gym" and going for "GNO" according to their status updates?

I don't work outside of my home. I don't go to the gym. And, Girls Night Out? I struggle to get any kind of NO, or, better yet, an HO. And, when and if I do, you best believe that I'm not snapping pictures the whole time.

And then it hit me. Everybody's lives look so great on Facebook because, largely, you create an ideal image of yourself. One that you would like to portray to the rest of the world. Trust me, I didn't see many Mobile Uploads entitled "No Shower Today" or "Losing my Temper at Hannaford". Not too many Status Updates of "Just bounced another check...." or "thinking about a divorce." I even posed while Will tried his hand at photography in order to give me a decent, and more recent profile picture.

And you know what else I realized? My life, when sculpted and trimmed by moi actually looks pretty fucking fantastic, too. But most importantly, I realized that my life IS great. Too great to waste away on Facebook. So, since I am no good at setting and adhering to limits, I quit that shit. Cold turkey, cause that's all I know how to do.

And, really, I know it's just Facebook, and I know it's only been a month, but I feel excited to get back to my blog. I've missed it. It makes me feel so wonderful to sit, write, and giggle while I think about what goes on in my life. Not in some fake, cut and paste cyber life version, but my every day, real, little, silly, crazy life.

I appreciate the fact that there are people out there who find my blog worthwhile and at all amusing. Not just my mom and my sister and my good friends, because of course they're going to read it. But other people who I have probably very little in common with, who are not beholden to me or my blog in any way. So, check back often, and leave me comments galore. I'll try not to let you down again.

For all you do, this blog's for you.

It's not me; it's you...

I love textiles.
My children must each have somewhere in the vicinity of 20 throw blankets in varying size, weight, and texture.
When I move or redecorate, the first thing I tend to focus on are the drapes. I have way more bedding than anyone could ever need, including 4 sets for a Queen size bed, which I no longer even own. My attic is full of boxes of fabric both vintage and new. I know some day I'll use it all for some project or another. No matter what the condition of the rest of the house, I make my bed EVERY DAY, in a manner that only I can do perfectly. Brett does his best to help me out, but I just end up re-doing it anyway. Duvet pulled taught; no wrinkles across the bed. Pillows lined according to case color; darkest in the back closest to the headboard, lightest in the front.
And when it comes to housekeeping chores, of which I am most certainly NOT a fan, I can safely say that I love to fold laundry. Not only do I enjoy the task, I actually can't stand for anyone else to do it. There is a certain way that I like t-shirts folded. When done properly, it resembles a tight, smooth square of fabric. Almost brick-like in appearance. My methods make even the dingiest, ripped clothes look orderly. I am immensely proud to say that I can fold the shit out of a fitted sheet.
I'm working on my crazy, really trying to scale back my OCD, or "model being flexible" as my pediatrician and bff would say. But there are certain things, like the laundry, that I feel completely unprepared to let go of. So, what happens when my territory starts being invaded? I will allow my husband to fold his own clothes when he chooses. However, I prefer if this is done out of my sight, as it is nearly impossible for me to resist physically taking over.
When my mother and mother in law pitched in to help after I had my last two children, they mistakenly thought that handling the mounting piles of laundry would be a no brainer. A welcome helping hand. But could I be grateful, smile, and put the clothes away? No. I felt completely violated. Not that they saw my "unmentionables", for I had just practically died giving birth to my twin sons. I could've cared less about modesty at that point. But it was wrong. All wrong. The pants, shirts, socks and all needed to be refolded. My way.
And now, my oldest, bless his little heart, wants to help me fold laundry. He loves the sorting and stacking, and the cracking noise it makes when you shake the wrinkles out from a pair of jeans. It is seriously an anxiety attack in the making for me. He is so proud of his job well done; a crumpled, wrinkled mess. Facecloths folded inside out so that the Spiderman graphics are barely visible. A blurry mess of red, blue and black silkscreening on nubby terrycloth.
I have lots of dreams for my sons. Most are just your average run of the mill kind of things everyone wants for their kids. I hope they grow up knowing they're loved so much by so many people. I hope they aren't bullied, or even worse, become bullies. I hope they find true love with a great partner. I hope that they all stay close throughout their lives, even when I am dead and gone. Some involve him being a chef, or a career in MLB, where he takes the home team discount to play his entire career for the Red Sox with Gabe Kapler as GM, but I digress. I'm trying to bear in mind that they need to live their own lives. And I will love all of my kids, even if they suck at folding as bad as their father does. But, like anything you do with your children, whether it's baseball or reading, my wish is that by participating in this activity with me, he will get better and better.
Some day he may even be as good a folder as I am! Together, we could develop new folding techniques, be featured in the "Housekeeping Section" of Martha Stewart Living, rendering the majority of our ironing useless!
But for right now, for his sake, I have to push myself way out of my psychopath fucked-up laundry comfort zone, bite my tongue, resist refolding (which only happens occasionally now- baby steps) and simply smile and say, "Thanks. Great job."

Ridin' Dirty

When did my car become a filthy, roving snack shack? And why do I find its' perpetual disgusting state acceptable? Like an eating disorder, or drug addiction, perhaps, I think it has spiraled out of control for some time now. And, while those around me have witnessed its' descent, masking their disgust when forced to be a passenger, I have been only mildly embarassed or sickened by it. I have now hit rock bottom, but instead of becoming ridiculously thin (oh, Heaven forbid!), it is my car that needs to be brought back from the edge. My mother staged an impromptu intervention on Sunday. And, really, who else can you expect to call you out when a week old bagel with cream cheese languishes in the passenger side rear door's cargo compartment?

I don't drive a luxury vehicle. It's pretty much the most fuel efficient crossover I could find that would fit the three car seats across one back seat. And, I don't typically drive long distances; grocery store, karate lessons, library. But, for whatever reason, I always make sure my children have a snack and drink before we set off. Perhaps it's because I have 3 kids, each one a unique pain in the ass, and everyday I do whatever the hell I can to ensure, at the very least, a relatively peaceful car ride. Five fucking minutes without someone asking, or in the twins' case, whining for something. I realize now that I have created a monster with my on the go snacking, because not only do the wrappers from all of these not so healthy choices wind up on the floor, but the snacks and drinks do as well.

Chewed up gummy snacks have been stuck to my windows; the car mats are multi colored and littered with Goldfish, bits of donut, and french fries. There are crumbs deep in every crevice, and at this point, Ben's car seat buckle has had so many different treats spilled on it that you need to use the strength of Hulk Hogan to make it "click!".

And it's not just the fact that it's dirty. The trash is a shameful sort. Not apple cores and water bottles, but donut bags and empty soda cans, Happy Meal boxes and wrappers from Fruit Roll Ups and candy. Constant reminders of things that neither I nor my children should be eating.

We are not filthy people. With the help of a professional team, I keep a clean house. Although they may sometimes look a bit messy, and I a bit dissheveled, my children and I are bathed nearly every day or night, and I rarely leave the house without makeup. So why am I able to remain blind to my car's condition? I don't know. But, I will tell you this; I know I'm not alone.

My sister in law, who is one of the most fastidious people I know in terms of her and her home's appearance and condition once had a cup of her children's milk spill in her Suburban's third row seat. After a few days, the stench was almost enough to knock you out, and it lingered. Forever. Who lives like that?

As I was picking up my son's friend for a play date the other day, her mother instinctively reached for the Goldfish scattered on Ben's carseat, greatful for her good fortune, ready to chow down on a found snack. She stopped herself in the nick of time, but only because it wasn't her car. How is this behavior in any way acceptable? Have we all lost our fucking minds?

Beyond the mess there are even more problems hidden throughout the Vue. My car has always been relatively "off limits" to my husband. So, it made perfect sence to me that any purchases that could raise an eyebrow and elicit a "Did you really need that?" have always been stashed in my car, leaving behind their Hansel and Gretel trail of price tags, hangers, TJ Maxx and Marshalls bags, and those little plastic things that keep the tags on.

My CD collection, which has remained basically unchanged since, no fucking lie, 2004, except for the ones my mother burns for me resides in the Saturn as well. How fucking pathetic am I? I have my mother burn my CD's? Seriously.

My gas tank is always either empty or very empty, and I never get oil changes until the light is BLARING. Not just the nice indicator light that blinks when I first put the keys in, but then shuts itself off. "Hey, just letting you know, it's almost time. No big deal. Whenever, I won't bother you. You've got a lot going on right now." Oh no, the fire engine red light that constantly stays on, basically letting me know that my engine is going to fucking seize if I don't make it to Valvoline PRONTO.

It's shameful and it's lazy, but you will not find me pledging to change "once and for all" on this blog. No, I am aware of my limitations, and this is simply how I roll.

Watch your pennies...

And the dollars will follow?
At what point does a "Take and Toss" cup cross over into "Just Fucking Toss"? These things are so cheap. Literally intended to be quasi-disposable, and yet I swear to God I have held on to every single one I've ever purchased. We have close to 100 in all different sizes, colors, and level of rattiness; some spouts so chewed that I bypass them whenever they come up on the rotation. But today things reached a new low, as I scrubbed rancid milk which had morphed into cottage cheese out of one after it had a week long vacation under the passenger seat in my car.
I also use disposable razors for WAY longer than they are intended to be used and end up with a stockpile of razor heads.
Perhaps I will organize both the kids' sippy cup drawer (yes, I have a drawer just for those) and my razor blade drawer (and another drawer just for those) tomorrow.