Where IS Everything?

Merry Christmas Wifers!

I know, I'm an ass and haven't posted, but I think of the blog often.  And then I say, "Meh.  I'm drinking right now."  (NOTE TO MY MOTHER:  No Mom, I'm not drinking all the time.  I don't have a problem.  And perhaps I'm drinking Diet Coke?  I never said it was booze.  Who has the problem NOW?  Take a look at yourself.  What's in your hand?  That's what I thought.)

Really, I've meant to post, and I have a few great things to share, but I can't find my cord to download photos off of my Blackberry.  And then I can't find my charger.  And then I can't find my phone.  In the past week I've lost keys, gifts, eyeliner, a Starbucks gift card, $1400 in credit card receipts for a hooker convention, a red sweater, and my favorite jeans.  Just now, I helped Youngest Daughter through a lost DS emergency, and then I couldn't find my Mike's Hard Lemonade.  I can't find the receipt for the custom door we ordered for Current Husband's office now that we need to pick it up, and I'm losing my mind!  WTF, Universe?  I know there are people in the world battling cancer and depression and oppression and erosion, so I know I need a perspective check, but seriously, WHERE THE HELL IS MY BLACKBERRY CORD?

We had a great Christmas here in Wiferville.  It was all awesomeness and unicorns and ponies.  The kids were great, we had a wonderful bunker-down weekend, Christmas Eve Mass was uncharacteristically short, we sat behind a cute baby, the weather was great and we didn't run out of Gruet or cheesy potato casserole and no major appliances broke or malfunctioned in any way. 

Downside?  I may have undercooked portions of the ham and therefore my family may or may not have trichinosis.  Also?  I got my period four days early and had to go to Walgreens on Christmas Day to buy 60 Super Plus tampons and 48 Super tampons and 48 super maxi pads and a box of Dots and Aleve and a handgun, because honestly it was a Ten Year Period and it's a miracle I didn't need a transfusion or Depends.  The checkout girl said, "How is your Christmas going?" and I looked down at my 108 tampons that were getting me through the next 48 hours and said, "Yeah.  It's shaping up really well right now" and she looked at me in a pityingly way and said, "But you have the Dots!" and then I felt bad because at least I was hemorrhaging to death at home and in flannel sock monkey pajamas and not doing it at Walgreens on duty.  So I said, "It's great, I'm so glad you were open, thanks for working on Christmas!" and she smiled and probably thought, "Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in.  Go eat some more of that Death Ham, bitch."

I have to find that cord because I have a photo on my phone of one of my best Christmas presents EVER.  I'll get right on it.  Side note - super big scare tonight with George the Superpet - my kids called me at work at 4:10, yelling that I need to come home RIGHT NOW because George wasn't using his back leg, was walking like he was drunk, and threw up yellow stuff and then laid down on the floor.  I walked out of the office, freaking out, and on the way home called and told the kids to call the vet that I was bringing him in and I thought, "Dear God, Do NOT let me come home to a dead dog."  I screeched up to the house, threw open the back of the swagga wagon, and tried to figure out how I was going to get a catatonic stroking-out 107 lb poodle in the back by myself, and when I opened the door he came trotting around the corner smiling and wagging and miraculously all better.

BUT STILL.

As an FYI, when I lose George the Superpet, I will NOT. COPE. WELL.  He is only 5, so this kind of behavior is ridonkulous and I won't stand for it.  We've been watching him all night and he is acting perfectly normal, but of course I'm hearing the Voice of Unreason in the back of my head.  I can lose Blackberry cords and eyeliner and Starbucks cards, but the one non-human thing I can't lose right now is my dog.  CH, you have been demoted.  George gets the bed tonight.  Poor little poochie-pie.

I'm Sorry, 1034 Hall Street

Can you believe Christmas is this weekend?  I. Can't. Wait.  Excited kids and good food and elastic waistband pants and sleeping in and staying up late and wine.  Yippee!

Like us, many of you might have celebrated some kind of Christmas last weekend.  The Son had a basketball tournament, so Current Husband's Dad and Stepmom and younger sister came down for the day to see it and have our Christmas.

The Son's first game was at 8:30.  Thrilled that I had to wait for CH's Dad to arrive, and thus could sleep a little later, I missed out on the first game.  They were supposed to arrive around 8:30 a.m., but that came and went and no Dad.  It was inching toward 9 a.m. when the phone rang - it was CH's stepmom, wanting Youngest Daughter to stand in the yard so they could remember where we live.  We moved a year ago, and they've been here once, but their Garmin was still programmed for the old house, which is about three blocks away.  The Stepmom was laughing so hard I could barely understand her; she said they had something to tell us.

They pulled up in front and walked in the house.  It turns out that CH's Dad really had to use the bathroom, but they were so close he figured he could wait.  By the time they pulled up to our house, he REALLY had to go, so he jumped out of the car, ran to the door, and rang the doorbell repeatedly.  He started yelling, "C'MON JULIE, OPEN UP, I REALLY HAVE TO GO!"  Then he gave up on my getting to the door on time and....

Oh Dear Lord.  He peed in the back yard. 

Just in time to figure out
that it wasn't our house.

They jumped back in the car and took off down the street, where they saw Youngest Daughter, turning blue and jumping up and down.  They came in the house, where The Dad told me his story, and pointed out that, according to the front of his jeans, he didn't even completely make it to the back yard.

People of 1034 Hall Street:
Let me take this opportunity to apologize.  I know it wasn't a pretty sight to look out of your kitchen window, take that first sip of coffee, and see a strange man pissing in your yard, but his prostrate is weak, as is his willpower to turn down pots full of coffee when driving three hours.  He means well.  And if, by chance, he happened to say our last name or address while wetting himself on your front step or back yard, please stop by and pick up your complimentary bottle of Gruet.

You Deserve It.