That’s NA’CHO cheese, people! Just Sayin’.

So this morning we were running late.  You know this is not exactly breaking news in the life of Keri.

Half way to Jr’s school we hit the ONE light I can NEVER get through without waiting out a really long red light.   “Christmas In Dixie” was on Country Christmas, so I was explaining to Jr how this song probably came out when Mommy was his age. He was ignoring me and snacking down waffles  totally enthralled with my story.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the lady in the silver minivan who had been behind me (and driving kinda crazy, I thought to myself, but no big shock there, :::eyeroll:::) had pulled alongside me and put her passenger window down.  She seemed to want my attention (who doesn’t?) so I rolled down my window.

“There is cheese coming off of your car!!!”  She gestured back behind us as if to show something flying from her vehicle.

I turned down the Alabama “Come again!?”  I responded.

“CHEESE!!!  STRING CHEESE IS COMING OFF THE ROOF OF YOUR CAR!!!” She yelled as the light turned and she began rolling up her window as she pulled away. “CHEESE!”

Now I can’t lie.  The idea of cheese coming off of my car is not an entirely new concept to me – cheesey incidents have occurred in the past.  But what in the world could she be talking about today?

She is crazy – the only cheese I have TOUCHED this morning was the pack I grabbed for Jr’s and my sna……

“THE CHEESE!!  THE CHEESE IS ON THE ROOF, BUDDY!!”  I exclaimed as we (thankfully,) pulled into the subdivision where Jr’s school is located.  He dropped his waffle in horror – “No cheese mommy!?”

I pulled over, clamored out, and felt along the roof of the latest MUV.  Yep – mostly empty (had been full) open bag of string cheese.

 

Guess I accidentally poured one out up the Blvd for the cheese-lovin’ homies of the North Burbs that have gone before me.

ALWAYS check your roof, yo.

Just sayin’.

 

 

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Here we go again….

Ahh, the holidays…. The most wonderful time of the year.

In yet another telltale example of how I am slowly succumbing to the ways of the suburbs, I found myself longing to bust out the Christmas decor prior to Thanksgiving this year (although still not the day after Halloween, like the boldest in my hood , because Jr needs some recovery time in between giant Inflatable Frankensteins and seizure-inducing jingle-bell-rock lighting displays, yo?)

I also broke down and caved to The Mr’s requests to get a larger tree for The Casa. Even I had to admit that our medium height, thinner profile tree that worked perfectly in the tiny corner of The Treehouse looked a bit sad in our cavernous vaulted-ceiling living room.

So, a week-and-a-half before hosting my first actual traditional Thanksgiving, The Mr. dragged all of the bins of decorations up out of storage, along with the new tree (purchased at 90% off sometime around Valentine’s Day, TYVM,) and I set out to deck the halls.  That tree?  That tree was my Everest.  It is tall, it is heavy, and its directions ?  Non existent.  Also – my cute little condo tree was pre-lit, but not this bad boy – OH NO – this is 100% Keri-illuminated. (Props to my dad who did that every year on the family tree….  and how did my husband disappear SO fast when I mentioned that the lights might be a dude job?  Christmas magic or just a fast car?)

Getting the star on top? Short girl, big ass tree – this shit pretty much actually happened to me:

GIFSoup

Except not even that cool, because I tipped off a stepladder, flopped forward clinging to the tree (still determined to just get the dang star on,) and took it down, becoming hopelessly tangled  in a heap of faux-branches and precariously strung twinkle lights that took a good 10 minutes to extract myself from, at about 11:30 at night.  No one woke up, and I considered just sleeping there until The Mr came downstairs to assist.  But that is NOT the kind of “holiday family story” I want my 3 yr old telling at school.  (He already told his entire class that he was “VERY thankful for Bacon” during their Thanksgiving discussion.)

So, the ginormous tree eventually got the star up on top, and Jr assisted in the decorating of it it by doing all the things that I remember used to piss my mom off when we did them:  hanging 20 ornaments in a 10 inch square section of tree,  hanging ornaments on the afore-mentioned lighting cords instead of the branches (maybe DON’T stab that metal wire hook INTO the cord there, sparky,)  grabbing uber-delicate old ornaments with his “Hulk-smash” preschooler grasp, attempting to eat the ancient foodstuffs from the old-school DIY ornaments of my youth, and on and on until I was frazzled as heck and he was squealing with 3-year-old Christmas glee.  (Cute and understandable, but an untamable force of nature, to be sure.)

The pull of super-sizing the decor hasn’t been contained to the inside of our abode either – Where once I swore I would always be strictly a “tasteful wreath on the door ONLY” kind of gal, I have been sticking silver bows and greenery everywhere on the front of our house.  There are even two spiral, clear light trees staked into our lawn.  (FYI – setting those things up is like stretching a really big spring well beyond where you should be – I let go too soon on the first one and it shot like a rocket half way across the street.  You’ve been warned.)

If we get all True Confessions about it , I would actually like to see a single strand of clear/white lights tracing our roof line.  But I don’t see The Mr heeding the call of his inner Clark Griswold, and Keri draws the line at anything involving a ladder.

Maybe.  But all the neighbors’ lights look so pretty….

Another holiday season in the subdivision is off and running – we also survived another round of the holiday party last night.  This year The Mr made an appearance, I secured seating to eat right away and parked him in it,  and all that ended up coming home in my purse was a goody bag from santa.

Let it never be said that Keri doesn’t learn from experience.  (And next year – The Mr is putting that damn star up on the tree.)

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The Universe mocks me in the morning.

Can I just preface this with a confession – I ABHOR lateness.

If we agree on 5 pm for a glass of wine and chat some place, I am the girl who is there at 4:55.

That being said – I suck at mornings. I SUPER SUCK at mornings.

I do everything right the night before: clothes for Jr and myself selected and ready, lunches packed, bags together… I am on top of it.

And then sometime in the middle of the night, shit must just go off the rails. Because come dawn’s early light, getting out the door seems suddenly as difficult as climbing a 14er in a too tight pencil skirt and stilettos.  I can’t get out the damn door in anything even brushing up against the definition of a timely fashion in the mornings.

 

Stuff just happens.

 

This morning we have managed to get coats, hats, gloves, etc on and secured, and I am loading bags out the door and into the car, SO CLOSE to departure that if this was a plane the flight attendants would be in their seats, and Jr declares “MY CAR SNACKS!!”

So I run back though the house to the kitchen to grab his go-cup of Cherrios, just in time to hear the unmistakable sound of Binky-the-wonder-dog starting to throw up… somewhere… off in the distance.

I track down the barf and start cleaning it up, bags still hanging off of every arm – determined to push through and get on the road.

Standing over me, watching this display and snacking down his cereal, Jr inquires “Mom, everyone throws up, right?”

“Yep that is true buddy, everyone is sick sometimes, even doggies.”

“Just like everybody poops? “   Errr…. Ok…. “I’m pooping right now,” he says, standing over me, 4 feet away from the bathroom door.

Add another item to the “to be cleaned up “ list.

 

I sigh and put all of the bags down.

One dumps its contents all over the floor.

Yep.

 

Getting out the door is nothing short of an epic trudge every damn day. You can pack the lunches the night before, but you can’t plan for the poop, people.

Poop happens. And barf. And horrific coffee spills. And “NOT THAT SHIRT, I WANT THE RED SHIRT” wardrobe meltdowns. (Sometimes even from Jr. HA!)

I inevitably end up in the parking lot of Jr’s school taking my first conference call of the day while picking the remnants of a cheerio explosion out of my messy top-knot (sure, we can call that “intentional” messiness. You betcha.)

I have tried getting up earlier. I have tried getting Jr up earlier.

You know what I determined about getting up earlier?   There is just more time for shit to hit the fan and slow you down.

Screw it – I’m sleeping in. Maybe I can get out the door before the universe notices we are even up one of these days.

 

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I’m not inclined to try but… Just Sayin’

Look, if I wore anything other than a Broncos shirt and flannel pants for a Sunday morning Big City Burrito run, I’d stick out like a sore thumb.
Now I’m not usually inclined to TRY and fit in when it comes to suburban fashion choices.
BUT, in this case, I’m all in.

‘Cause comfy, yo.

Just Sayin’.

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Not even Sour Patch Kids. Just sayin’.

Dear Husband,
That was the worst Toddler bedtime the history of crappy bedtimes…

I mean EVER.
Drank 2 martinis….

Ate all of your sugar-coated, NOT-SOUR, gummy bear thingys. It was a lot.

Don’t ever ask about them, k?

Love you.

Just Sayin’.

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