You may want to stop reading now, in fact… I recommend it.

Did you ever read my posts titled “Old ladies and their dogs” and “I’m not your cruise director, and this ain’t the love boat?” No? That’s because they are forever assigned to draft-dom, I never finished them. They are sitting in my blog dashboard, staring me down every time I sign in. (Oh shaddup you stupid posts, I don’t need your judgment… you’re not even real posts, you’re drafts). This post may join them ’cause… I got nothin’

I was reading Ree Drummond’s tips for blogging, especially how to handle writer’s block. Speak to me, Ree… because my brain is so constipated I…… (five minutes pass). My brain is more constipated than a….(watch Food Network for 10 minutes). Okay, my brain is just constipated. Damn you, writer’s block, damn you.

So here is some totally random crap swimming around in my brain. If I wanted to get fancy, I could wrap my writer’s block all up in a pretty bow and call it “stream of consciousness.” But nahhh… it’s just crap.

Here goes! Cover your eyes.

I wake up every morning, ready to conquer the world. Or at least this house. Or the kids… or something. And then I step on a Lego or trip on a slippery library book, or then realize one of the kids had some difficulty with the bathroom, meaning… with their mastery of the use of toilet paper.  And the toilet seat was involved. And I didn’t notice until after I used the potty. That knocks me down a peg or two.

Everything is an argument and negotiation with my children. Everything. *IF* my children fight over the color of their drinking cup, who gets which special character plate, who gets possession of the toothpaste first, who gets to sit in the chair by the window, who gets to do the vacuuming (don’t ask)…. *ONE MORE TIME* - I will pull my own head off and kick it down the street.

We’re going to see the Boston Ballet’s performance of The Nutcracker at the Boston Opera House in December. I have always wanted to see The Nutcracker, this is the Wally World to my Clark Griswold, and I can’t wait for my kids to be able to file this experience away in their “things our parents actually managed to do right… for once” rolodex of memories. Although I am already having cold sweats about the endless possibilities of bad behavior from my brood… in an opera house. Do people bring 4-year-olds to opera houses to see ballets? I want to curl her hair into ringlets and buy her a muff. I think I want a muff too… and ringlets. Too much?

The Geek was rough housing with Monkey this morning, and in between giggles and shrill little squeals (his, not hers) he started the whole “I love you times a hundred” thing. Not to be out done, Monkey replied “I wub you times TWO hund-wed.” The Geek upped the ante by saying “Oh yeah? I love you times a THOUSAND.”

Monkey’s reply?

“I wub you times two-farts and a hun-dwed!”

Pretty sure she was going for “two thousand a hundred” here, but that slight New England accent she picked up from her grandmother makes for some interesting pronunciation. Aside from the fact she sounds like a transplant from the Bronx with a smattering of South Boston, Monkey-speak is a language unto itself. The letter “F” usually replaces “T” and “P,” the letter “W” usually replaces “R” and “L.” She is frequently annoyed by her older brothers when they repeat the things she says, and will start wailing “They’re ‘COFFEE-ING’ meeee!” Which is completely unacceptable and just mean, and I won’t stand for it. Those kids had better not be wasting coffee.

I managed to pick up some malware virus thingie on my laptop, with a pop-up that won’t go away and has my computer completely hobbled and hog-tied. It happened when I was searching eBay, trying to determine the value of The Geek’s 1968 Tonka fire truck that is mint in box, the fire truck he was given for Christmas when he was 2 months old, the one he was never allowed to play with. Ever. I was all “Heyyyy, I wonder how much we could sell this thing for!?” The virus is a perfect example of karma handing me my ass. Awesome.

And now that I have possession of my ass again, karma is telling me my writer’s block is because I need to get off of it and go grocery shopping because we only have squished grapes in the house and some cans of hominy. And I don’t even know what that is.

Happy Tuesday!