Go on. Pass the cookies.

Well, nothing says CHRISTMAS like a hole in your face.  So, I've heard.  It turns out that the boy needed a minor surgical procedure in his mouth region, which has subsequently resulted in scads of "cool, soft foods," which is just 'bout the antithesis of Christmas-Christmas-joy-joy foods.  Case in point: HOT chocolate...not COOL chocolate. Marshmallows bobbing in chocolate milk just doesn't have that warm and fuzzy vibe.  But he's all fixed and recovering, so let's cookie on, shall we?

Actually, he ditched us (ibuprofen and ice pack in hand) to watch the Star Wars movie with his dad this morning while the girls and I whipped up (another) 4 kinds of cookies.  This brings our freezer total to 10 different kinds of cookies.  A veritable feast of riches for what will be 11 people.  One of whom is 9 months old.  I'm still working on that 11th kind cause who wants to share when we can each have our own two dozen cookies?

(My lightbulb is popping at me.  Is the electricity on the fritz now?  Can we just continue the general falling-apart-y-ness that this house has been falling into lately?)

(I'm not that much of a dolt that I believe a burned out lightbulb indicates bad electrical work.  But it does feel like it's falling apart.)

(I'm looking sidey-eyed at you, toilet.)

It hasn't been ALL doom and gloom over here, folks.  I mean, I got to rip apart our bed like a savage to try to grab a snarly, snappy cat who DOES NOT TRUST THE TREATS OFFERED AT 8 AM. 

This actually was a bit more gloom.  I was being facetious.

After wrestling the cat not only out of my bedroom but also out of the door, he wailed to his little heart's malcontent all the way to the vet for his yearly physical (you should see the little kitty treadmill he has to run on to check out his feline heart!).  The following are all things that he did not "care" for:
1.  the vet- who is a super nice guy...our kitty boy isn't the best judge of character
2.  the vet's assistant
3.  the waiting room (sans any other pets, nonetheless!)
4.  the cold, aluminum examination table
5.  the smells
6.  the scale (though to be fair, who does?)
7.  the process of having his ears cleaned out
8.  the vet's hand.

The following is what he did not mind, whatsoever: his rabies shot.  That's right.  Did not mind.  (Cats were created differently than we were, actually.  Their skin/nerve situation is a bit different, which allows for no pain come shot time.)

This is our diabetic fuzzball, so having regular vet checks is pretty important with him.  But he transforms to something of a snarly coot when stressed to the max.  Case in point - when he was first diagnosed with diabetes about 20 months ago, he stayed at the vet's kitty spa facility overnight to be regulated and have some sort of blood performed.  However.  He was such a holy terror that the vet called me the next morning to say "Your cat is a hot mess and I feared for my life when in his presence."  (Or something like that.)

BUT!  He's more manageable when he hides his fuzzy little head in my armpit, thus delivering all sorts of rump space to the vet for his shot and some exam work.  AND!  This works well until the vet pricks him for a quick blood sugar and it turns out he's a gusher.  This turns me into a r-u-s-h-e-r to the nearest chair. 

For those of you keeping score at home, this was the SECOND time that I felt all fainty and such at the vet's office. 

Seriously.  Who does that? 

It turns out that our boy's diabetic woes seem to be returning, which means that we're probably going to have to deal with one of those emotional decisions sooner rather than later.  So that's really the gloom about this whole trip.  He was all perfecto on our last trip, so this is just a big 'ol bummer to have in the back of my mind. 

It helps a tiny touch to have you know, TEN VARIETIES of cookies lurking in my freezer right now.  I'm an emotional eater, and I'll be the first to admit it.  Rarely will I turn to a cookie for caloric nurturance, but when it's beginning to look like Christmas...EVERYWHERE I GO, then slap on a Kris Kringle cap and call me Santa. 

It's continuing to be too much Christmas...everywhere I look

I know that when I post bi-monthly, it doesn't seem as if I'm all in on this blogging thing.  Yet, for what it's worth, it's on my mind at least once a day. 

So is scavenging for chocolate.

I'm LOL-ing too at the notion that I only think of chocolate once a day.  It gives the boy a definite run for its money on which is truly first in my heart. 

(See, now I've thought about chocolate again.  And I thought of the boy because he walked by me as I was searching for a devotion of similar proportion.  I think I've actually proven something here.)

Here's the true story of the day: I wrote this blog two days after the last one.  It's not this.  I've written this again.  Imagine that.  (Maybe if I stuck it in an oak barrel, it would age better.  Maybe my fruit is too far gone.  Maybe I'm just muttering to myself over here.)

I want to take a few-teen moments to drone one wax poetic about how I'm over Christmas.  Permanently.  The end.

Not the end.  This crochety old lady just wants to make a joke.  Of course I have to ramble for a while.

But...I really am over Christmas.  I could miss every single part of the Christmas season and not care a biggity bit.  I'm a fan of a candlelight Christmas Eve service and 1 day of lux foodstuffs.  THE END.

Friends, I'd much rather pack up the girl-childs and the boy-man and disappear for say four days/three nights at a scenic and posh B&B, maximizing the all-the-coffee-and-hot-chocolate-you-can-drink options as well as linen-napkin-breakfasts and a bit-o-different-scenery.

To clarify: My first choice is always to fall off the grid but in a refined and pampered sort of way.

To clarify again:  We never have.

But here we are, over half-way through Advent, which means daily Advent-y activities, craftily hidden each night for the minis to find in the morning.  Admittedly, while I don't think that I would miss this tradition if we didn't do it again, I don't mind it either.  BUT THAT'S IT, CHRISTMAS!  I REALLY AM DONE WITH EVERYTHING ELSE.

Except the chocolate that's in my stocking (which I did not hang as I purposefully was not in the house when that mind-boggling abomination of a process went down).  I'm not done with that.  And the Elder has loose lips when it comes to things that she's really excited to give me for Christmas.

The end. 

It's not easy being grey

Shout out moment #1: Props to my hairdresser, Ashley, who I ran into for a quick second today on an unexpected errand.  I've no doubt that she was thinking "Well, she's just throwing money down the drain, I guess..." when she did a quick glance at my short, unwashed hair scraped back into a 3-inch ponytail.  She, however, looked gorgeous as usual.  Some of us just don't have those skills. 

Shout out moment #2:  Here's looking at you, mini maple cinnamon rolls that just came out of my oven.  They are pillowy, not too sweet, warm and utterly divine.  And I've eaten three in less than 5 minutes. 

So back in the day, when I was working full-time and was maintaining some semblance of a "work" wardrobe and an "everything else" wardrobe (i.e. yoga pants and free t-shirts from college), I spent a few moments here and there making sure that I had some variety in what I had at my disposal to wear.  But I also gloried in the school's colors, which allowed me to wear red and BLACK every Wednesday and sometimes in between.  Just as often as possible, actually.  I do know that I would sometimes get to Thursday on any given week and make myself wear some brown pants and something not black so as no to go monochromatic for the week.  Obviously, my work color of choice is black, black and bring on more black.

Well, now.  I'm still coasting on that established work wardrobe, a few years later.  (And I still make myself suffer through something that's not black on an occasional class so as to give some false allusion of cheer and goodwill.  Or something.)  But now, well good gravy, who gives a rip what I wear toodling around town in chauffeur mode or mid-week grocery trip mode or (my favorite) working at my favorite coffee spot mode? 

Well.   

It turns out that I've essentially eliminated color from my clothing diet.  In my regular rotation, I have seventeen GREY t-shirts/sweaters/sweatshirts, five BLACK shirts/sweaters, and six ANY OTHER COLOR.  (And that's not counting those three, free grey t-shirts from college.  I still wear those, too.)  (Or the two grey sweatshirts that I wear to sleep in.  SWEATSHIRTS TO SLEEP IN, people.  There's just about nothing that makes me crankier than being cold.)

That's a tick under 79% of my clothes are either grey or black.

And now, when I fold laundry, rare is the time when my pile of shirts are not all grey.

Who loves g-r-e-y that much?  The Elder either doesn't believe me or scoffs at me when she asks me what my favorite color is and I promptly reply "grey."  A college friend who is now a general practitioner for indigenous workers immediately snorted and then said made an "Oh, you're serious..." sound when I pointed at what I was wearing and said "Grey is my favorite color."  What college has GREY as one of its school colors?  NO ONE.  Very few.  Schools would rather be putrid combinations of yellow, orange and green before allowing the fighting GREYmen to take the field.

But now that I think of it, the "fighting GREYmen" is reminiscent of the Civil War.  (Perhaps there's some logic there.)

Color me what you will, I am embracing my love of all things grey.  Except the interminable grey skies in winter.  Those bite big time.  But that's about it, 'cause I love grey and grey goes with everything.  Cheers to that.