WanderingAmylessly 2.0

Merry Christmas! No. You didn't oversleep. No. You didn't time travel. No. I'm not losing it (at least not in this particular instance). This afternoon, my husband, son and I will celebrate the holiday together as a family, opening gifts, drinking Nog and singing carols. Because we live away from our families, and have for the entire time we've known each other, Tim and I have become rather flexible about traditions. That is, we don't really have any. Not having traditions IS our tradition -- we're fly-by-the-seat-of-our-sleigh kinda folks. Santa will still visit Henry on Christmas Day at Grandma and Grandpa's house in Kansas. Santa's the one constant, the one sure thing, in our holiday plans. We've been pukey on Christmas, we've been in Utah and Kansas and Missouri and Iowa (not at the same time, mind you), we've had snow and ice and rain and sun, we've done turkey and ham and one year -- long before I knew Tim -- my mom even did lasagna

"Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful knees?" "We don't see many happenin' ladies north of the Arctic Circle." "That's quite a set of ornaments you've got there." "Just because a guy wears tights doesn't mean he's gay." "One night with me, baby, and you'll be sneezin' tinsel." "Why, yes, I am George Stephanopoulos." "I can't tell you how hard it is to be the only elf who's Jewish." "Not everything about me is tiny." "That's not Elmo, but don't stop tickling." "I'm down here!" "Just because I have bells on my shoes doesn't mean I'm a sissy." "I was once a lawn ornament for Brad Pitt." "No, no, I don't bake cookies. You're thinking of those dorks at Keebler." "You'd look great in a Raggedy Ann wig." "I can eat my weight in cocktail wieners." "I taught Santa

I'm speechless. I've never had such an honor bestowed upon me. The most praise I've ever received for anything was a second-place award in a state journalism contest for deadline reporting. I'm not at all sure how to handle this astounding recognition. After all, I'm joining the ranks of such historymakers as: Charles Lindburgh Martin Luther King Jr. Mahatma Gandhi Franklin Roosevelt Charles De Gaulle The Pope I have been chosen Time 's Person of the Year. I'm overwhelmed. I'm touched. Truly touched. Or at least I was until I read the fine print. Person of the Year is an annual issue of U.S. newsmagazine Time that features a profile on the man, woman, couple, group, idea, place, or machine that "for better or worse, has most influenced events in the preceding year." Then I found out that past winners also included the notorious, nefarious and nutball: Adolf Hitler. Joseph Stalin -- TWICE. Newt Gingrich. And our not-so-illustrious president Geo

I should just keep my big yap shut. FOUR times today. FOUR. He soiled his pants FOUR times today. All I can think is, maybe he's sick. FOUR times. FOUR. :-( And we still have 3 hours to bedtime.

It's the first time in my life that I wanted to grab the camera, run into the bathroom and photographically document the toilet's contents. Henry FINALLY did it. He pooped. In the potty. With no coaching. No begging or pleading. And only a little bribery. He now has a shiny new set of three train cars. The first time's the key, right? This means he'll ALWAYS, now and forevermore, poop in the potty. Ok. So I'm not that stupid. But we're a little closer...to the day when I don't react to Henry's bowel movements with screaming, hugging, dancing around the living room, and bribing with toy trains. I'm sick of this shit. Literally. (And pardon my language.)

Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole. - Roger Caras Snikk...we will miss you. Mark...I'm so sorry you lost him. I know it hurts.

It wasn't bad enough that we spent most of Friday evening holding Henry's head while he heaved into a pan. Or that Tim was already under the weather with a nasal/throat ailment when this latest germfest hit. Or that I spent the entire weekend watching Curious George, Thomas, Bob the Builder, America's Funniest Home Videos, The Grinch, and Cars. Twice. Or that just when we thought H was feeling better on Sunday morning, barf fest. All over the couch. And all over Mommy. Or that Henry, the child who refuses to poop in the potty, asked to go poop in the potty about 73 times on Sunday afternoon. Meaning he either loves the feeling of his pullup and pj bottoms going on or off or we now have a most splendid case of constipation (which will require a trip to the store for suppositories and yet another round of high drama). No, none of that was bad enough. Maggie, our 15-pound Killer canine, thought she'd amuse us and herself by playing with what I thought was her cute little t

I've been neglecting you...that small, foolhardy group of gluttons-for-punishment who dare to log in and read my wacky ramblings. But it's been for a good cause. I'm writing a book. It's a romantic suspense with attempts at humor thrown in to amuse, quite possibly, no one but myself. I was inspired by a real life, bestselling author who took a few minutes out of one of her days of being famous and internationally published to personally e-mail me and tell me to sit my butt in a chair and write. So I have been. I'm taking a little break today, so for the next 20 minutes, I'm yours. So many things I could blog about -- Britney and her breakup, Britney and her growing friendship with fellow media whore Paris, Britney and her lack of interest in wearing underpants. In fact, my son could loan her his Thomas the Tank Engine and Lightning McQueen underwear since he's too busy pooping in his damn pullups to bother with them himself. How about blogging about the nin