Restoration Dorkware

I had the day from hell. Not only did I do something against my grain and spend $65.00 on two gallons of paint from Restoration Hardware (that I could get for $40.00 from Home Depot), but when I got home, the color I picked was the same as my original wall color... this ivory white... the very color of the tower I think James should be putting me on, but I digress...

To make matters worse, I poked a hole in one lid since I was too impatient to find the correct tool, so one of the cans was rendered unreturnable. Then I couldn't find the receipt. Luckily a salesclerk took pity on me, found my paperwork from earliar in the day and gave me 32.50 back on my Visa. Of course, prior to my Restoration Hardware return, I bought two gallons of paint from my local Catalina store - boring yellow beige (which I have yet to open and would not be the least surprised to find Booger Sage.) So not only am I in the hole 30.00, but I feel ridiculous for buying paint purely for the market affect of "oooh, you'll feel rich and elegant with your high-end mall paint". It's like all my decisions lately can be blamed on paint fume highs, but I haven't even finished the job.

And before the Catalina store? Breakdown from hell. I could not stop crying today. The dishes. The constant grind of the kids. The driving. The coupon cutting. As I sat boo hooing in the Target parking lot, I impulsively called James at work - from the emergency cell phone no less. When he asked "Do you need me to come home?" I did a very un-Andrea like thing and sobbed, "Yes."

Of course, before he came home and saved the day (which he did... hugs, dinner out, errand running with me) he emailed me a whole list of what I was doing as of late to "work harder, not smarter" and I countered him point for point. While he is right... I do too much... he also has no idea how hard it is to raise 2 kids on a budget. To do the best you can with limited time.. To focus on the positive always. I let him know that I saw his points, but that I needed what I needed, too. If he could go to lunch each day, I deserved a maid. If he got Saturdays, I deserved Sundays to myself. If he got computer nights out, I needed more week nights out. And... I didn't want him coming home telling me that I ruined his day. I know how hard he works, but damnit, so do I. I told the side of me that is always "doing it all" to shut the fxx up and told James that despite my independence, I'm a person. Better stated, a female on PMS who sometimes gets emotional. Who sometimes can't always shop alone. And go to kids' parties alone. And paint alone. And cook alone. While he's out traveling the world for business, I'm home with two kids. And once in a while it gets to me.

And it's Christmas. I used to love the holidays: the bright lights and the music and the food and the presents and the delicious anticipation of Xmas morning. But ever since my dad died two years ago Thanksgiving, I cringe. I think of all the wonderful times I had with him and my mom... waking up without a care in the world to presents and a great meal. Sure, I was a kid, and now I'm a responsible adult. It's different. But it doesn't make me miss my memories any less.

Topanga T promised that she and I would take a mall day together to take in the sites. We'd shop. We'd drink a glass of wine. We'd stick the kids on Santa's knee.

It's going to be so god damn festive I can't stand it.

Especially when my walls are done.

And while I didn't win the maid debate, guess who has 6 hours every Sunday to herself? Now if only Cecelia would post a comment, call me back, or email me, maybe we could make plans to do some damage. (Where the hell are you Cecelia?????)

Side note: Part of my frustraion, besides lack of time, is lack of feeling... stupid to say... but pretty. I lost my mojo somewhere between my episotomy and the rinse cycle. My last ten pounds are sticking to me as tight as the guilt I have from purchasing over-inflated chain store paint. I swear, I'd do anything to lose weight except diet and exercise. This subject came up with my ultra thin husband a few nights ago. As we lay there, him trying to sleep, me trying to annoy him, I was bemoaning the hard core truth that to get ultra shapely, I would have to give up my daily McDonalds cookies. I'd have to plunk down 40 bucks on a used double stroller and start walking to Arco again. I'd have to not count the peanut butter toast (eaten after 7PM) as protein for my growing soul. Nothing but tenacity and sweat was going to shed my zaftig curves.

James, who I assumed was zoning me out or dreaming of alien women, piped up "What does zafig mean? I told him it meant curvy, rubenesque. With a devil grin, he grabbed a belly roll and exclaimed"zaftig!" Then he'd grab my thigh and shout "zaftig!". Then my left cheek... "Zaftig!". After the 4th "Zaftig!" I grabbed him a bit on the lower extremity and exclaimed "soft dig!"

He laughed. His ability to chuckle at me is one of his sexier qualities. Not so sexy that he got laid, but sexy none the less.

I'm off to drop a can of paint, wake the babies, and stuff myself silly with carbs.