Saturday, August 30, 2008

Putting His Moves Where His Mouth Is

Update! Special thank yous to the lovely Caitlin and Katie, who were kind enough to explain to me how to upload a video. Now I don't feel so stupid. Which I am sure is only temporary.



Have y'all seen this?? Regardless of where your vote lies (just please vote!), this is funny.

But don't start talking smack about Rick Astley. He's the man. And if you don't like this song, you're a liar.

And just because I do believe it is important to give credit where credit is due, I saw this on one of your blogs and unfortunately I can't remember which one. So I do not take credit for finding this, I only take credit for laughing and playing it over and over again. It is quite simply, genius.

I, on the other hand, am quite simply not a genius. I can not for the life of me figure out how to upload a video. Am I stupid or what? What is the secret here?? Anyone know?? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

How old is that joke? Anyone know? Buel... Oh forget it.

Friday, August 29, 2008

Something That Rhymes With You're "Kidding" Me

So I was messing around on Facebook mopping my kitchen floor this afternoon when Good Cop called. They want me to come in for a third interview. Except they want me to interview with someone else. At a different office.

So here's my theory. Bad Cop was not a fan. She's concerned that I am going to get bored in this position. I know this because she mentioned it twice. Asked me three different times if I had issues with being told to do something that was "beneath" me. A specific example she used was putting away office supplies since there is not an admin. My response was "I'm here to be part of a team. I will do whatever I can to help this office run smoothly."

I was confident. Because I know I can do this job. I have had jobs far more challenging than this one. But this is the job I want right now. This job will allow me to work, yet still be there for my kids when it counts. When Boo starts kindergarten next year, I can start thinking about stepping up a ladder. Right now I am willing to commit to a position I may very well be overqualified for in order to get my foot in the door and begin the process of learning a new business. I am fully aware I will be committed to this job for a year. I want to be committed for a minimum of a year.

I realize now it's not personal, it's business. I'm gonna have to go to the mattresses. Fight. Fight to the death. Third interview Wednesday. Time to bust out the big guns. Yes my friends, time to bust out the boots. So I can kick some ass properly.

I'm not messing around anymore. It's on. It's on like Donkey Kong. You want a third interview? I'll give you a third interview. It's gonna be the greatest third interview you have ever experienced. You're gonna hear angels sing. You're gonna see stars. You're gonna weep.

Or I will. It could go either way.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Let's Count the Awkward Moments, Ah Ah Aaahhh...

So I had my second interview today. I tossed and turned all night still trying to decide what to wear. But in the end, I rocked the professional chic look. I made the Power Suit bow down and worship me. Not to brag, but I would have made Tim Gunn weep. You know how I know? Because Mr. Toad, my four year old nephew, looked at me and said "Wow. You look so pretty." That kid is officially my favorite.
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And the interview was, uuuummmm . . . interesting...
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They went with the good cop/bad cop tactic. I really liked Good Cop. And she seemed to really like me too. We were talking. We were laughing. We were bonding. Good times.
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Enter Bad Cop. Bad Cop was beautiful. And had a thick eastern European accent, like The Count on Sesame Street. But she wasn't there to help me learn to count and she certainly wasn't there to make friends. Bad Cop was uber-serious. Bad Cop scared the ess aych eye tee out of me. I wasn't sure if she was going to arrest me and confiscate my passport or lean over and start sucking the blood from my jugular. It was terrifying.
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Good Cop kept talking to me like I had the job. She would say things like "You are going to love working here." and "This is how you will do it."
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Bad Cop, not so much. She asked how I would handle working in a team environment and will I have any issues taking directions from someone younger than me. My response?
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"I am going to be the new kid on the block. It has nothing to do with age and everything about experience. I am willing to learn from whomever is willing to teach me. I usually don't have any issues getting along with all different types of personalities."
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I know, good huh? Yeah, I was pretty proud of myself too. Especially because throughout the whole interview I felt like she was trying to see how easy it would be to frustrate me. But oh hail no! I kept my smile on and didn't let her see me sweat. Until she shot back . . .
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"You usually don't have a problem? So when do you have a problem?"
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Seriously people?? Was she trying to make me cry?? I just laughed and said "I don't have issues getting along with people. I think one of my strong points is being able to flex my style to meet the needs of others." Confident nod. Big smile.
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Bad Cop? Blank stare.
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Dude, am I not totally demonstrating this behavior right now? So in my opinion, I kicked ass on maintaining my composure. But I am pretty sure Bad Cop hated me. And my amazing outfit. (Oh, trust. I put that outfit on and a choir of angels began to sing.)
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Good Cop: So when can you start?
Me: As soon as Bad Cop gets back in her coffin and takes a long nap.
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Okay so I didn't really say that. But Good Cop did ask when I could start and told me I should hear something from HR by Tuesday. But to be honest? I am not too sure. Good Cop gets the final decision. So thank you God, for small favors. Bad cop can suck it.
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Okay, bad choice of words. I'm sure she is a lovely person and we are going to get along great. Unless she reads this blog. Then I'm screwed.
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Seven

In case you haven't noticed, I have been suffering from a bit of blogger's block lately. I guess I have been feeling a little uninspired. I have started several posts that just ran out of steam. Please tell me this happens to you, too? So thank God for Coffee Bean and her 7 things meme. I will not be tagging anyone to do this, but if you choose to do it, please leave me a comment to let me know.

And away we go....


7 things I plan to do before I die
  1. Live in London
  2. Travel through Italy
  3. Drive across the US
  4. Take up running
  5. Learn to knit
  6. Write a book
  7. Get my degree

7 things I can do

  1. Make an amazing pie crust
  2. Crochet a baby blanket
  3. Be persuasive
  4. See the humor in almost everything
  5. Forgive
  6. Read a map
  7. Make friends

7 things I cannot do

  1. Tell you I agree with you if I don't
  2. Make bacon without burning at least half of it
  3. Golf
  4. Listen to Pink Floyd without feeling like I want to throw up
  5. Leave the house without wondering if I locked the door
  6. Take back many things I have said
  7. Get on an airplane without feeling slightly panicked

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex

  1. Sense of humor
  2. Commitment to family
  3. Confidence
  4. Kindness
  5. Patience (Oh dear God you need patience to put up with my array of crapola)
  6. Sense of adventure
  7. Nice eyes
7 things I say most often

  1. Pick up your stuff
  2. Get off your brother
  3. Let's go already!
  4. Whatfreakingever
  5. Are you tattling?
  6. Have you seen my keys?
  7. I can't find my phone

7 celebrity crushes

  1. Daniel Craig
  2. Clive Owen
  3. Colin Firth
  4. James McAvoy
  5. Sendhil Ramamurthy
  6. Jake Gyllenhaal
  7. Zane Lamprey

This is where I am supposed to tag 7 people. But I'd rather not. Instead I am going to list 7 blogs that are not on my blogroll (yet), but are still my faves. Check them out.

7 blogs I love and/or make me laugh

  1. Cake Wrecks
  2. Go Fug Yourself
  3. Manager Mom
  4. Random Ramblings
  5. Fun and Free Giveaways
  6. Surviving Myself
  7. White Collar Redneck

So that's my seven things. Peace out peeps. Mama's tired.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Perfection is Over Rated

Okay can we talk, just between us for a second? And do you promise not to think I am being gossipy and bitter? Because I really have to get something off my chest and, I don't know, I just feel like I can trust you and we can talk about stuff, you know?

Is it just me or do you ever think the worst part about being a mom is competing with other moms? Not because you want to, but because you feel like the other moms want to. I mean it's ridonculous. Right?

You should see some of the moms dropping off their kids at Boo's preschool. It seems there are two acceptable uniforms for the moms, and unfortunately, I didn't get the memo. Either they are decked out in adorable tops, cuffed shorts, cute shoes, matching jewelry and full on hair and makeup, or they are wearing gorgeous work out clothes that cost too much money to sweat seriously in. And of course, still full on hair and make up and jewelry. Dudes, who wears jewelry to work out? Granted it's been a long time since I have been to the gym. But still, am I going to wear my diamonds and pearls while I'm on the anti-Christ elliptical?? I don't get it.

So of course I don't want to be the mom that looks like she just rolled out of bed and threw on some shorts and the t-shirt she cleans the toilets in. So I try to fit in. I wear yoga pants and matching t-shirt. That I have never done yoga in. Ever. Unless standing in line at Starbucks counts. A pose I call Patiently Waiting Forward Facing Caffeine Addict. But seriously, I do always put a little make up on so I look like I made an effort and I don't scare the other small children. But I feel like such a fraud.

I mean what time do these women get up in the morning? How do they get their kids ready for school and still have time to look like they are on their way to to the World's Most Gorgeous Mom pageant? Do they not have laundry to fold? Dishes in the sink? A blog to update? What the heck?

So last week I was waiting to sign my daughter into her class when one of the Mombots says to me "Oh are you going to work out, too?" I laughed and said "When you say work out do you mean walk around Wal-Mart?" She just gave me a blank look. I am not sure if she was offended that I made a joke about the sanctity of exercise or if it's because she has never heard of Wal-Mart. Maybe next time I should say Target?

Seriously. Is it just me? Or are these women taking over suburbs everywhere?

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Letter to My Man-Boy

Dearest Uberman,

You know I love you with all of my heart. And it is that love that allows me to overlook some things that might be an issue for a lot of women. But not me.

For example, your amazing ability to burp the equivalent of what I am assuming is the roar of lion, and then ask anyone in the room "Did you hear that?" Some women might find this offensive. Repulsive even. But not I. The love I carry within allows me to accept. And dare I say, even be amused.

And then there's that little habit of eating popsicles in bed at night while we are watching TV. There are women who might find this annoying. But not I. I know how you enjoy a nice frozen treat and that is why I continue to buy them for you. Hiding them on the top shelf of the freezer so the kids don't find them. Often traveling to various stores to find the specific brand and flavor you prefer. My love for you gives me the patience and energy to persevere in the popsicle search.

And I have no problem with your participation in year round fantasy league activities. Although I don't understand the point of playing pretend baseball, football and basketball and for the life of me can't fathom why it is so extremely serious when it is, after all, JUST PRETEND. But it brings you joy and that is all that matters. It is the love within my heart that urges me to open the doors of our home to eleven of your closest sweaty friends and provide them with homemade baked goods, chips and three choices of dip, sandwiches, and of course, beer. And this love allows me to look the other way when they spill on my carpet and make fun of the festive matching paper plates and napkins that I buy especially for the occasion. Whatever. Your happiness is my happiness.

There are some women who might have issues with their husbands staying up until all hours of the night playing simulated war games with a group of 13 year old boys in Atlanta on the XBOX 360. But the fact that you are young at heart is one of the things I love about you most.

Our love allows me to accept the fact that, although you are a 36 year old man (yes, you are, even though you continue to tell our children you are only 30, I know the truth), you are very in touch with your inner 13 year old boy. And that is fine. I am mature enough for the both of us.

However, and listen closely, your behavior yesterday evening was completely unacceptable and will not be tolerated. While I appreciate you manning up and killing the gigantic cricket on the wall near my side of the bed last night, I most certainly DO NOT appreciate you using MY SHOE as your murder weapon of choice. Especially when you did it as an act of immaturity. Just because you knew it would gross me out and you thought it was funny. Not. Funny. At. All.

My brand new, lavender and gold, rhinestone studded, Tinker Bell flip flops. Now tainted with yucky squished up cricket guts. Ew.

Next time, be a grown up. Use your own stupid shoe.

With Love, Affection and Admiration,
Your Adoring Wife of 14 Years

Monday, August 18, 2008

Help Wanted

I have a job interview today. And I'm excited. And nervous. And excited. And really hoping they don't ask me that "What are your weaknesses" question. I hate that question. Because it's BS and we all know it. They are looking for you to turn a strength into a weakness. Did you know that? It's true. I have been the interviewer before so I know this to be a fact. And so most of the time people say "Well, I am overly organized. I have been accused of going for the overkill in the organization department." Such a bunch of crap.

And the thing is, when I was the interviewer, I could spot the BS-ers right away. I knew if you were lying to me. I knew you were telling me what you thought I wanted to hear. But I get it. I understand why we lie when answering this question. Because really, who is going to hire us if we tell the truth? But I learned quickly what the BS answers really meant.

For example, if someone says "I care too much about others." This usually means that person is co-dependant, obsessive and will end up getting fired in order to avoid a sexual harassment suit.

If someone said they were creative and a free spirit, it meant they were unorganized and needed micromanaging in order to meet deadlines.

If I heard "I sometimes have a difficult time asking others for help" it meant "I'm selfish, shallow and a complete control freak who doesn't work well with others."

"I don't mind taking work home with me" meant "I steal office supplies."

"I'm extremely dependable" usually meant "I'm probably going to call in sick at least once a month so I can sit home and catch up on my TiVo."

But my absolute favorite was "I'm a big supporter of management and I like to motivate others around me." This meant "I'll be very nice to you to your face but as soon as you turn you back I'm going to talk about how fat your ass looks in those pants and how all your ideas suck."

The key is to be honest and be yourself. Right? My plan is to go in there, wow them with my confidence, dazzle them with my awesomeness and impress them with my intelligence.

And of course, distract them with a little cleavage.

Wish me luck!

Friday, August 15, 2008

Girl Power

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According to the men in my family, I am a bit of a feminist. I tend to disagree. I think that word is a little strong and has a negative connotation. I just don't want to be told I can't do something because I'm a girl. Nothing wrong with that, right? But at the same time, I'm a total girly girl. I love sparkly pinks and florals. I like things that are pretty.

So you can imagine after having two boys, I was uber excited when they told me we were having a baby girl. I think even uber excited is an understatement. I sat upright on the examination table, smearing that gooey, gross gel stuff all over my glittery black maternity top and said "Are you sure? How sure? I mean, I need percentages here, people!" And for the next several weeks I became that annoying woman who, after anyone asked "How are you today?" would respond with an insanely perky "Terrific! I'm having a girl!" Oh no, it didn't matter if I knew the person who was asking or not. It didn't even matter if they really cared how I was today. If they asked, that sentence exploded out of my mouth like projectile vomit.

Now please, don't go rolling your eyes. I would have been happy with another boy. As a matter of fact, I expected another boy. Here's why. Uberman has one female cousin. ONE girl out of 7 kids in his extended family. Then along came our two boys. Next, my brother in law and sister in law had a boy. So it was not looking too likely we would have a girl. I was pretty sure the men in this family only made boys. But our Boo was the first girl in this family in over thirty years. There have been two more boys born since.

Now I tell y'all this so you can get a feel for what I am about to tell you. (Relax, I am not pregnant.) My daughter brings up all these conflicting feelings inside me. The girly girl within me was so excited to finally have pink stuff in the house. Bring it on, baby. Little floral t-shirts and Barbies and baby dolls and Disney Princesses. Oh yeah! Bring. It. And I was a little concerned she would be a tomboy because she was surrounded by two brothers and three boy cousins.

On the other hand, the feminist side of me was worried she would be one of those helpless little girls who whined and batted her eyelashes and got everybody to do everything for her. Oh how I loathe those girls. So I would tell her all the time "You can do it, you're a big girl." I compliment her on being smart just as much as I compliment her on being cute. I make her figure things out on her own, often reminding her brothers it is not their place to help her all the time. And when she says "Mommy, when I grow up I want to be a nurse." I say "Good for you, Boo. You can even be a doctor." Or a lawyer. Or a business executive. You get the idea.

So yesterday, as we were crossing the parking lot at Target, she asked "Mommy, know what I want to be when I grow up?" And I waited with anticipation for her to run through her usual list of ballerina, Olympic swimmer, and my favorite, a mommy.... But no, not this time. Instead I heard . . .

"A Jedi!"

Can you see why I'm a little conflicted? My inner girly girl was appalled, as Jedi's are rough and tough and have no sense of fashion. Yeah, I get it that brown is the new black, but that hooded robe made of burlap is not flattering on anyone. But I digress. The feminist me wanted to high five her and say "You would kick ass as a Jedi Boo! The force is definitely with you."

Sigh. What's a mom to do?

Then, this morning, I found a little reassurance. I felt completely at peace and positive I was raising a girl just like me. A girl who can be strong, yet feminine. A girly feminist if you will. What gives me this reassurance? Behold, my friends. I give you Boo's version of playing with GI Joes:

Can you see it? Look closer....


Apparently these military men needed a break from a hard day fighting the Cobra Commander, so they stopped to enjoy some delicious cakes and a refreshing pot of tea. And try on their wives clothes and shoes. Whatever. I'm not judging. Although that lavender bag does look hideous with that pink chiffon skirt. But this gives a whole new meaning to don't ask, don't tell, eh?
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So, like mother, like daughter. I am just not sure this world is ready for two of us.
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Monday, August 11, 2008

Dissed on the Playground

First day of school! Can I get a whoop whoop?

I got up early, made the boys pancakes for breakfast, packed their lunches, wrote little "Happy First Day of School" notes on their napkins. I ironed their new shirts, helped them gel their hair. Made sure they had their supplies packed in their new backpacks. Did a last minute face, teeth and hair inspection and then drove them to school.

The parking lot was packed, not an empty space in sight. I had to park up the street and around the corner within the neighborhood, and then walk 5 minutes to the school. Did I mention it was already 98 degrees at 8:30 AM? Yeah. Nice.

We walked onto the playground where all the kids line up for class. We stopped and talked with several friends and neighbors. Junior found his pack of friends right away. I watched him as they stood in a circle, tossed out high fives and fist pounds and caught up on what each of them did over the summer.

My baby in the fifth grade. He stands a few inches taller than most of his friends. I watched him talking and laughing and beaming with pride when they oohed and aahed over his new Nike Air Force Ones. He seems so much older to me. Where is that little boy who used to hold my hand and talk my ear off? He turned back, looking for me. I smiled. See? He still needs me. He still wants me to be there for him.

"See ya, Mom."

What?

"Junior? Don't you want me to walk you to class?"

He raised his left eyebrow, just like I do when someone says something preposterous. "Uh, no. I'm good. I'm just gonna go with these guys." He gave me a half hearted wave and walked away, talking excitedly with his friends.

What the heck? Dude. I got out of bed. I got dressed. I put on make up and fixed my hair. I made pancakes. I packed your lunch. I gave you two cookies. I wrote a note on your flipping napkin. I double checked your back pack. I ironed your t-shirt so you would have creases in your sleeves. I drove you here. I parked three blocks away and walked with you. In the heat! I have sweat dripping down my back. And my hair is flat!

Not to mention the tiny little fact that I grew you inside my body and threw up for the first three months. I have stretch marks, man. And I had a faulty epidural that only worked on one side. And a freaking episiotomy. Do you have any idea how painful it is to have stitches? THERE?? I won't even get into the sore nipples, or how the boobies have never been the same. The five billion sleepless nights making sure you were just breathing. The times you peed on me, barfed on me, and worse. The amount of miles I have driven you to your various activities, the amount of money I have spent on baseball, basketball, soccer, football, swim lessons, karate, art classes, Star Wars figures, Hot Wheels, GI Joes, Legos, video games. The list could go on and on. Everything I have done for you and you can't even condescend to let me walk you to your class?? How dare you Junior!!

How dare you grow up without asking me.

"Mom?"

I look down to see Mac standing a few feet away. His big brown eyes bright and sparkling, his crooked smile, his freckled nose.

"I found my line," he says.
"Oh. Okay," I say, nodding. Waiting, unsure of what to do with myself now.
"Are you coming?" he asks.

"You want me to come with you?" I ask back.
"Well, yeah. Can you just wait with me until the teacher comes?"

Of course I can Buddy. I can wait with you forever. I'd stand out there all day if they would let me. Even though it's so hot I want to pass out and I can feel my makeup melting off my face.

I stood there with him for ten minutes. On the black top. Wearing black yoga pants and matching black top. Praying my deodorant was working and that smell was coming from the sweaty dad behind me. I watched as his teacher led the class away and up the stairs to start their day. When Mac reached the top of the stairs he turned back and gave me the thumbs up.

"Bye Mom! See you after school! I loooovvvee you!" And then he made a silly face, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. I laughed. I could still hear him giggling as I walked across the playground towards the gate.

Just as I reached the gate I heard a familiar voice.

"Mom!" I turned, my eyes following the sound. Junior was standing on the second floor landing, leaning over the railing. He smiled and waved. "Bye, Mom. Have a fun day."

"You too!" I said, my heart filling my chest. I watched as he turned to run up to the third floor. When he reached the top step he looked back at me, stopped . . . and blew me a kiss.

It was everything I could do not to reach out and catch it. I began my journey back to my car, blinking back tears, but walking on air.

Ungrateful little monster.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

The Birthday Boy

Today is Uberman's birthday. So I would like to take a minute to thank his fabulous parents for bringing this man into the world and raising him to be such a fine human being. And although they were hesitant to give him to me, I am so glad they did. He's a gift to me each and every day.

Happy Birthday Babe! I love you to infinity and beyond.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Queen of the Weirdos

I've had some extra time on my hands lately and so I have had a chance to do a little self discovery. And guess what I have found out? I'm weird. No seriously, I am a freak. Here's how I know:

1. I eat my chips from smallest to largest and save the folded ones for last. Then I eat the folded ones from smallest to largest. I really do this. I actually physically separate them on the plate according to size. And if you are wondering why I am eating chips when I am supposed to be working on Operation Smokin' Hot April . . . bite me.

2. I get so irritated if there are crumbs or food debris inside the microwave. I am anal about wiping it out. When I open that door, I want to see nothing but white. If I see crumbs, popcorn butter or the residue of whatever blew up in there when Uberman used it last, I want to rip my hair out from root. And yet there are piles of unfolded laundry in baskets in my room and I could care less.

3. I am completely addicted to chapstick. I always have one in my makeup bag, one in this little basket on my vanity, one in my nightstand and at least one in my purse. If I can't find one, I start to freak out a little. Like dry chapped lips are going to send me over the edge.

4. I have a routine when I am getting ready in the morning. If any part of that routine is followed out of order, I feel uneasy the rest of the day. Seriously, aren't people on medication for stuff like that?

5. Boo has these sippy cups with straws that flip out of the lid. If Uberman gives her a drink in one and doesn't make sure the lid matches the appropriate cup, it irritates the hell out of me. And yes, he does it just to watch me roll my eyes and search the cabinet for the right lid. He thinks it's hilarious. Me? Not so much.

6. I have a stack of People magazines I am catching up on. I can not and will not read them out of order. I am reading them from oldest to newest. And even though I am dying to read the latest one, I won't until I have read all the others that came before it.

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7. Uberman sold some D-Backs tickets on StubHub and asked me to mail them out for him. I checked the tickets at least four times before I left the house to make sure they were for the right date. And then I checked them again when I got in the car and then again before I put them in the envelope at FedEx. And still, it drove me crazy for the rest of the day. Did I send out the right tickets?? I checked the book of tickets again when I got home. Even though I knew I sent out the right ones.

Look, it's not like I am some psycho neat freak or anything. I mean my house is complete chaos. I probably shouldn't share this with the rest of the world, but there are enough crumbs on my kitchen floor right now to feed a small village in Africa. And yet I am up here in the mess that is the office blogging.

But . . . if there was anything in the microwave? I would not be up here. I would be cleaning it right now and I would not be able to sleep tonight until I was sure it is clean. And yes, I check it before I go to bed.

See, I told you.

Now if you will excuse me, I need to go check my microwave again.