My sweet boy is a little sour right now

Yowza! Let's talk about sassy kids over-sassing their mothers. By over-sassing I mean disrespecting. And by kids I mean Gil. The mother? Me.

The consequence I came up with for Gil's recent behavior is a 7 o'clock bedtime. Did I mention he does not like that? At all? At first I wasn't going to let him read in bed, but it's pretty hard to declare LIGHTS OUT! when, well, it's still light out.

My son does not like the idea of going to bed at 7:00, when it's still light out, before his younger brother, and when he knows the rest of us are snuggled on the couch watching American Idol or playing Sorry or some neverending card game.

Dude's gotta be punished, though. And I figure the consequence that angers him the most should probably be the one he receives, right?

I am not dismissing the fact that Gil may very likely be reacting to the unrest between his dad and me. What's tough is trying to decipher between that, a manipulative kid, and age-appropriate boundary testing. At this point my guess is it's a little bit of everything.

Sigh

When I hear the next I HATE YOU!, I will continue to reply as I always do: "That's fine. You can hate me all you want. I will always love you, Gil. I'm not going anywhere."

Where I profess my love for graphic designers. The good ones, anyway.

As my creative juices continue to flow - or, gurgle, sputter, and spit until the augger of my inner me dislodges whatever the hell was blocking said juices - I continue to utilize a resource I've never even met in person. Or spoken to verbally. Isn't that crazy?

No. No it's not.

I was searching for your not-so-traditional Valentine's Day cards for my kids one year to share at school and found this etsy shop. From there I not only bought the Valentine's, but I checked out her blog, participated in a contest she had going, and won the Grand Prize! It was a banner for your blog. Needless to say, I stumbled upon a resource that has so far been valuable to me in this world I try to participate in when, say, my juices flow freely.

Her name is Brenda and this is her blog. She tells the tales of her daughter, adventures in their yard, dogs, family, parties, all while Brenda is all creative and stuff. Stuff she makes appear so effortless. She's also a graphic designer and I love graphic designers. I love how the good ones design websites that are so simple and clean and easy to navigate.
Like my friend Marian.

Not only do I love good and talented graphic designers, they impress me. Their efforts appear effortless. My sincerest hopes for said people is that their work is as easy as they make it look and they aren't suffering through anxiety attacks and sleepless nights.

I've started hiring Brenda as my own graphic designer for little projects I need help with. I pay her, you guys. She's affordable, talented, and I'm a firm believer in paying someone to complete a task I could try to accomplish on my own, but I WOULDN'T KNOW WHERE TO BEGIN.

Like hiring the guy to hang my mailbox that sat on the floor of my front porch for almost 5 years. Or the pocket doors in my over-100-year-old house that stayed stuck in their pockets for almost 5 years. Or painting my porch. I appreciate these people big time.

The banner you see above? That's not even the free one anymore. I was ready for a revamp and went to the one girl I knew I could a) trust, b) appreciate, and c) be the one to help me get it done. A few emails exchanged and there it is.

And now she's helping me come up with a watermark for my photography business, which I'm super excited about. Which, as you can see, is also clean, simple, and easy to navigate. I can't stand going to a website that is filled with endless text and images that I forget what I was even looking for.

Even though you can't hear, LISTEN TO THIS!

Do you guys remember the episode of American Idol when Seacrest offered a congratulatory high five TO A BLIND GUY?

A similar experience occurred last week when one of my dearest (and most intelligent...) friends was discussing her two thumbs up! for the movie 127 Hours.

Julie: "Saw 127 Hours this weekend and give it two thumbs up!
A tip for moviegoers: skip the snacks and drinks - particularly anything yellow like Mt. Dew. Just sayin'."

Unabashed Me: "that's kinda like seacrest throwing up his HIGH FIVE! for the blind guy..."

Just sayin'.

I may or may not be losing my mind

Meanwhile, some girlfriends of mine and I are going to see Tom Green tonight. My memories of him include his bout with testicular cancer, being married to Drew Barrymore, and his MTV show from the 90's that made my inner 15-year-old boy laugh so hard root beer simultaneously foamed and squirted out of my nose.

My horoscope.com horoscope for yesterday:

"An unexpected opportunity could temporarily throw your life into disorder, Aquarius, but you will see from the start that this is a definite stroke of good luck that you shouldn't let pass. It could involve money, a chance to move to your dream home, or relationships in some way. Whatever it is, you're definitely going to be happy about it."

Last night, my about-to-fall-asleep brain threw me into thoughts of What if Tom Green gives me his phone number! Maybe he'll ask me to go on the road with him! And write for his blog! And then we begin a relationship! AND I MOVE TO CANADA!

That would definitely throw my life into disorder.

Wouldn't it be just my luck to have some wackadoo "stroke of good luck" like this? No, actually. It wouldn't. Because I'm the perpetual raffle ticket holder who never wins a goddamned thing.

It is fun to think about, say, strolling the streets of any foreign land with Anthony Bourdain or being courted by a some silly nutjob like Tom Green, though.

I have no reservations

Wil Wheaton, Brian Bloom, Chad Allen, Ashton Kutcher. What do these boys have in common? They have each held a piece of my heart at one point during my lifetime. Granted they are no longer boys, and one isn't even interested in women (although tell that to 11-year-old Emily as she dutifully tuned in each week to Our House). At 36, divorced, and a mother of 3, I've moved on to men.

One man in particular: Anthony Bourdain.

While I can do without the one-earring look, this brash mouthed silver fox captivates my unwavering attention with his gruff yet silky smooth narration on No Reservations. I've never even read a single one of his books. Nor am I familiar with his cooking abilities. His scruffy exterior, affinity for drinking whatever the locals do, while reaching for his pack of smokes in the Himalayas are all responsible for my devotion to the show each time I happen upon it.

Sure the mere sight of Tony makes me giggle; just looking at his picture has me blushing and turning my bashful head. But it's more than that. Join me in imagining the damage he and I could make wandering the bustling streets of Shanghai, bellying up to a historic bar in Montana, or listening to Pink Floyd while paragliding in Patagonia.

Oh who am I kidding. If his writing is anything like his narration, I'm jellied bean curd betwixt his chopsticks.

Bottomless cup of coffee for one

There is nothing quite like the relaxing, quiet, coffee and alone time I get on Sunday mornings. Before the kids' dad picks them up for church, my responsibility is to timely wake and feed them, make sure they get dressed, and that they're clean. The latter is optional and really more about my tolerance of a dirty kid, but typically necessary. I can usually accomplish this by observing the sheen and status of their hair as they emerge from a night's sleep: Greasy? Bed head? Wait. Were they born with those cowlicks?

Not only #1 but also #2

Day one of Daisy's crating seemed successful. Not a lot of options for the pup when she's resting in her very own den - because that's what I hear crate advocates say a dog considers its crate - for about 6-plus hours. However, even after her two walks after the kids and I returned from school and work respectively, there was a pile of shit in the office and a piss puddle in the boys' room.

Let's remember Daisy's shit obsession, shall we?

Lucky for us, we feed Daisy Hund-N-Flocken. There's a reason the company is called Solid Gold. Daisy's poops are solid. And gold.

They don't feed your precious pets THAT at the pound, now do they, Soggibottom!

It's not like pan-able gold or fool's gold, but it's solid. And that's what counts when you're utilizing a thumbless bag mitten outside OR inside, in our case.

After cursing The Maker, it dawns on me to add an early evening walk to her existing Three A Day routine. Maybe she's choosing to toilet in our house because of the cold. Maybe we're not timing the walks to her poops. I hate to blame the victim. While some of you may agree with me and think I'm the victim, I'll give this one to Daisy. Speaking of The Maker, a talking dog wouldn't be too off the wall, now would it?