To go to the DMV or not . . . THAT is the Question?

(side-note -- I wonder how many times Hamlet is alluded to in the world of blogging; sigh, I'm so NOT being creative and unique today)

A few weeks ago, I received a notice from the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles.

dum
dum
DUM
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(that was my attempt at creating scary music, by the way)

Congratulations to me! My driver's license will expire on my birthday this year. Well, ain't that a kick in the head?

(I'm full of allusions and cliches today)

So, now, in addition to the "Turning 30 Blues," I also get to deal with getting a new driver's license. Sigh, it just keeps getting better, doesn't it? Apparently EVERYTHING changes when you turn 30; I can't even keep my 20-something DL -- the one with my 20-something weight on it -- the one with my 20-something face and hair and skin on it.

Stupid Driver's License.

But, wait! What's this? I have the option of renewing online, thereby KEEPING my beautiful 20-something self on my card?



Oh . . . can you hear them? The chorus of beautiful angels sweetly singing in perfect harmony?

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!!!!!!!!
(that was my attempt at mimicking a screeching record;
apparently, I'm also full of sound affects today)

That's right -- I LOST my current driver's license, with the current secret code on the back. I'm using the one with my old address on it, with the OLD secret code on the back. I can't renew online.

Stupid Driver's License.

I have to go to the DMV. With a toddler who can't be held while I'm getting my picture taken. With a toddler who will be pulling my hair, clothes, and earrings immediately prior to the photo-taking session.

So, not only do I have to preserve my 30-something self for the next 8 years, it will be a 30-something self with crazy, jacked up hair, a stretched out collar, and possibly a bleeding ear.

This looming birthday just keeps getting better and better.

*Almost* Lost My Mind This Weekend

Saturday started innocently enough, although there was a change in the air with a crisp cool front whispering in the trees.

Life was good. I'd finished all of my work for the week, my daughter was back to "almost" sleeping through the night, and Hubby had cleaned the kitchen. I was happy.

To celebrate our lazy afternoon, we decided to drive around Houston, visiting some of our local fish stores. We have a small, 75 gallon Salt-water aquarium; after a recent lighting upgrade, it was time to window shop for new corals and fishie-friends.

JUST fish and corals, mind you -- there was no intention, from either of us, to get anything else. Period.

Then it happened.

TWEET! TWEET!

The Little Lady saw the birds in the fish/general pet store. And, she was IN LOVE!!!!!!!!!!!! She flapped her arms in excitement, squealed, and mimicked the ear-piercing shrieks coming from the Cockatiels and Parrots. It took all of Hubby's strength to keep her from lunging onto the dirty wire cages.

This is the moment when I went crazy.

"Do you want a birdie? Do you want Mommy to get you one?"

"Uh-huh!" She vigorously (VERY vigorously) nodded her head up and down, reaching for her new feathered friends.

I turned to my husband, my green eyes shining with insanity. "We could get her one! My mom and sisters had birds -- I could talk to them about the care. They sell the cages here too! Awww . . . look how cute that one is!" I pointed to a yellow and green . . . um, some kind of bird, and just managed, by the little bit of maturity left in my brain, to refrain from tweeting in unison with the birds.

The Little Lady was squawking by this point, her eyes dancing with ornithological delight.

I left the bird room and quickly headed to the bird supply section, gawking at the colorful cages - large and small - and the myriad of bird toys that, oddly, looked very similar to many of the Little Lady's toys. I was sold.

A bird book . . . I need a bird book. My type-A planning self was trying to gain control, sending messages throughout my brain: research, research, research FIRST!!!!

Pushing past the books on pugs, pomeranians, and poodles, I finally found a few ragged, tattered, NOT very new looking bird books. I employed my speed reading skills and skimmed the first few chapters of each one.

WHAT? You have to let the bird out of its cage DAILY to fly around the house?

WHAT? You have to offer fresh fruits and vegetables DAILY, minced to fit in their beaks? (what about all of the prepared bird food I just saw on the shelves?)

WHAT? You have to TRAIN them to like you?????????

WHAT? THEY CAN NIP YOU or GRIND YOUR SKIN IN THEIR BEAKS?????

OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG! OMG!

I called my sister, looking for confirmation that these books were bunk.

I didn't get my confirmation.

Instead, I heard about how HORRIBLY they can hurt you, how HORRIBLY they shriek at all times of the day and night, and how HORRIBLY dirty they can be thanks to flying feathers.

That's when I decided a playground would be a better Christmas present for ALL of us.

Crazy Crisis Averted.

Sigh . . . Double Sigh.

Sigh.

I did it.

This week.

Friday, actually.

I went to Home Depot.

And, I learned that Home Depot is designed for Men and Lowe's is designed for Women.

I hated Home Depot.

Too confusing -- nothing was where it logically should be.

The Staff was NOT helpful.

Except for the paint guy, who talked too much and made too many over-the-top obvious statements. (Yes, sir, I AM thinking painting a room in my house. Yes, sir, my child IS a girl. Yes, sir, I KNOW to make sure the paint lid is securely on.)

But, I came away with paint.

Two cans.

Bonjour Beige and Appalachian Trail.

I've very globally aware in my paint selections.

I rearranged our entire downstairs in preparation for painting.

I mean COMPLETELY rearranged.

Only the kitchen stayed the same (and that's just because I couldn't move the appliances).

I was very sweaty -- and it wasn't the good kind of sweat.

Then, I decide to paint a sample wall in Bonjour Beige.

That's when I learned that I hadn't purchased any brushes.

I tried using a kitchen sponge.

I now have a very streaky wall muttering, "Bonjour."

This is why I waited two years to begin repainting my downstairs.

It never goes well.

Double Sigh.

PSF -- Cruel & Unusual Punishment

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

I must be the worst Mommy in the world. My crime? I take pictures of my daughter.

And. SHE. HATES. IT!!!!!!!!!!!

This week, after arriving back in Houston, I decided to take pictures of the Little Lady in her new outfits, in order to share her cuteness with her grandparents.

How DARE I subject my daughter to such a stressful afternoon? Unbelievable.

Things started innocently enough with the first outfit. She loved the soft jacket and the hair bows. All was still right with the world.







With the next outfit, however, things began to change. Hair bows were no longer cool. This should have been a sign -- I should have realized the inevitable outcome.






The Little Rat is smart, and she played her next move very coolly -- passively pretending that she was on board with the photo-shoot. Oh, she's good!




Then all HECK broke loose!!!! Clothing was no longer cute, nothing was cool (except belly buttons), and there was nothing that would make her smile. She was winning, but I was determined to finish what I'd started. Silly Mommy.







In a desperate attempt, she tried to get away. Her only mistake? Forgetting that I'm as tall as the average British Male, which is definitely taller and more powerful than she is.





The last outfit. And, it was not a cute moment. Sigh. I tried.

WTH????

(by the way, that stands for what the HECK! This is a clean blog, after all.)

Last night, as I feebly attempted to catch up on some blog reading, I came across a post on The Charming Lamb: What Does Your Height Say About You?

Well, now, I've always wondered that.

Since I can remember, I've always been one of the taller females (if not the tallest) in any group. I don't know that I'm really that tall -- I guess I just have shortish friends (sorry, y'all). When I was in high school, there were always people (ignorant of my absolute LACK of coordination) who asked why I didn't play basketball. Um, yeah -- that would be the same reason behind my "tripping as I go UP the stairs" problem. Thanks for asking.

But, what does this tall body say about me NOW . . . as an adult, a mommy, a pale, curly-haired Albino chick??

According to "BlogThings," is says this:

What Your Height Says About You

You are a true adventurer, and you live for the thrill. You have a lot of charisma, and you're good at convincing people to join you in your schemes. You are open to the world, and you make connections easily. You have lots of friends. You are likely to have many life paths to choose from. There are many possibilities open to you. You are about as tall as the average British man.

What Does Your Height Say About You?

I repeat: WHAT THE HECK???????????

I'm as tall as a MAN?

But that's not the only thing at fault here . . . .

I'm not adventurous.

Not a thrill-seeker.

I'm not charismatic.

I can't convince people of ANYTHING!

I neither make connections easily nor do I have a lot of friends. I'm too freakishly shy.

But, since I'm sure they have the statistics, I'm apparently like the average British man.

Glad to know.

So, I didn't post today

And I felt like something was missing.

Is that a sign of blogging addiction?

Is there a help group?
(probably. . . complete with its own blog)

And, today was Wordless Wednesday -- the easiest blogging day of the week. And I still missed it.

I'm going to blame it on Mother Nature, who, last night, sent a Storm in the path of my airplane ride from Tulsa to Houston. That's right -- a "capital S" Storm, as in lightening and heavy turbulence. Turbulence scares the CRAP out of me, especially when I'm holding my Little Lady in my lap. (oh, and that was a metaphor. . . as in figurative language, not literal. Crap does not "randomly" leave my body . . . just in case you were wondering)

She thought it was fun -- as much fun as the mall carousel. Each time the turbulence began, she's begin squealing, "WEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

That's NOT what Mommy was saying.

3 hours after our scheduled arrival time, we landed. 6 hours after our last meal. 12 hours after our last nap.

I'll let you decide what kind of mood I was in by the end.

Tired? DING DING DING! We have a winner -- I WAS tired! You are so smart!

Tired Mommy = No Blogging.

Now you know.

And .................... I'm out.

Oh, NO She DIDN'T!

Alright -- I've alluded to this and twittered about it. It's time to just come out into the open: I am just a month away from entering the Dark Side.

Dec 12 = My 30th Birthday.

People have tried to encourage me, saying things like "it's not that bad" and "but 30 is the new 20!"

Bull, I say. . . BULL!

I truly have not been looking forward to this particular birthday for fifteen years. That's right -- I'm a loser like that. And the closer and closer it gets, the more my body decides to fall apart.

All of the sudden, I have MULTIPLE silver hairs. What the heck? I'm approaching the 30-Iceberg so my color decides that its time to jump ship? And, what happened to the elasticity of my facial skin? And the pores -- they look different too. What's up with that, Epidermis? You think turning 30 is an excuse to get lazy? I definitely do NOT approve.

My mom thinks its funny. I don't know why -- I certainly wouldn't want to know I had a 30 year old daughter. But, she finds it soooo humorous; the entire time I was visiting, she loved getting in little barbs here and there. Of course, she's a young looking 49. (That's right -- I'll put her age out there like that. That's what she gets!) No one EVER believes we're mother and daughter, especially now that I'm in my later years. It's soooo not fair to have a mom who looks younger and dresses younger. . ..and makes fun of YOU for getting old.



So, please excuse my air of mourning over the next few weeks. I can't help it -- I wish I could embrace turning 30 and jump in the air and do cartwheels. But, I can't . . . mainly because I'm too old to move my butt that fast.

Hubby, if you're reading this, you SO BETTER DO SOMETHING GOOD to help me cheer up on that sad, dark day. Seriously. Consider yourself warned.

Hell hath no fury like a gal turning 30.