So I am two thirds of the way done with my end of semester test taking. I’ve got a practical lab test on Monday, the first and after that, 141 is a wrap! Woo-woo! I feel like Gloria Gaynor, right now.

With all of this impending free time stretched out before me, I’m not really sure what I want to do first. It’s the same ol‘ story of girl works hard for the money – – -wait a minute – – I mean, woman works hard at all of the many hats she wears, woman get some free time to relax, woman must decide between sleeping, reading the pile o’ novels on the nightstand, finishing baby #2’s “crap-book”, doing Christmas cards, putting photos in an album, giving the house a good scrub, curling up with Kendall Jackson and a straw while watching the eighteen plus TV shows that have been saved to her TiVo, or just sitting quietly on the couch staring off into space and enjoying the mini fortress of solitude that she has created until it is time to pick up the children.

*Sigh* I think I’ll end up at the Y with some Netflix discs and call it good. I’ll probably need to do some preventative maintenance on the bod in preparation for all of the egg nog I plan to consume in the coming weeks — yum! Can I just tell you — and this is totally unrelated to how I plan to spend my time between the end of this semester and the beginning of next semester — about how my seasonal obsession with egg nog showed me what an outstanding man I have in DH?

So rewind about 8 years. I’m doing my own single lady thing, working, living in an apartment, yadda, bladda, blah. DH and I are dating, which means we alternate visiting one another on the week-ends. The timing of this is important to note because, as we all know, egg nog (or nog as it is affectionately called) miraculously appears in coolers and milk cases shortly before Thanksgiving and then, without so much as a “Peace out, homie” disappears by the first week-end of January. This particular week-end, must have been end of December, early January, DH came to visit me. We went out to dinner, did a movie, and were driving back to my apartment (where I was going to make up the couch for him to sleep on while I slept ALONE in my bed in my bedroom with the door locked *wink,wink*) and this overwhelming need for nog overcame me. I mean, I needed nog. BAD. If I had been Jazmine Sullivan, the lyrics would have mentioned nog, seriously.

DH, being the chivalrous and indulgent soul that he is drove me to several of the major grocery chains in the area, searched the refrigerator cases for nog, asked the store managers for nog, and came up empty handed. We tried every store that we could find that would have the slightest chance of having nog. As the hour grew later and later, my nog-session grew larger and larger, but the chances of getting it started to grow slim. We were about to call it a night, when we spied the glowing sign of High’s Convenience store up the road ahead. Now, I’m from the northeast originally. I’m familiar with things like Cumberland Farms, 7-11, Quik Stop, Wawa, CVS. I had NEVER heard of High’s and it looked like it had never heard of the 21st century. But, High’s had the nog!! I was so excited. We got home, and I don’t think I even took off my jacket before I just broke the seal and swigged a mouthful out of the container.

I turned to DH, who was staring at me like the looney toon I had become, and said, “I don’t think I can drink any more egg nog.” Talk about if looks could kill — I would have been dead where I stood. I’m sure there were a few, “Are you kidding me?” and other choice exchanges about how that one swallow pushed me over the edge. I was off the nog. . .until the next season.

So, I am no closer on pinpointing how to spend the next school-free weeks, but I do know that there will be some nog involved.

So we went to see Quantum of Solace for our date night on Friday. I have to admit, I wasn’t really feeling Daniel Craig as James Bond when Casino Royale came out (I’m a purist — hello Sean Connery), but he was getting the job done with style and some serious ‘tude. I won’t divulge the plot of Q of S, but suffice it to say, if you are going to see it, make sure you’re familiar with Casino Royale before you go. If not, you might not get some of the repeated references to unseen characters and their actions.

I look forward to the opening credits of a James Bond movie as much as I look forward to the movie itself and how the Bond Girls have evolved into more than mammiferous glamazons with snicker inducing names — you get mad cool points if you tell me the name of the Bond Girl to whom Sean Connery replied, “I must be dreaming,” when she told him her name! But I digress; I’m about theme music, the opening credits, the ubiquitous James Bond Theme. My faves include

. . .and their respective movies aren’t that bad either.

So new theme song, “Another Way to Die,” may have to make it to the list. DH and I were grooving in our seats, mentioning how we were really liking the beat and such. Imagine our surprise when the credits rolled up attributing the finger popping stylings to Jack White and Alicia Keys! Really? Jack White of the White Stripes and Alicia Keys? Well, I’m no Quincy Jones, but that was an unlikely pair if I ever saw one. Still, the song is hot.

1. Watching Mo and Co playing together without them knowing I’m watching
2. Coming home to a clean house
3. My batter dispenser from Williams Sonoma
4. Naptime — for me and for them!
5. Date night with DH
6. Getting stuff in the mail
7. Old pictures of family, friends and fun times
8. “Morganisms” — i.e. school of wire, Breck-la-hem, Ma-Rock Obama, Chich-en Vagina*
9. June 18th, August 23rd, September 8th, and September 29th
10. Wikipedia

*That would be spool of wire, Bethlehem, Barack Obama and Chicken Parmigan!

Oh and I am SO about to tear up some Reese’s FastBreaks tonight. I picked them all out of the candy we’re supposed to be giving away, so now I have a secret (well not any more since I told all y’all) Mommy stash to hold me until. . . . I dunno. . .Tuesday?

Candy coma, here I come!

So, I don’t know what’s going on with my clothes and my closet lately. It’s like nothing I own matches, fits properly or is without washing machine pilling. I thought I was taking care of my clothes. I use Wool-lite and Downy Fabric Softener. I even hang my unmentionables on a drying rack inside the laundry room. Why do I always feel like I look like “Who did it and ran?”

Case in point: last Saturday, the Lovely Ladies of the Nu Chi Chapter of AKA at the College of William and Mary hosted an Alumni Tea. I went to support my sorors and really gave some thought about what it was that I wanted to wear. I knew that there would be photos taken at the tea — that’s what we do — and that I was going to go straight to the lab to study after the tea, so I was aiming for practical cuteness. The finished ensemble was a light blue tank under a navy blue long sleeve shirt, topped by a kelly green puffer vest. I had jeans, navy loafers with green and white trim and of course, my pearls. Sounds good, right? I thought so. I did the once over in the mirror; even the hair was cooperating. So why when I look at the photos do I think, What the hell happened between Norfolk and the ‘burg? How come I look like someone beat me up in the stairwell before even crossed the threshold to the tea? So frustrating– I think I should have left on the vest.

Now, I love the fall — I love the cool air, I love Halloween and Thanksgiving, I love cinnamon and nutmeg, pumpkins and of their pairings. I love sweaters and vests, boots and denim jackets. I love cowl neck sweaters and black tights under skirts,but every season, it’s like my closet has been eating itself and all of the sweaters and corduroys from last year have vanished, or worse! Sometimes I even find things that I have no clue who bought them or why. I mean, why do I have an XL red turtleneck sweater from Charter Club? Um, okay, I was packing pounds last fall, but I had just had C-dizzle. Still, that’s no excuse. What happened to my Merino V-Neck sweaters? Why do all of my jeans suddenly look like they’re all about to give up the ghost? Where are my calf high butter-cream boots? And why do my other pairs of boots look like they’ve been fighting with one another like Tyler Durden and his cronies? Why do my black, brown and greay sweaters looks like they’ve all got goosebumps, what with all those pills and pull? I feel like that guy at the end of the Three Amigos — “Wha’ de hayle ees happenin’ aroun’ here”?

I do take comfort in the fact that I’m not the only one with this issue. I’ve got a friend who, totally despite not needing them when she is at LEAST 5 months post partum, rocks her maternity jeans. If they were Seven For All Mankind or True Religion, well, I suppose I could understand, but they’re just regular ol’ maternity jeans. I was talking with another friend who likened her closet to the 5th dimension — clothes go in and all kinds of shit comes out. She didn’t elaborate, but I’d like to think she opens her closet and stuff like fashion trends from the 80’s (hello slouch socks and Z Cavaricci’s), a pot-bellied Vietnamese pig named Mr. Cobblepot, Jimmy Hoffa, and my pre-pregnancy body all come waltzing out.

*sigh* Since Halloween is all but here, at least I can put on what I got, no matter how pilled, pulled, faded or frump-tastic and call myself one of the Olsen Twins. I’ve already got a pair of oversized Jackie O glasses. Now, if I could just whittle myself down to about 80 pounds and get that flat, matted, ratty hair. . .