“I can live for two months on a good compliment. ” Mark Twain

Apparently, I cannot. Ahhh, Mark, were that it were that easy. I’ve noticed lately that when being given a compliment about how well behaved my girls are, how clean my house is, how good dinner is, how quickly I’ve gotten back into shape after having had Coever, and so on, I find myself making excuses as to why I should received the compliment. For example, here’s a typical exchange —

You: “Wow, the last time I saw you, you were out to here (miming a beach ball tummy) pregnant. You look fantastic! And it’s only been 3 months!”

Me: “Oh, thanks, but I worked out the whole pregnancy”

or

You: “What a sweet little girl you have. She hardly makes a peep”

Me: “Yeah, but she was SO bad yesterday, I thought we were going to have to exorcise the demons!”

See what I mean? What’s up with that? Why can’t I just take it for what it is? A compliment is defined as an expression of praise, commendation, or admiration. It’s meant to be taken as such. There is no qualifier that says you must explain to yourself or anyone else why you deserve that praise or admiration. I don’t know if this is just unique to me or if it’s a woman thing, but I don’t think guys have this problem. I mean, have you ever seen an exchange like this?

Jack: Dude, great coverage on the defense during that last play (swats teammates butt in a strong, masculine but not homosexual way — not that there’s anything wrong with that).

Joe: I know, right?! I’m on fire today! I’m the man! (pumps fist in the air and then punches teammate in the face with a strong right hook, stands over his prone body, beating his fists on his chest in a display of animalistic, masculine, adrenaline-infused, no-one-hugged-me-as-a-child pride).

Okay, I grossly exaggerated that, but you get the point, right? Men just take the compliment. Actually, it seems like that take it and then they embellish it! Like telling you, Yes, I agree with my greatness and let me point out some other things for you, too. Darn that extra X chromosome!

In any event, regarding the receipt of compliments, the plan is to be gracious and accepting, consider each compliment a bite-sized morsel of something decadent and totally satisfying (it always comes back to food for me), because that’s really what it is.

Move over, Oprah. I’m feeling lazy today, well, it is only 5:51 in the morning. Still, I thought I’d share a few (dozen) of my favorite things. . .

Craig, my girls, my parents, my brother, Sage dog, my extended family, my friends, my sorors — and here I must take a pause for a major shout out to the First and Finest, the lovely ladies of

and I’m back. . .

my blankie (yes, I said it), reading, cooking, baking, travel, scrapbooking, my new Dansko MaryJanes (love, love, love them!), the smell of clean laundry, when the seasons change from summer to fall, Heroes, comic books, Wonder Woman, Wolverine, proper prior planning, pound cake, pumpkin spice cookies, losing weight at Weight Watchers, my health, learning new things, working out, working hard, Netflix, eBay, current events, being knowledgeable, the library, the aquarium, my sun/moon/stars robe, my hair (though the color is still up for discussion), dancing, drawing, sometimes drawing pictures for Morgan, a good margarita, laughing, laughing hard, watching football, playing tennis, fencing, writing things down, making lists, crossing things off, clean countertops, making other people laugh, playgroups, quiet time, naps, good sleep, hugs and loves, books, magazines, long showers, the beach, good memories, words, ocean sounds, photos, picture frames, photo albums, other people’s photos, vacuum tracks in the carpet, apple pie, iTunes, manicures, pedicures, all things bright and beautiful, mermaids, Sade, classical music Wednesdays, Tchaikovsky, Bizet, Bolero, Wikipedia, musical theatre, New York City, Paris, Costa Maya, Martha’s Vineyard, Black Dog, quality time. . .

So, it’s been about 3 months since I last colored my hair and I have been scratchin’ like Tyrone Biggums ready to make some changes. Usually, I go reddish in the fall and into the winter, my holiday color. I reserve the light browns and blondes for summer. Today, however, I decided to change it up. I get my color, my gloves on, I pick out the ‘fro and away we go. The box says “Light Golden Brown”, but the mix is like a cider color with nutmeg sprinkles. “Whatever”, I think, shrugging my shoulders and parting my hair into the appropriate 4 sections. Yeah, I start that way, then my arms get tired and I just squirt the whole mess onto my scalp and mash it around.

The directions say to leave it on for 25 minutes or “whatever you decided based on your strand test” — like I ever do a strand test. 25 minutes fly by, especially when you are juggling the baby, emptying the dishwasher, getting the gym bag together for tomorrow, trying to watch the Ravens/Patriots game and check your email. It was more like 30 or 35 minutes. Hey, potato, po-tah-to. When I go back into the bathroom, it looks like a scene from CSI after they’ve sprayed that UV spray to find evidence of blood. My dye colored fingerprints are on the sink, the counter, the mirror (wth?) and the floor (double wth?). I don’t remember playing Twister. I clean it up, loving those Mr. Clean all purpose wipes, jump in the shower, rinse, rinse, rinse and condition. I wipe the steam off the mirror and ta daaaaaa!!

I’m a red-head.

WTH?

Sadly, I have no witty or pithy quote to accompany this missive, but it looks like the only thing light golden brown are my eyes. Those are about to go the way of the hair (as in red), if I don’t go to bed soon.

“The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have.” — Vince Lombardi

When people ask me how I’m doing, I often say, “I’m doing the best I can the best way I know how,” so when I saw this quote, it really spoke to me. In a nutshell, it really describes my approach to life and all the things that cross my path as I navigate through it. But the more I think about it, the more I ask myself, “Why am I measuring myself, anyway?” When you become a parent, you’re often told not to compare your children with the little prodigy down the street or to compare your first born with your second born (sorry big brother, but I am the favorite), but no one ever stops to remind you — as a parent or otherwise — not to compare yourself to anyone else. I mean, why be your own worst critic? Considering all the things that I get accomplished in a day, or even before 9am, how is it that find time to pick myself apart and see where I stand on the sticker chart of success? Part of my problem is that I work super hard, trying to do everything and be all things to all people in order to scratch that ever present itch for admiration. I’m an admiration addict. The truth of the matter is that the only thing I get is stressed out and I can measure that amount of stress by the bucketful.

So, I’m working on doing the best I can the best way I know how and measure my success by my ability to honestly say that yes, this is the best that I can do as a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend. Everything else. . .well sometimes you just have to leave it for another day.

This is hilarious. . .

Look at my little elves. . .

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=1135215091

“My Grandmother is over eighty and still doesn’t need glasses. Drinks right out of the bottle”. – Henny Youngman

Here’s the thing about this quote — > 1. It’s funny –> 2. It’s true —> 3. It’s totally where I’m headed.

Seriously, I’ve been up since 5:15 am, I’ve fed the baby, gone to Wal-Mart, gotten groceries, went to the storage locker, got the Christmas stuff, unloaded the groceries, changed diapers, changed the kids clothes, drew Cinderella, Jasmine, the Prince, Ariel, Sebastien, and Flounder for Morgan, ate breakfast at 11am, cleaned the apartment, put together a bag of stuff for Goodwill, sat on the phone for iTunes tech support, fed the baby, fed Morgan lunch, went to the bathroom (but haven’t showered or brushed my teeth), started prepping for dinner, looked for my camera which turned out to be in my parents car, and now I’m sitting down to write this because I’ve got to get it off my chest or I’m going to implode, which would be pretty interesting considering how much hair I’ve got tangled on the top of my head. Oh and did I mention that I had a slight hangover from the two margaritini’s that I had last night at Luna Maya (totally worth it).

There just isn’t enough of me to go around. There is the stuff that I want to get done, the stuff that I need to get done, and the stuff that will get done eventually. There are books that I want to read, websites I want to visit, exercise classes I want to take, stores I want to shop in, scrapbooks I want to finish, and naps that I long for. There aren’t enough hours in the day. I’ll confess it; sometimes I wish Craig would take the girls up to his parents house for a long, long, long week-end so I can get my stuff together. It might be a long time before they come home, but I think I’d manage.

Sometimes, I wish I could stop time like Hiro from “Heroes”. I would just sleep first, just sleep until I was so caught up, I couldn’t sleep any more. Then, I’d do the stuff I want to do and then take a nap. Then I’d do some more and take another nap. Do you see a pattern developing? I want to be able to make a cup of tea and drink it when it’s still hot, not when it’s mid-afternoon, so now instead of breakfast tea, it’s my iced tea.

*sigh* Of course, I do this to myself. Seriously, I like that my to-do list is so long because I feel like I’ve accomplished something by crossing stuff off. Twisted, I know. I read an article that that type of stress stresses you out more. Quelle Suprise!! I can’t seem to stop, though. The thought of putting off stuff makes me more wound up.

The two things that slow me down, though, are my best girls, Morgan and Coever (a.k.a Mo and Co). I have to slow down for them because I know I’ll turn around and they’ll be 18 and 16. Instead of stressing about early childhood development, I’ll be stressing about college visits, drivers license’s and prom. Suddenly, poopy diapers, potty training and drawing princess, after princess, after princess, after princess doesn’t seem so bad.

I’ve decided to update my wardrobe seeing as how I am really working on losing the baby weight and because, I’m actually tired of being asked if I’m the girls’ nanny instead of their mother. So, gone are the “Little Miss Trouble” tee-shirts, and gone are the Marvel Superhero tee-shirts. I’ve retired the “Afrodite”, the “Down with Brown”, the Superman “S” shirt — breaking up is hard to do, but I have to be honest with myself. I’m about to be 30 years old next year. I don’t need to dress like a tweenager.

—-> small digression —-> Tweenage girls are scary, Abercrombie & Fitch wearing, thong showing, fembots. I’m talking about the group of girls that are between 11 and 15 years old. Why are they elbowing me out of the way at Victoria’s Secret during the semi annual sale? Why are they yelling at their mother’s, “No! I already have that thong! GOD!” What is that all about? Why are they carrying Coach pocketbooks, iPhones, having breast augmentation and driving Infiniti’s and yet, they can’t carry on a conversation without inserting “like”, “um” and “y’know” between every other word. If I EVER catch Morgan or Coever going down that road, I’m going to make Joan Crawford look like Mary Poppins!

But back to what I was saying. I got this book called “The Pocket Stylist” and I’m really going to work on creating a more updated, classic look for myself. I’m even going to forgo wearing only black, brown, gray and white, and bring in some color. And the biggest step of all — I’m not going to look at the size of the clothes. If it fits well, numbers be damned. The whole project is like a New Year’s resolution except, this will last longer than my attempts to floss everyday (hey! that’s tough) and stuff like that.

So, my pearl of wisdom for today is from Ethel Barrymore, who said this, “You grow up the day you have your first real laugh — at yourself”. Take a look at that picture. I’m still laughing, but I’m trading in my toon-tastic threads for something more refined.