Polly is an Evil Wench...and Other Observations

I am trying to make a concerted effort to write in this blog more often. However, this week—despite being a short week—has been super busy. So rather than a lengthy, thought-provoking blog entry, I will simply share with you a few of my most recent life observations/discoveries.

I've come to the conclusion that Polly Pockets are the work of the devil. Seriously, how many freaking tiny pairs of shoes and soda bottles (what the hell?!) does one little plastic doll need? Even Polly's pets come with accessories! And I believe that one must possess an advanced degree in engineering to get some of those little plastic clothes on and off. I am certain Satan is getting a good chuckle every time I take the Lord's name in vain as I step on one of the multitude of plastic Polly paraphernalia.

Dogs bark. Loudly. Who knew?

Fresh zucchini grown in your own back yard is delicious. Even more so baked into gooey, sugary, nutty zucchini bread.

Change is scary. Contemplating major life changes is even scarier. But something's got to give.

I could easily become a shopaholic. I went shopping yesterday for myself for the first time in ages (because I've gained so much weight that I no longer have clothes that fit me...but we won't mention that). I think I could have spent the better part of a year in Kohl's and been perfectly happy. I think, to my chagrin, I inherited my mother's spend-and-squander gene. It's a good thing I have Ruanita to rein me in.

My daughter is much more like me—in personality and temperament, if not looks—than I care to admit. In many ways, she is my childhood clone. My poor, poor girl.

My children are hoarders and my sons, in particular, are just plain dirty. I force them to clean their room and within a matter of a few short hours, I can no longer see the carpet on their bedroom floor. Who needs that much stuff? It's just clutter and debris and...junk. Dozens of half-torn scraps of paper that are “essential” works of art. Legos and Bionicle pieces strewn around the room. Crayons poured on the floor. Their beds are so covered in crap that I can't even find a place to sit on the edge of their beds to kiss them goodnight. Where did this hoarding behavior come from? Ruanita and I are minimalists. We can't stand clutter sitting around. I can't even walk in the boys' bedroom without finding myself in the throws of a full-blown panic attack. They're killing me.

A pale, pasty back that survived a Minnesota winter and has not seen sunshine in almost a year should not be exposed to the elements without copious amounts of SPF 50+ sunscreen. I put sunscreen on my face this past weekend, but neglected to do so on my back and shoulders. For days, my bra was a particularly torturous device. The pain has now subsided, but the itching has begun in earnest. If you see me rubbing up against a tree or using cooking utensils (or my cell phone, television remote, or currently my office stapler) to scratch, please ignore me. There is no fungus among us. It is simply the remnants of an idiotically acquired sunburn.