1.)  Put mouse traps under the house.

2.) Wash my car.

3.) Attach hooks for coats/purses/stuff in daughter’s closet.

4.) Take kids to school a couple of mornings so that I don’t have to.

5.) Cut overgrown shrubs away from the central unit.

Very romantic, yes?   No chocolate, no flowers, no dinner and movie.  Just some good old chores I don’t want to do myself.  

What’s on your Valentine List?

Here’s today’s self -care card–gratitude.  The back of the card reads Say thank you–experience the joy of acknowledging others.

 

So…in the spirit of being thankful I am grateful for my family, friends, health, life and readers.

 

Technically my fabulous editor’s birthday isn’t until tomorrow, but since she’s going to be out of town and unable to celebrate with us, I’m hosting her cyber-birhtday-bash early.  So, Precious….

 

 

My son is playing JV baseball.  Last night it was 6:45 before we left school.

  6:45!!!!!!!!!!!!

I realize that I am not used to the “sports world” and there are lots of things I don’t know, but what I fail to understand is why we don’t have a set time for practice to be OVER.  These kids are practicing every day after school.  Do I ever know what time he’s going to finish?  No.  He calls when he’s ready for me to come get him. 

I cannot tell you what a pain in the ass this is. 

This past nine weeks, my son had a C–missed a B by one point–and therefore has to attend study hall after practice on Tuesday and Thursday nights.  (That’s why he was so late last night.)  I wouldn’t have a problem with that either, IF we had a set time for practice to be over.  I spent forty-five minutes in the parking lot last night, seething.  Though I know that it’s going to mortify my son, I’ve decided that a talk with the coach is in order.  This willy-nilly I’ll call you when it’s time to come and get me crap is for the birds.

Is this normal?  Does anyone know?  Is this just par for the course and I need to get over it?

I’m working on a new Blaze right now and having some big fun with my characters.  My hero is a kick-ass bounty hunter old-soul-who-looks-like-a-perpetual-frat-boy kind of guy.  And he’s hot.  I asked myself what sort of heroine would be his worst nightmare and came up with a wound-tight wedding planner who takes Type-A to a whole new meaning.  It’s set in Memphis, which I love.  Blues, BBQ, Elvis, etc…  You get the idea.  My question is this–what’s your favorite setting?  Small town, big city, tropical, exotic?

In unreleated news, my dh walked into the bedroom this morning, looked at me and said, “Where’s my brush?”

In light of our recent discussion yesterday I came dangerously close to saying “Have you tried looking up your ass?” but refrained.  Aren’t ya’ll proud of me?

Recent conversation with son:

“Mom!  Why didn’t you make sure I got my backpack?”

“What?” I ask, completely confused as son slips into panick-mode on Saturday.

“My backpack,” he says slowly, as though he is talking to a half-wit and not his mother.  “Where is it?”

Do you hear my teeth grinding?  “Don’t know.  I’m not responsible for your backpack.”

“But I can’t do my homework!  I’ve got Math!”

“Then I guess you should have remembered your backpack.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask me if I had it when I got in the car,” he mumbles, still determined–for reasons I can only assume have something to do with the massive amounts of hormones hurtling through his body–to make this *my* fault.  “Will you take me up to the school to see if I can get it?”

It’s Saturday and baseball practice is over.  Chances are he can’t get in the school.  But, being a good mother, I haul his sullen rear up there and of course I am right.  He can’t get in the school.

“From now on make sure I’ve got my backpack,” he tells me when he gets back into the car, once again implying that the reason his homework won’t get done is my fault.

“Here’s a thought.  From now on *you* make sure you have your backpack.  I’m too busy making sure that you’ve brushed your hair and teeth, put your retainer in at night, made your bed, packed your lunch, remembered to get the lunch out of the car and making sure you have your baseball bag.  You’re on your own with the backpack, hoss.”

I’m told this phase will pass.  I hope it does before I throttle him.