My current house was built sometime in the late 1970′s. I know this in part because I remember looking at the date of construction when we were filling out the approximately 64,836 mortgage documents and remarking to myself that “Hey, Self, this is a good thing! My house was built AFTER lead-based paint was made illegal.”

Might not be something that occurred to normal people when they were buying a house, but our condo was built at the turn of the century and as such, when the lead levels were checked before we bought it, they were off the charts. Stupidly, we still bought it.

(let us not make fun of the damage that the lead paint MAY HAVE DONE to Aunt Becky’s brain. It’s likely she was dumb well before this happened)

It’s a good age, I think, my new house is. It’s old enough that while the stuff inside isn’t brand new, there aren’t any surprises left over from faulty construction. At least, nothing that we know of YET. It’s not an interesting looking house, aside from it’s Electric Yellow siding. It’s a standard Colonial, one of three or four models in my neighborhood, but it’s home and I couldn’t be happier (unless, of course, the siding fairy came over night one night soon *hint, hint* and replaced my siding with something less, um, EYE catching).

We’ve been fortunate, however, in that the appliances that were likely here when the house was built–or shortly after–have remained functional despite their decidedly non-fashionable exterior. You’re going to be jealous when I tell you that not only do my washer and dryer have faux wood panelling, but so does our refrigerator.

Doncha wish your appliances were as hot as mine? ADMIT IT, INTERNET, YOU WANT MY SEXY APPLIANCES.

Except that with the possible exception of my refrigerator, which I hate primarily because of it’s utterly ineffectual side-by-side design (which allows for practically nothing to be stored there), I have known that they were on their proverbial last legs since we moved in nearly 4 years ago. The dryer, which takes approximately 4.5 hours to dry a simple load of laundry, has been nearing death for a couple of months, back when I resurrected it.

(My fancy-ass trick? I HIT THE TOP OF IT WITH A BOTTLE OF DETERGENT. It’s a freaking wonder MENSA hasn’t come knockin’ for me. Oh wait, no it’s not)

This morning, however, my dryer rests gently wherever it is that the souls of old appliances go when they die. Not with a bang, but a whimper.

Rest in peace, sweet wood-panelled dryer. *sniff, sniff*

With the death of my dryer comes, of course, the rebirth of a whole new set of appliances (sadly none of them the sexy cherry-red that I petitioned loudly for), which will successfully remove all traces of faux wood panelled artifacts in our house. The 70′s will no longer reside in our home, instead, they will be transported back to their rightful place in hell along with all Lief Garrett LP’s and polyester pant-suits.

*sighs*

On second thought, leave the pant-suits. Maybe there’s some seeds hidden in them.

My apologies to anyone reading today in a reader. I’m importing some old posts from my other blog before it’s shut down and sent to wherever blogs go to die. A blog graveyard? I don’t know. THIS is the post from today, the rest will be dated according to their original air date. Sorry for overloading you in advance.

During years past, I looked forward to the holidays nearly peeing myself with the childish excitement of it all (or, perhaps I am just a Simple Simone). Decorating cookies, Christmas music blaring from all radios, wrapping gifts in elaborate patterns, and throwing festive tinsel and garland around the house merrily, for months ahead of time.

I’d roll my eyes at the Scrooges out there who would complain about the Christmas stuff coming onto the store shelves mid-October, mocking their discontent. I just couldn’t understand how anyone would mind that stations played Christmas music in November. I sure didn’t. Hell, I’d play it in July while tooling around in my car (with the windows rolled up, for sure, so I didn’t look like an escapee from the local funny farm).

I’m not sure if it’s a combination of being completely overwhelmed by the things that have happened this year, or that I’ve sort of retreated back into my shell. Or maybe it’s just pregnancy brain fog sneaking it’s tendrils around my grey matter, I’m just not sure.

But I can tell you that I am not excited for the holidays this year.

I mean, I’m not NOT excited (if that makes any sense) but I’m certainly having a hard time getting as pumped about it all as I normally do. It all just seems like so much extra WORK for me to do. And I already have a pretty full plate. Of bon-bons! ZING!

I guess that part of it is that I’m feeling pretty discouraged about the whole situation. Now, I’ve written in years past about all of the mucking around that we used to do to appease our families, and how we were going to stop fucking doing that, because it made the holidays miserable. For us.

So, once we bought our house, and got settled in, we volunteered to start hosting some of the holidays. We’d take Thanksgiving proper with my parents, Dave’s parents and Dave’s brother (my brother and sister-in-law celebrate with her family on that day), and Christmas Eve with the same people. Then the following day(s) we’d have the bash at my parents house.

While it wasn’t actually ending the repetition of the holidays, it was certainly a far cry from shlepping our children around the states. And I figured that the more Dave’s family and my family got together, the happier we’d all be.

(hey, if it worked for the song, right?)

Well, yeah. That didn’t work so well.

And I got tired of being the person who did all of the work only to sit uncomfortably around The Day Of, staring at my hands and wishing like hell that Alex would get up from his nap already.

So this year, we’re trying a break from even this arrangement: we’re breaking the holidays back up into individual family occasions, and those of whom we cannot visit–Dave’s parents–will go out to eat with us. I’m not hosting this Us vs Them showdown again any time soon, and quite frankly, I’m not certain I’ll ever do it again. Some people, I’m guessing, will just never get along.

(My parents are hippies, Dave’s are uber-conservative Christians).

It makes me sad, but it’s true. And in the name of laziness, I’m giving the hell up on it all.

I mean, shit, there are bigger issues out there right now. Like the Motrin Mom’s thing.

*smirks away*

How do YOU do holidays with more than one family? Enlighten me, o wise Internet.

The love I have for animals often rivals that of the Crazy Cat Lady, so fond am I of the wee ickle beasties. When I was a small child–perhaps a bit older than Alex–I used to dress in my baby clothes, not dolls, but my kitten, Biscuit. Biscuit was as dumb as a box of rocks but had the wherewithal to occasionally protest in the form of some claw marks to my body. Why, I still have those scars today!

It appears as though her legacy lives on.

As a child, I regularly petitioned my parents to add to our happy home any number of small animals, and was nearly always denied.

But the moment that I moved out on my own (with The Daver), his love of animals amplified my own, and before either of us realized it, we’d built ourselves a menagerie of wee beasties.

After adopting two older cats (as the kittens are far more adoptable AND far more annoying than older cats) to add to our one cat home, we adopted an older dog. Then we adopted a geriatric gecko. For my birthday, I was gifted (at my own request) a hedgehog, and several weeks before Alex was born, we adopted an older rabbit. In my post-miscarriage haze, I foolishly agreed to a puppy, and I have wild plans for a future of salt water fish tanks. Multiple ones.

Although the many animals can be overwhelming and occasionally annoying, as at the moment that I’m typing this, I’m surrounded by two cats (who hate each other but love me so thoroughly that it doesn’t matter), my houseplant (read: dog) Cash, and Auggie (el puppy) is lounging nearby, I love it. Our house is full of love, light and complete chaos, but it works for us, unless we foolishly need to go out of town for something. Then we’re screwed.

Why am I waxing poetic about my animals, who have made me the official Mayor of Poo-Town?

Because, no matter how much I feel I love, and more importantly, care for my wee beasties, I’m starting to feel like it’s NOT ENOUGH.

It started innocently enough when we began to take Cash to the groomer at our local pet store. He’s the type of dog with a thick undercoat, so the minute the seasons change around here, the floors in my home begin to swirl with mountains of fluffy dog hair. And because I am completely lazy and don’t wish to clean my tub afterwards, I am happy to pay someone else to remove said fur.

Appointments were made, proof of current vaccinations were faxed and we showed up with Cash in tow.

Having adopted him as a 6 year old mutt from the pound, Dave and I looked at each other quizzically when asked what he was like when he was groomed. No idea whatsoever.

We dropped him off and went about our day.

I generously let Dave (read: insisted) that he go pick up the dog alone, and when he returned, he thrust a stack of papers into my hands (this is a fairly common occurrence in my home; I get handed stacks of papers constantly. Seriously). Among the receipts and the invoices, I noticed something strange.

At first, I was convinced I’d accidentally gotten some of Ben’s paperwork in my pile. But upon closer inspection, I realized that no, no in fact, this was from the groomer. The groomer had painstakingly filled out A REPORT CARD FOR MY DOG. Who was, according to this report that I totally wish I’d saved to show The Internet, a “great boy” who “loved to give kisses.”

I, being his owner, knew these things to be true and immediately felt sorry that the groomer had been required by his employer to fill this out. I mean, I don’t get daily report cards from BEN, who is in real SCHOOL.

But then I felt guilty laughing at the whole notion of an A++ doggie report card. Because I knew full well that if people hadn’t WANTED to know how their dog had behaved while out of their care, it wouldn’t exist.

(as a total aside, I would, of course, WANT to know if my dog had behaved badly. Biting, snarling, being a general asshole are things I WOULD have wanted to know, had this been the case)

Then, upon wandering around the pet store with my freshly cleaned, non-stinky, bandana-ed dog, several days later I realized why I’d been feeling so inadequate. While I was obviously a frequenter of the pet store, I’d been buying a stock supply of the bare necessities for my beasties and nothing more.

While my cats had proper food, it wasn’t the top of the line (read: $100 a bag), nor did they have any amount of themed toys or festive collars. I didn’t even own a jaunty cat carrier! Mine was a boring beige plastic!

My dogs had collars, of course, but not leather, or designer in the slightest. Cash had a Purple one, Auggie had a blue one. Neither had any embellishments or accessories attached. Hell, their leashes didn’t even match the collars! And forget about expensive soaps or treatments for my doggie’s sensitive skin! I had nothing of the sort. Nor did even my mini pooch have any clothes to wear! He was NAKED for all the world to see! AUGGIE’S WEENIS, EXPOSED TO THE WORLD!

My gecko did have a mini-Statue of Liberty in his cage, something I found particularly hilarious, but he seemed to ignore that in favor of the fake hunk of wood that he could hide behind. And forget about any real cage amenities for Robes Pierre (may he rest in peace), no, I used regular lizard sand.

No, I walked out of that store, having my eyes opened for the first time as to how much further I could push my animal obsession. And how much further other people did do so regularly. And with gusto.

It didn’t seem to matter to my guilt-ridden head how much MORE I did for animals that weren’t even my own. No matter how many cats I fostered only to find good homes for, no matter how many animals I adopted rather than purchased, no matter how many piles of puke I cleaned up only to find another three feet away, it would never compare to what I could do.

I sighed deeply and reminded myself that even though I can’t boast a designer animal, at least I don’t have SUCKER written on my forehead.

Besides, I don’t even buy fancy shampoo for myself.