I am whipped. Between the house, you three, your swimming lessons, and just trying to stay upright and busy during daylight hours, I'm worn the hell out. I'm sorry you've had to watch me trudge through my days in an apparent zombie-like state. This motherhood thing has finally caught up with me and I'm not sure how to get back to my old jaunty self.
I'll get there. Promise. Just be patient.
Dear Crackbook Friends/Family:
Wow. In the last three months, I have been witness to some serious TMI in my news feed. Stuff for which I don't need to be privy. I don't need to know how much you've vomited today (Gross!) or how much you physically miss your loved one (Awkward!) or how much you hate your loved one (Awkward!). Seriously. Keep that shit in private e-mails. Don't put it on the Crackbook. I don't air my sick/dirty laundry out there and neither should you.
Not the same Heather you used to know
I miss you.
Dear Political and D.C. Lobby Organizations:
Quit. Calling. Us.
We are putting three toddlers through a private pre-school. We are paying a mortgage. We are paying for utilities, car payments, insurance, and my monthly chocolate ration. When you call constantly, asking for money? You only serve to piss us off.
When I answer the phone and scream LEAVE US ALONE! into the receiver? It means quit calling. It doesn't mean you call back the next day on the hunch I may have changed my mind. Because I haven't.
Do something decent in our government and quit being douchebags and maybe I'll give you two cents
To me, you're a micro-blogging tool. A tool which allows me to briefly spout out 140 characters of funny nonsense (funny to me, at least) to make people laugh or think, and then leave. Stealth miniature blogging, baby. I can't use you for conversations. I just can't. That's what chat/email/my phone is for. So, I will continue to be irrelevant to the topics/conversations at hand and participate in no conversation save my own. Just FYI.