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We celebrated Christmas this weekend with the kids because by the time I get them Friday afternoon, they are going to be CRACKED OUT on events where they open eleventyfourteen gifts. (We told them Santa sent our presents early because we don’t have a fireplace.) And though Jack didn’t get his Death Star (from me, anyway), he did get a Venator-class Republic Attack Cruiser and Vader’s Tie Fighter, which took 6 and 2 hours, respectively, to build. The Attack Cruiser was only just finished at midnight, but Jack promptly woke up this morning and asked if we could dismantle it and start over.

Wherein my attachment parenting failed royally when I essentially gave him a big hell no.

So OK, look. This crappy phone picture doesn’t do justice to this beastly thing. (Click on it.)  I swear everyone would be super impressed at its largeness if you saw it in person. And at almost 1200 pieces, I can see why people put these together just to put them on a shelf – because they are a helluva lot more painstaking than I ever remembered from my Lego days of square houses and shutters on the windows.

All of which doesn’t mean that I won’t be OK with Jack dismantling it at some point; it’s soothing for him, and, after all, it’s his toy. But until he is able to do it all by himself – or until at the very least, say, a week passes, I just can’t do it.

And I forgot to add that dear old Oscar hasn’t changed. I have zero – and I really mean zero – idea how he got in here and got shut in.

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Sigh.

1. I rarely drink pop.

2. I carefully wrote out my performance review this weekend, as my handwriting has regressed in the however many years of using a computer.

3. I’m ridiculously klutzy.

4. I’m tired.

5. When I do bring in a drink, I always set it on the ground or carefully away from any important papers or expensive equipment.

6. I have, my entire life, been bad about tightening caps on things.

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Thus,

1 + 2 + 3 + 4 +5 + 6 = I just tripped, shaking up my barely-capped pop, and sprayed the shit out of everything.

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Welcome, Monday. Now please go away because you suck.

Um… what? Was DIABTES or ROSES or NASCAR already taken or something?

I promise I’m not being overly sensitive because I’m close to the topic, I just think that’s dumb. I mean WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?!

1. How HBO can be so friggen hit-or-miss with their shows. I think it’s a rather safe assumption to declare that the shows are either AMAZING or SINGULARLY CRAPTASTIC. But the latest, True Blood, brought by Alan Ball of Six Feet Under, needs to be buried immediately- it’s so, so bad. The only good thing about it is that it affirms my stance that Anna Paquin is a horrible actress.

2. How there are four pieces of jewelry that in a week’s time of sitting calmly in a little travel bag somehow became the twisted mess below. Dunno if you can see it, but on the right there is a thin silver chain that is wrapped around both the gold bracelet AND the colorful necklace roughly 4,345 times. I don’t remember putting the travel bag in the dryer, but I must have, right? How else can that happen?

3. How much I dig the bumper stickers I see that say Barack Chalk Jayhawk. I can’t get over how clever I think that is, and it worries me that I thought about getting one… if only for just a moment.

4a. How I can look at my kids and think they are both 100% dorks and 100% adorable.

4b. Whether the person who designed Jack’s costume modeled it off of Willy Wonka (00:50 mark).

5. How it took me 30 some-odd years to discover Antony and the Johnsons. His range and ability to blend is amazing and I get the chills every time the song gets about half way and the piano comes in. Great music in which to just sit and think. This is “Hope There’s Someone”.

6. Why, oh why K-State has fallen so much under Prince. Sigh.

7. Why I was laid off of my job (long story, sucky but not the end of the world) and am looking for a big-girl job during the worst time to do it. Three years ago, great, but now? Notsomuch. Wish me luck.

8. The point of DST. I’m bad enough as it is with knowing what time it is, why do we need to confuse me further?

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I keed.

So my friend Jenn sent me an article quoting Denis Leary’s ridiculous opinion about autism (along with an old one about Jenny McCarthy, but my views on that can easily be learned reading the archives), and was excited to think I had some choice words in response. And she’s not wrong. Two years ago I would have kicked some rhetorical ass ranting about it. Last year I would have at least attempted to denigrate him with a witty and acerbic barb.

But today I was just like.. eh, whatever, dumbass. Which honestly kind of surprised me at first. I mean, I may be exhausted, but my anger has reserves it can access pretty easily, and it’s not as if I care less about the subject – though in fairness, I’ll concede that some of the apathy could be that my autism advocacy has slipped in priority for myriad of reasons.

And I’m sure a large part is my general refusal to be goaded by assholes who are trying to create drama. I’ve never cared a whole lot either way for Leary (aside from his ode to the hyperlinked curse above, which I dig singing when appropriate), but I’ll gladly lump him in with those who think they can say whatever they want under the guise of pretending they don’t care about consequence. It’s actually one of the strongest traits I disrespect, and whatever, obviously Leary will earn some sort of consequence far more important to him than this random blogger’s venom.

Mostly, though, I think my reticence to care is based on my newest existential realization that there’s not a whole lot in life that really is as black and white as it seems, and because of that, I’ve been careful to not spout off as much, since I’ve learned firsthand just how easy it is to assume one knows all there is to know to make a judgment. So while I would be surprised if much/any/all of that quote could have been misconstrued or taken out of context (i.e., I probably have some valid fodder for being irate) the point here is that I’m learning to let some things go as not worth the emotional energy. Especially if my opinion would be empirically obvious, or better yet, wrong.

Ahhh, Maturity. You all here yet? I’m woefully behind, sister.

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