Hmm. Tried switching to Blogger Beta and apparently something is awry. I hope it won't mess things up too bad. Also, my blogrolling seems to be out of wack. FYI--Sophie Says has been updated.
Now then. Here is why I hate Christmas. All my mother wants is a new gravy boat. In my family, we take the gravy pretty seriously. The old gravy boat broke, and the gravy needs a new home. What she really wants is a plug in gravy boat that keeps the gravy warm. So, I figured--a quick trip to Wal-mart and that's one gift down, right? Wrong. There are no. gravy. boats. at. Wal-mart. Not plug in ones. Not not plug in ones. Not any ones at all. Ok. So I try the other 2 options in Cedar City. Nope. No gravy boats. Apparently there was a run on gravy boats right before Thanksgiving, and no one has reordered. Ok. Breathe. That's what the internet's for. Right? Only, shipping on a plug-in gravy boat is like ten bucks. And I'l be damned if I'm going to pay ten bucks shipping on a twenty dollar gravy boat. I calculated the hours I spent shopping for a gravy boat--both on and off line. People. 5+ hours. I finally (dur) looked on Amazon and got free shipping and the gravy boat is en route, but crimeny--how lame am I to spend 5 hours of my life on a hunt for the perfect recepticle for fat thickened with flour? (And why is it a boat? How about the gravy bus? Gravy ship? Gravy raft?) Sigh.
In other news, the bulk of my furniture has spent the last week sitting on my front lawn. We're finally having the wood floors redone, and frankly, I don't want to talk about it. What I thought would be a 2 day project has ballooned into a week long project and between living without a kitchen, dining room, or living room and the fumes and dust, I'm about ready to kill people. But, I think the work is done, and tomorrow the floors will be dry enough to move the furniture back in.
Much more to report, but just don't wanna. Maybe more tomorrow.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Grandma J took Soph to see Santa a few days ago. Apparently he was pretty crappy. Maybe 18 years old with a fake-o-rama beard and cheap suit. When I asked what she thought of Santa, she answered, "Well, I think it must have been his brother."
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Do I have enough stuff for her? Too much? Should I break down and get the Bratt? Does she really need stocking stuffers?