Bring Me The Head of Punxsutawney Phil...

Because I am going to shoot the messenger!

If I could take it out directly on nature I would. (Oh wait- I suppose I could: use tons of aerosol hairspray and bring back big hair so everyone else uses it also, waste electricity from non-renewable resources, dump chemicals in the rivers, drive a Hummer, make Day-Glo reindeer lawn statues using endangered coral reef for antlers, burn piles of Styrofoam for fun... I'll show YOU, nature! Hahaha! Polar bears- who needs 'em?)

"My name's Phil and I'm never wrong. Pretty good for a big rat, huh?"
Picture from PunxsutawneyPhil.com

Damn, hasn't it been six weeks yet? The groundhog didn't really do anything but he is guilty by association now. I'm going to see if he can send a message back to Mother Nature for me: Suck it! In case you happen to live in a region that is somehow untouched by the wonky weather right now- the reason I am irked is that it was eighty degrees two days ago. I put plants in the ground. Last night the ground frosted and the plants are probably dead now, despite attempts to keep them from freezing.

There are freaking snow flurries out there.

I hate long goodbyes. This winter seems to be fond of them. The fickle bitch just won't LEAVE. She can't take a hint. Go! It's what is best for both of us. We'll take a break and see each other again in December, okay. Go now.

"Et tu, Brute?"

Oh, the Ides of March.

You think Caesar had a bad day?

Well, ten years ago today I made the worst mistake of my life: I married a real bastard. I wrote about him once before, here. I was freshly twenty-one and hopelessly naive. He was almost twenty years my senior and secretly diabolical. (Well, he was a lawyer so perhaps it was only a secret to me. See above: naive.)

Let's just say one of the nicer parts of the union was the time I hurt my back somehow and he decided I was faking the excruciating pain and inability to walk. He went about his business, leaving me stuck sitting up on a couch for four days until my mother had to come over and take me to the hospital! Oh yeah, he also stole my jewelry while I was there. (If you read the other post linked to above that will make more sense to you.)

One would think that the bastardly deeds would end at divorce, right? They don't. I swear to you that every year around this time something comes up to remind me what a total Brutus he is.

One year I received a letter from court saying that I would face some type of criminal charge if I didn't pay the taxes on a car that HE sold and kept the profits from. The best part is: it was my car which he had been awarded at the divorce hearing.

A few years ago I found out that he owes taxes from 1999- the year we married. I had foolishly filed jointly with him, thankfully only that one year. Every year since then my return has went towards his debt. Last year the IRS (after denying my Innocent Spouse Relief claim) told me that it was finally paid off. I was so relieved... until last month when I called to check on something else and they informed me that "when we told you that it was paid, ummmm, we made a mistake. Now you owe the late penalties from that year.)

Of course, the penalties are nearly as much as the original debt. Ughhh. Whom do I despise more, him or the IRS?

Hmmm.

It's close, but he still wins. Definitely.

Violet's Guide to Fit-Throwing

Why do 85% of all my photos look like this?

I'll tell you why:

If there is one skill that Violet has truly mastered it is throwing a proper fit. She has elevated it beyond simple skill and has actually crafted it into an art form. She is the Marie Spartali Stillman of tantrums.

When I started this blog I was pregnant, swollen and feeling none too clever. I just chose a title based on what I was calling the yet-to be-born Violet at that time and have kept it the same. I began by calling her "Wee Little" which quickly became the shorter: "Weloo," which I then made redundant and even more nonsensical by adding the "Little" back in front of. (And now you know!)

However, on days when her temperamental artwork is especially passionate I do consider renaming my blog. Here are some examples that I have briefly considered when the shrieking reaches decibels that certainly have inflicted irreparable acoustic trauma:

• Mommy Needs a Quaalude




• The Changeling Diaries




• The More You Scream The More I Drink




• We're Not Asked Back to Playdates!




• Everyone in this Woolworth's Thinks We're Dysfunctional




• I Said Stop Kicking, Please
  
  

Okay, so it hasn't actually driven me to drink or barbiturates... yet. And when she's not causing hearing loss in others she's a real swell gal. Some of her other hobbies include:

Finding my lotion and trying to eat it on the sly.

Making hats out of weird objects.

and breaking every single Dr. Suess ceramic piece I have owned for years. Sorry, no photo. Too sad to document.

In closing, before anyone kindly suggests that this is just the "Terrible Twos" approaching, let me present you with this photo documentation that disproves that theory. Here she is on a typical day a year ago. I just noticed that her shirt says "happy." Cruel irony.

It reminds me of the beginning of that poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead;
And when she was good
She was very, very good,
But when she was bad she was horrid.

Well, if we just replace "curl" with "crazy mohawk" it suits her.

I love that moody girl.