BYOU: Bring your own umbrella

When it rains, it pours at the Dub house. (I tried to seasonally update that idiom, but "When it snows, it snozzles," just sounded weird.)

We still aren't sure where we are going to live next month, and we only have 5 days upon our return from Christmas vacay to pack up and move. Ru-roh. Additionally, Mr. Dub is swamped with his quarterly project at work that requires a good month of waking up at ridiculous hours that only truckers know and working from home into the wee hours of the night. On top of that, I was called last month to serve with the girl's youth group at our church, but still had to do all the food and gifts for our women's organization's Christmas party last night. Then, just to make things super awesome, Miss Dub started to throw-up the other day. Her issues have traveled to another portal, which is actually much more disgusting to clean out of the carpet. I thought she was doing better yesterday and even agreed to let her go solo to a playdate, but she returned in a new pair of clothes. Oops! (Mental note: When life gets less crazy, call said friend and offer to lick her toilets in penance.)

Now, I've got a bad case of the pukes - oh, and our heater broke yesterday. No worries, it's 7 degrees outside. Could be worse, right?

So when Miss Dub woke up at 5 a.m. this morning screaming BLOODY MURDER, there were a lot of possible issues: soiled peejers, freezing temps, sympathetic nausea. Except, when I got to her room, she was all, "I WANT ONE MORE SHOW!" On TV. At 5 a.m.

And there was nothing that was going to stop that wailing, short of a whooping, but you know I don't roll like that. (Though I'd be lying if I said I didn't hit myself yesterday just to release a little frustration. There may be a bruise.)

I told her that the TV doesn't work until 6:30, but she wasn't totally believing me. And then Mr. Dub goes to leave for work a few minutes later, which really blew my ruse. I mean, if the car works, the TV has to work, riiiiighhht, mama?

So now I have to wait at home for the heater dude to give us some warm fuzzies. Which means I'll miss the cookie exchange. And it would take a good 15 posts to describe the rigid intensity that is my local cookie exchange. Just know that seven dozen cookies were required, and I was the jerk who asked if I could just go to the brunch. (Who can eat seven dozen cookies?)

I hope sunshine is in the forecast soon.

(Count your blessings, blah, blah, I know. But it's still early, so my child's cuteness, my amazing life and my "could-be-worse" butt aren't cheering me up quite yet. Give me an hour, and I'll regret this post.)