Catch Up.

Hank the Tank AKA Felix Baumgartner AKA Henry is napping. 

And now that he's decided to do that a little more regularly, I might have a minute or two to blog occasionally. Until he decides he wants to jump out of the crib. It won't be long.

Harper hightailed it out the door when Brandon said he was going to Gander Mountain. 

She likes to worship the taxidermy from afar.

He thinks he's also going to lure her into the car wash with a blue raspberry Dum-Dum. HA. 

This is the sound of silence. 

So, a random catch up.

Henry is 1 year old in 2 weeks exactly. I can not believe it. I'm going to try to post something sweet about him, but I can't do him justice. Thank goodness he's the best baby in history, because...

Harper is a threenager. OMG. Much like Feist, she feels it all.

I had laryngitis for the first time last week. There were two days when I could not make a single sound. This is scary when you have kids in Wal-Mart. For the life of me, I do not know what I would have done if I needed to yell. I do not know. I carried around a three-foot glittery plastic candy cane in the hopes that I could rap it against the floor or wave it like a crazy old lady if I had to.

Yesterday, I had to yell at Harper because she had a time-out that resembled a WWF wrestling match. Sometimes, a measured cool-as-a-cuke chat just won't get the job done. Especially after she turned over her bookcase in a fit of rage related to a Christmas tree lot she didn't get to visit because she was acting the fool on the way there. Whew. I used to judge parents by the behavior of their children. If this were true, I'm probably.. an axe murderer or something.

Oh Lord am I good at driving a manual transmission, now. (See? Random.) I've posted before that I had some misgivings about it. ..but. Now, I could..fry an egg over easy in the passenger seat at the same time I change gears. I am excellent. Sometimes, when I switch from first to second, Brandon's fuzzy dice don't even move. 

Something that really needs sharing and is unrelated, except for the fact that when I drive Brandon's car, I have to beat the guys off with a 3 foot plastic candy cane: I've known some women in the past who were perfectly nice, attractive, smart and all-around great catches. And damn, did they complain incessantly about not being able to find a suitable boyfriend or husband. Well, here's what they need to do: Move to a military town. Seriously, it appears to be like shooting fish in a barrel. I saw a girl get hit on in Wal-Mart by a perfectly nice looking guy and she had on sweatpants with peep toe flats and no make-up with an un-brushed ponytail.

Harper doesn't give a hoot about that Elf on a Shelf. I brought him out among all the hoopla. She named him.  Owie (Oh-wee). Which she names everything. I have yet to identify the origin. And then? She was over it. She's all, "He sat there all day and didn't move. He's not real." And I'll be damned if I'm moving him more than once a day. So he's now hugging the Firefly bottle on the bar, where he'll probably stay until Christmas...or until the vodka is gone. I don't blame him. 

I have a moderate chevron obsession, which has manifested itself in drapes, rug and pillows. Bless Brandon's heart. He even says he likes it. Harper does, too. "My house looks like a funhouse. A circus of zig-zags!"

My great and talented friend, Tiffany, just started a nail blog. We share this obsession, though she's much more talented and creative than I am. 

I make cupcakes every Sunday night. I'm trying to learn to bake. As a good friend says, "It's not rocket scientist." It just can't be. It's just following directions. So then I send them to work with Brandon. He says they're getting eaten. I say he might be fibbing. 

And with that, Harper and Brandon have returned victoriously. Ammo and pink camo. And in the words of the great David Allen Coe, "If that ain't country, I'll kiss your..

Time for cupcakes.