Our weekend ritual.
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After re-reading my last post, I am petrified for my well being. It seems that having your surround sound system reach dangerous levels of loudness not only makes your brain want to spontaneously combust, but also deems one unable to write in coherent sentences.
I decided that I needed a little break, so I packed up my husband and the only other willing member of this family and went to the lake.
It was a gorgeous day and would have been perfect if only we had caught a fish.
But it wasn’t because we didn’t try. Or he didn’t try, I should say.
No this isn’t a mistake. I intentionally took a picture of my new favorite shoes. Functional yet pretty, no? 
She is smiling in this photo because I have just told her to stop gurgling the water and spitting it out, that she is wasting a precious resource. By the look on her face, you know she has no intention of listening to me.
See what I mean? NO RESPECT!
The highlight of the day was when Jody pointed out a bald eagle soaring through the trees and swooping down to pick something up out of the lake. I tried to get a shot of the elegant bird, but he’s nowhere to be seen in this photo. Oh well, maybe next time.
So last weekend there was one extra day of rest, being President’s day and all, which meant that I had one extra day to clean up after my family.
Only it didn’t quite work out that way.
Maybe I was pre-menstrual, but I pretty much spent the entire day ranting and raving and yelling and screaming and basically freaking out because I am so damn tired of cleaning up after my family. How can a girl think straight when the purple towels are in the same pile as the cream towels?
So I got to work and did what any other pissed off person would do: Re-arranged the furniture.
(This makes me think that my sister and brother and I probably drove our mother out of her mind when we were kids because she is the Furniture Rearranging Queen and you should bow down before her.)
I decided to move the armoire from the computer room into the living room so I could put the television in it. 
And then, I can close the doors when I’m sick of looking at the television.
See? Pretty, huh?
Out of this arrangement came two not so small problems.
Problem Number One: Moving a very large piece of furniture that weighs, oh, about six hundred pounds requires the help of a husband. And once the husband is forced to get involved he does crazy things like fix the surround sound speakers. To be honest, I didn’t even know some of the speakers were out because they appeared to be working just fine. But I was wrong. Hooo Boy, was I wrong! Now that my darling husband has fixed the speakers, we get to enjoy the sound of 747s flying 4 inches above our rooftop and scaring the crap out of me and all of our neighbors. Now we are fighting over the remote control because anything over 12 on the volume dial makes my head want to explode, but my obviously deaf husband likes to hover the dial at 29. He’s trying to kill me a slow death.
Problem Number Two:
My computer room now that I no longer have an armoire in there to hide all this crap. And the fact that I’ve wasted all my precious laundry folding time fighting with my husband over the volume on the television.
I don’t have an older brother, so I’m not sure I can ever understand the level of adoration that Janey has for her big brother.
Maybe its because she doesn’t get to see him as much as she sees her sisters, but this girl is in love with Cody.
But just look at him. Aren’t you in love too?
Hi!
Remember me?
I’m the one that wouldn’t let you in at 10:30 p.m. the other night, even though it was very cold and snowy outside, and my 3 year old was telling me, "Mommy, there’s some boys outside that look really really cold, so we should let them come in and play with us."
But I didn’t listen to her. Because in my eyes, 10:30 p.m. is practically the middle of the night. (See what you have to look forward to? Come see me when you’re 35 and we’ll see just how late YOU can stay up.)
Instead, I told you all to go home, that Bree and her three friends weren’t going outside to play.
However, if you would have stopped by the next morning, you could have seen them in all their Eighth Grade Angst Filled Glory, complete with bad attitudes, good hair and low slung jeans.
I don’t know boys, these girls are a handful.
More than a handful. A rowdy, high-maintenance bunch.
Maybe you should stick to High School Girls for now.
