I’ve been an absentee blogger, and I apologize. The business (busyness? WTF? Why doesn’t that look right?) this time of year combined with last-minute attempts at getting things done before mat leave ends and finding out that I’ll be teaching an entirely new grade upon my return … well, lets just say I’m running around looking like the crazed person I really am. And it ain’t pretty.
For what it’s worth, dear readers, this will probably be my life for the next while as I get back into the swing of being a working mama come January 7th. I can no longer promise regularly-scheduled posts, but will promise to try for weekly ones. If that works for you, than it works for me! I still love, love, love writing, and still enjoy putting my thoughts down on paper (well, computer screen), so if you’re willing to stick around for less-regular posts, I would be thrilled! And if you’re not, than that makes me sad. But I get it. But it still makes me sad. But I get it.
With some recent changes to Facebook policies, I’d also like to encourage y’all to consider subscribing to my RSS feed (see that little orange circle up there in the top-right that looks like radio waves?) or by email (see that little “Follow By Email” box mid-way down, just below all of your lovely photos?). It turns out, just because you’re a subscriber to my Facebook Fanpage doesn’t mean you’re getting notifications about all my posts. Weird, huh? And seeing as I won’t be able to post as regularly now, do you really want to be missing out when there's a new one? Do ya?
Aaaannnnyways …. enough about blog updates. Lets get to the real crux of today’s post. And that would be: The Impending Apocalypse (see how I capitalized and bolded it? That’s to make you realize the sheer magnitude of this event. Are you in awe? Also, aren’t I the topical one with this coming up tomorrow morning and all? High-fives all around, guys!).
In case you haven’t heard, on Friday, December 21st the world is supposed to come to an end. Those smarty-pants Mayans supposedly predicted this so it must be so, right? Guess we won’t know for sure until we raise our heads from our pillows Saturday morning (and oh, what a jubilant morning that will be!). One thing I can guess, if this impending apocalyse happens, however:
My family doesn’t have a hope in hell of surviving.
1. We’re stockpiled for periods and bowel movements, not zombies and death-battles.
You heard it here first: Come to our house looking for supplies after the apocalypse goes down and you’ll be sadly disappointed. Apart from a few stray cans of baking soda and vaseline, the only thing you’ll find will be toilet paper. Lots and lots of toilet paper. And tampons. For some odd reason.
We actually have so much toilet paper in our furnace room right now that I’ve started to question whether I have some weird T.P. fetish. Or maybe I’m just really, really afraid of running out at an especially needy time?
I don’t know, I’m not a psychologist. But there’s a lot of toilet paper.
And the tampon thing? Can’t even explain that. Its just, like … they go on sale and I’m all “Oh hey! I use these once a month! Lets buy a truckload! I can’t control myself when it comes to my lady bits! Wheeeeeeeee!”, and then I giggle and skip down the aisle of Wal-Mart.
So yeah. Toilet paper and tampons. Unless the post-apocalyptic world somehow forces us to survive on paper and cotton, we’re screwed.
2. My husband passes out at the sight of blood
I don’t know what kind of world you envision when picturing the months following an apocalypse, but I see a violent one. And while this could be due to the fact that Jamie and I are avid fans of The Walking Dead television series, it is what it is. It stands to reason that when we’re fighting off zombie predators and trying to protect our babies I’m going to need a cohort who’s willing to hack off walkers’ limbs, smash faces and all sorts of other disgusting, blood-inducing duties (you know … the simple things. Just like we wrote in our wedding vows). Know what won’t help our survival percentages?
A dude who gets sick after needles.
The above picture was taken six years ago when we were getting our blood drawn for our wedding in Mexico. And I wish this was a one-time thing … but that’d be a lie.
I guess what I’m saying is, Jamie won’t be crackin’ heads and takin’ names come December 22nd. Which really sucks because his beloved wife has her own “I’ll suck at the apocalypse” issue:
3. I run just slightly faster than a one-legged turtle.
Along with it being violent and bloody, I also have a feeling that the post-December-21st-world will be one where the ability to run fast will be an asset. An asset? Nay ... a necessity.
The problem is, my three-year-old can now easily lap me in games of tag, and the one-year-old isn’t far behind.
“But Andra,” you say “You’re so tall. What about those long legs you have? Surely they must be good for running?”
Preachin’ to the choir, people. Preachin’ to the choir.
I don’t know what the deal is or why my “long legs” can’t unravel themselves fast enough, but I’m slow. S.L.O.W. Slow. Disappointing countless track coaches for years in school, they’re basically two useless tree stumps I manage to drag along every now and again. So, you know. Pretty sucky for running from zombies. Those buggers are fast. And I'm ... not.
But don’t think the kids get off easy in this, oh no! May I present the final two reasons our family won’t be surviving the apocalypse:
4. Unless it’s grilled cheese, Mason ain’t eatin’ it
5. Avery, otherwise known as The Child Who Screams A Lot
Here’s two more little tidbits about the post-apocalyptic world to add to your rapidly-growing knowledge base: (a) food is scarce and (b) you need to be quiet because you’re sneaking around trying not to become someone else’s food (re: zombies’).
In both these areas, my kids will kill us.
We’ll be walking along (because there’s no sense running if I’m part of the group), trying to revive Jamie after he’s passed out for, like, the 50 billionth time. I’ll be all “Jesus, Jamie, get over it. Its a hangnail … it’ll stop bleeding soon” while trying to convince Mason to eat some canned corn we scavenged from the last farmhouse. He’ll be crying “Yuuuucck! I don’t waaaann it, mom! I want grilled cheeeese! Whhhhy can’t I have grilled cheeeeese?”, at which Avery, hearing the Call of Her People, will begin screaming because, well, why not? And you know what happens next?
Bam. Zombie lunch.
So if you’re wondering if I’m just a little bit scared of what’s to come December 21st, I ask you this:
Given what you’ve just read, wouldn’t you?