(I am clearly not the paragon of timeliness here.)

We loved this sparkly Valentine heart, even if it shed glitter all over the house. I have found glitter in Olen’s bed, in his diaper, on my toothbrush, under the kitchen table, all over my car, on the staircase, and stuck to the bathroom mirror. I’m sure I’ll find more. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a small price to pay.

Love is: glitter. Everywhere.

My husband gave me an seriously wonderful Valentine’s Day present this year. (He’s been really killing it with the gifts lately, my birthday and Christmas were some of my favorites for sure.) And there were flowers and chocolates too, but to be able to write about his gift in the way that it deserves… I just need a little time, dear reader. Until then, I’ll leave you with this: it was thoughtful and romantic and absolutely perfect.

Dare I say it? Life-changing.

The good thing: getting sick has forced me to slow down a little from the hectic and totally demoralizing state of my work these days and watch some very, very bad television.

I listen to the hellyeah! show, a podcast put on in part by my long-time friend Emory. (If I hadn’t deleted about 12 years of archived posts in January, there would be a link here to one of the posts I had written about Emory, maybe the one where he took me to get my tongue pierced for the second time or maybe the one about how great and valued I felt when he got sick and called me of all people to bring him some much-needed supplies. Either way, carry on.) In episode 1×23 they discussed Storage Wars, “the best worst show on television”. A few days after listening, in a feverish-fog, I set a TiVo season pass for Storage Wars. It was the beginning of the end…

Here’s the premise of the show, if you aren’t familiar (and seriously, get on that, because you should be): if a storage unit isn’t paid for x number of months, it goes up for public auction. All kinds of people attend these auctions, including thrift store owners and collectors looking to turn a profit by buying low and finding a unique treasure inside the unit. This particular show follows four regular (and a few semi-regular) players. The first segment covers the bidding, the second covers the opening of the lockers, and the last segment is appraisals.

I was hooked from the first show I watched and quickly breezed through all available episodes, plus the whole first season on Netflix instant. I needed more. The podcast had also mentioned there was a spin-off, Storage Wars: Texas. I immediately searched for it and came up empty (the next season, I later found out, is due out in March), but I happened to stumble upon Auction Hunters and set a season pass so quickly I’m not sure even I read the description.

Imagine my surprise when one of the two “stars” of the show was none other than my old Clean House crush, hubba-hubba-heartbeat-hunk (and might I add animal rescuer) Allen Lee Haff. You guys, even when he was “Yard Sale Guy” he always had a confidence and unique swagger but in these heated bidding wars it’s pretty much breathtaking.

New favorite show EVER. Sold!

This is unbridled voyeurism for me. I have never understood storage facilities; I’d rather donate and/or throw out a whole lot of personal items before I spend good money each month to store them out of sight and out of mind. So I really love being able to peer into the mind of someone who would store ratty old wicker furniture and costume jewelry. I try to imagine what exactly would drive them to hang on to what amounts to trash, at a monthly fee. Then again, these shows exist because people like that lost their unit and their trash because they didn’t pay the monthly fee. Even so there are often pretty rare and valuable things in the units along with all of the junk — or so we’re led to believe. Such is the fantasy of reality television.

I’m not sure I care so much about what the stuff is worth — even though it’s exciting to see someone turn a several thousand dollar profit, half the time the valuations they throw out seem like wishful thinking at best — but I get visibly excited (much to my husband’s amusement) when they find something really cool and unique. I don’t give half a crap about slot cars, but OMG:

I’ve always had a thing for hidden treasure. I’ve always wanted to comb beaches with a metal detector and BTPS (the dark and often scary “Before TPS” era) I dated a guy whose only redeeming quality to me was that he (illegally) metal-detected fields in Virginia looking for old Civil War coins and slugs and whatnot. Hot.

I also remember at some point in the 80′s sitting around our old television watching divers search for treasure in the wreckage of the Andrea Doria. I also remember being totally fascinated with the special that aired when Geraldo Rivera opened Al Capone’s vaults. The promise of hidden treasures had me glued to the TV.

So here I am, even all these years later, glued still. In fact, I just stumbled upon another similar show called “Storage Hunters“. My season pass has already recorded 3 episodes, so it’s time for less writing and more watching.

If you can’t live a life worth writing about, watch one on television?

While the list still exists in my account, it doesn’t auto-update anymore, and that’s what was really awesome about Formulists. I’ve already seen a few people who have moved away from Columbia who are still listed; in the past with Formulists, they would have been dropped from the list automatically once they changed their location. Now that Formulists is gone, I have to do it manually when and if I find their location has changed.

Pain. In. The. Ass.

I also really loved my “where my friends at” list — generated by Formulists to list who talked with the people I talked with — it was an easy way to break the ice. The list description said “you talk with my friends. maybe we should be friends too? follow me @allura.” (I’m not a first-step taker, but I am always happy to meet new people.) And as corny as it was, a lot of really awesome people followed me, people I am so very glad to know now.

I really wish I’d not gotten wrapped up in work and life and all of the things that kept me from purchasing a pro-level account with Formulists last year. I’m not deluded enough to think that my personal purchase would have made an overall difference, but it’s worth noting that I wanted to buy and just didn’t. Maybe the problem was that I could actually run all of my awesome lists for a year and never felt pressure enough to up my free account to a paid one. Too bad I don’t have the option any more — the pressure is on now and I’d pay today to get my lists auto-updating again.

I hope someone, somewhere takes it upon themselves to work the list-creation, list-merging, and auto-updating features of Formulists into a solid product soon. It’s something I’d pay for — almost immediately this time.

He’s started singing a lot this past week — not just singing along with things or hitting the last word of every rhyme, but actual unprovoked singing and instrument playing throughout the day. So when he sings “Happy Birthday” while banging on his xylophone or our piano, he sings “Happy Birthday Oh-no! Happy Birthday to Oh-no!”

…

One of the ways we prepared Olen to go to preschool was by practicing separation at the house beforehand. I’d go to my office in the basement and tell him I had to go to work while he got to play with Dad. He got so used to saying goodbye for me to go to work at home that it was almost tear-free at school. Almost.

The other day on the way home from school he was chattering about his day. “School! Mama has to work day! Kids take a nap! Mama back real soon!” I always wonder what he thinks I do while he’s at school (or while he naps, even) so I just asked.

He responded, “Mama have work!”

“Yes, okay. What does Mama do for work?”

“Mama put away the work.”

Okay then. I think I’ll try asking again later.

…

We have always had the habit of eating out several times a week. As a result, Olen is usually really well-behaved in restaurants. I emphasize usually, because lately he’s started freaking out when the food comes to the table, grabbing and screeching and flailing arms. It’s like he’s doing his best impression of a monkey hopped up on goofballs — and it’d be pretty comical, if it weren’t for all of the weird judgy stares. So, we started talking to him in the car beforehand about how we behave in restaurants, really emphasizing that he’s not to grab food (which could be — and often is — hot), keep his volume down, et cetera.

The other day we were driving all around running errands and as we passed by one of the restaurants we frequent, Olen shouts from the backseat “No grab food! No screaming! No crying!”

Well, as long as our expectations are clear!

…

The last step of Olen’s bedtime routine is a backrub when he gets in bed. Ideally one of us would rub his back for a few minutes and then kiss him goodnight and leave, but he’s just not ready for that yet so sometimes the backrub part can last forever. I can always tell when he’s really close to falling asleep because he always makes a final request. Often, it’s asking me to rub his back — in true Overlord fashion –while I’m rubbing his back. “Rubba back,” the sleepy voice says. “Rubba baaaaaaaaack.”

I always think of Olen as so big, so grown-up compared to the tiny smooshy baby we had two years ago. He’s so independent, walking (running) around, talking (singing), telling stories, expressing his needs and wants! It’s hard for me to look at this boy I know, still growing every day, and reconcile what I know of him with the fact that he’s two. And he’s so tiny compared to this big, big world he’s going to conquer.

I really like minty teas. Peppermint is good, but I’m always looking for something with a little extra flavor to it. Over the holidays I found Candy Cane Green Tea at Trader Joe’s.

It was so so so delicious, TPS and I blew through the first box in less than a week. It was a warm cup of vanilla, peppermint, and cinnamon. It was heavenly and we each drank several cups a day. When I went back to get more, it was gone for the season. I wept at the prospect of having to drink Sleepytime tea for the next 10 or so months. (You bet I’ll be stocking up next year.)

I had the brilliant idea to ask a few friends to check their local Trader Joe’s stores for me and now there are 4 boxes coming to me from California (where people apparently drink less tea than in Maryland, or maybe their stores are better stocked).

While I’ve been waiting for the Pony Express to deliver them, I looked into other sources. Rumor has it that the Candy Cane tea is just a repackaged Candy Cane Lane tea from Celestial Seasonings. I checked amazon, but the prices were fairly outrageous. (At the time of this post, it’s come down a lot, to $9.99 per box and just 8 boxes left; I might have to snap some of those up.) I ended up falling down the deep, deep rabbithole that is “Frequently Bought Together” and based on customer reviews I bought a box of the only slightly lesser-priced Celestial Seasonings’ Sugar Cookie Sleigh Ride tea.

Apparently it smells just like a sugar cookie.

I paid $9 for this box of tea. It is no Candy Cane Green Tea.

That aside, it does have a real cookie scent, but not like a sugar cookie — maybe more coconutty, like a macaroon. However, I’m not a coconut fan (except coconut oil, but not for eating anyway) so it’s not all that appealing. The taste is kind of flat, but it’s still drinkable and it’ll definitely tide me over until my stash of Candy Cane Green Tea arrives.

Now, I’ve just got to figure out how to make 4 boxes of tea last 10 months…

Olen’s tenacious: he decides he wants something and he goes for it full-steam. Until he decides he wants the exact opposite. When his will butts up against any resistance, it curdles into a puddle on the floor with tears and flailing arms. Sometimes I’m at such a loss as to how to handle these big emotions, I just sit down next to him and we ride it out together. Luckily we’re usually at home so these tender moments are ours alone to cherish.

I guess a tantrum isn’t so bad once it’s passed, but the worrying (before, during, after) is what makes it all so hard for me to deal with. I worry that I’m not handling him the right way, worry that I’m not saying the right thing, worry that he won’t trust us, worry that he will be having tantrums forever, worry that he’s got [insert here the name of every mental/physical/emotional disorder I may have ever read a blog post about/heard about on the radio/had a dream about/heard someone maybe mention behind me in line at the grocery store], worry worry worry. It’s so much worry. It hurts my heart. And it’s fucking exhausting.

We took Olen to the train museum last weekend and as we were doing our rounds of the gift shop, I heard a child being taken outside screeching and screaming, a wild doppler-effect as he was carried out through the doors. I breathed out a long, relaxing breath. Relief, not just because it wasn’t my kid — no, I really wouldn’t wish a public tantrum on anyone — but because wow, other totally normal kids make those noises too! My kid’s normal! Hooray!

A few minutes later we re-bundled ourselves in our coats and hats and mittens and walked out to the parking lot. The screechy-screamy toddler was standing on the sidewalk, his mother crouched down next to him. He was still upset, squawking and crying, stomping around.

I wanted to walk over and give her a hug, or maybe a high-five. I’ve been there! Maybe our experiences haven’t been quite that bad, at least not to the level of immediate removal from anywhere (yet), but I felt solidarity with this woman! We’re fighting the fight that is the terrible twos and no matter what, we all win because we are doing it! Our kids are normal, and we are normal — maybe even heroic for slogging through this particular brand of bullshit — and eventually the tantrums will stop, they have to. These are the things I thought, feeling oddly comforted and confident, as I walked by them. She redirected her son’s attention, “Let’s go warm up the car,” she said.

As I passed by I turned and looked at them there, on the sidewalk. My eyes locked with the boy’s and then I had the one thought that swiftly toppled the pedestal upon which I’d put his mother and myself:

There’s something just not right with that kid…

My heart fluttered down into my stomach.

…And if that kid’s not normal…

There it was, the thought that sabotaged every ounce of comfort I’d felt. In a moment my confidence was gone again, flattened by the weight of a snap judgment not based on logic, not based on evidence.

There’s clearly a part of my brain somewhere inside here that tries to make all of life’s little challenges better and easier for me. The comfort-brain whispers confidently in my ear and says just the right thing at the very right time. It fights against the worry-brain every day and without a complete defeat, I’m not sure it ever really wins. Last weekend it definitely lost.

TPS drove us home and I sat in the back seat of our car with Olen, entertaining him so he wouldn’t take the dreaded car nap. For the whole ride, despite “if you’re happy and you know it, tickle-a-neck”, my worry-brain reveled in its triumph, chugging right along, blowing its horn, worry-worrying all the way home.