It’s that time of year again …

The leaves have all fallen and regrouped into big puddles of putrid brown, fetid glop all over our lawn and driveway. Helena doesn’t jump in them anymore because she’s not allowed to jump into puddles of putrid brown, fetid glop, or any fetid glop of any color, for that matter. Every other day, Nate drags out a huge tarp, pushes the glop onto it and drags it into the forest behind our house.

Forest is actually an exaggeration at the current moment, since all we have left in our back yard are bazillions of bare branches that don’t quite block the view of the house way over yonder and now I sit here in my office sneaking peeks at it out of the corner of my eye through the slats of our blinds, wondering if there’s someone sneaking peeks back at me. With binoculars.

Remember, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

I guess I won’t know if I’ve really got anything to worry about unless Zoe comes racing home, mortified and forging a passport in Photoshop because there’s a video of her bed-headed, braless, jammie clad mom on YouTube, stuffing her face with Cocoa Puffs, yelling at her computer and singing at the top of her lungs, stopping every so often to air guitar and dance all around her office.

Speaking of view, we’ve now got a crystal clear one of all of the houses across the street as well, thanks to all of our front trees which are now butt naked. Just like I am when I get out of the shower. That would be the shower located in the girls’ bathroom, across the hall from our bedroom. The same hall that is completely visible through the large second story picture window. Therefore, in order for me to get my freshly cleaned self from the girls’ bathroom to my closet without shocking the entire community at large and making their eyes bleed, I have to stop, drop and roll down the hallway, under the window, and into our bedroom.

Nate better hurry up and finish our master bath remodel already because if I can make my neighbors’ eyes bleed now? They’re going to be hemorrhaging buckets all over the street when I’m sixty and decide that I’ve had enough of stopping, dropping and rolling anything. There’s not enough eye bleach in the world to help them then.

I suppose I could avoid the entire scenario by donning on a robe, but then I’d have nothing to blog about. And then you’d be staring at empty, white space right now and I’d probably be doing something productive, like cleaning my house. And then we’d both be unhappy. What’s the sense in that? I can risk a little YouTube humiliation and a potential citation for public lewdness. How about you?

Cool! Just don’t tell Nate.

Yes, it’s that time of year again.

Helena comes down dressed in capris and a t-shirt and I have to remind her that it’s 35° outside. Then she reminds me that it’s going to be 45° by afternoon. Then I remind her that I’m not listening so go put on some pants. Then she reminds me that she doesn’t care and she doesn’t want to and that I suck the fun out of everything. Then I remind myself that I am too high strung to live out the remainder of my natural life in a 6′ x 8′ cell on death row.

Then I further remind myself to pick and choose my battles because is it worth arguing with her over pants and a jacket when history has proven time and time again that she will come running off the bus that same afternoon with her pants rolled up to her knees and her jacket rolled up in her book bag?

NO NO NO screams my inner voice as it frantically tries to round up all my wits before they escape. So fine, Helena. Go ahead and freeze. When your legs turn blue and fall off your body from frostbite, don’t come running to me.

Yes, it’s that time of year again.

Helena is busy practicing her handwriting and drafting multiple versions of her Christmas wish list, all the while worrying that Santa will concentrate on a few memorable hissy fits and completely forget that this house could not have run half as efficiently as it did this past year if it hadn’t been for her setting and clearing the table all these many months.

Zoe is busy typing her list, including a clause that she’s well aware that Santa is feeling bloated and hormonal lately and does not want to hear anything about a Verizon enV phone with unlimited minutes and texting so how about a 32GB iTouch or a laptop instead? Thereby prompting Santa to write a note in the margin, asking about the color of the sky in her world and is it nice living there?

Yes, it’s that time of year again.

I am busy creating a brand new 2008 version of my anal, bordering-on-obsessive-compulsive, brightly colored, two page Excel spreadsheet that I use for organizing my Christmas shopping. This thing would be so much easier to create if I actually knew how to use Excel.

Yes, it’s that time of year again.

Nate’s birthday is approaching. He’s going to turn 40 and finally join my decade. He is adamant that he does not want a party.

I’m a bit ambivalent about this.

On the one hand, I totally get the whole desire NOT to celebrate the fact that in mere weeks, your body will cease to exist as you’ve known it and instead, will develop a short-term memory loss mind of its own and start aging in dog years. Everything that was up will now go down, or sideways if possible, and things will shift or disappear all together.

On the other hand, there was my surprise 40th. The one where, unbeknownst to me, Nate invited family and friends over but didn’t bother to even concoct a ruse to get me out of the house or, for that matter, dressed. No, instead he assured me that it was my day and I could do absolutely nothing but relax and read on the couch all day if that’s what I wanted. Coincidentally, that was exactly what I wanted so, that was exactly what I did. And I did it without a shower, in the same sweats I slept in, with no bra and unbrushed hair. In essence, there was an unwashed, uncombed, pasty white, wrinkled mass of forty year old skin vegging out on the couch when cars started driving up our driveway and Nate shouted HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

On the third hand, Nate’s a great guy and I want to respect his wishes.

On the fourth hand, there was my surprise 40th.

And finally, to really throw a wrench into the mix, there was my surprise 40th.

So I remain ambivalent. I’m sure the PTSD that I’m still suffering is clouding my judgment on this one.

What do you think?

Yes, it’s that time of year again.

When I’m rolling around naked down my hallways and nit picking battles with my kids and spewing expletives left and right at Excel and finding myself bewildered and lost in the land known as Analyze Paralyze, resorting to asking cyberspace strangers their opinions on personal matters because I can’t trust my own.

Hmmm. What do you know?

This time of year isn’t so different than any other time of the year.