Not the Mary Poppins I thought I'd be

It's only a couple of weeks into summer break and I've already run out of things to do, hiding from the heat and humidity in our Florida home. We've baked, done murals, played board games, finger painted with glow-in-the-dark paint (I'm not sure if you're supposed to do that), and visited the in-laws' pool every other day.

I'm considering getting a home waxing kit and letting the kids go for it on my legs. Like a science experiment. Everybody wins, right?

Oooh, THIS one got 4 stars...

Stupid Netflix.

Y'see, after the demon-children nestle into their corresponding pink and blue bedrooms at night, I WOULD be composing blogs and updating photos and mp3s on my site if it weren't for this retarded movie addiction my husband and I have developed. And like most advanced addictions, it's not even satisfying anymore. I've been whining for a year now about how America is waaaaaaaaaay overdue for a renaissance in practically all forms of entertainment, yet night after night we grab a beer and continue to support the artless by watching another 2-hour rented disappointment.

And we have seen everything, with the exception of the Horror genre (no sawing of entrails for me, danke)... All the new releases (without J-Lo or Keanu)... All levels of comedy (from Buster Keaton to Dane Egomaniac-Cook).... Romances, dramas, and now box-set TV serieseseses. We've even extended ourselves into the foreign, indie and documentaries -- begrudgingly, for me.

I don't even WANT to watch any more movies, but as soon as I return one I feel compelled to search for the next one with renewed hope.

My name is Liesel Donaldson, and I'm a movie addict. This is all your fault, Netflix. And stop smirking.

Wow.

THAT was the last blog I posted? Geez, I've written a bazillion blogs since that one.

In my head.

The churn.

If there's such a thing as a "beer butt," I have it.

I'm trying like crazy to slim down to something head-turningly fabulous in time for our upcoming ski trip, but it doesn't matter how many uneaten hotdog slices on my kid's plate I forgo, or how many FitTV sessions I cram in between finger-painting sessions; I digress my progress every night, with the TV's witness.

Every single night: Kids tucked in, check. Formless jammies, check. Remote control... hang on, Hubby has to scan the CourtTV reinactments, infomercials (oh, come ON!), COPS, SpikeTV. Wait until he needs to go to the bathroom.

NOW! OK, Remote control, check. Beer and beer-backup, check. Ahhh.

Is this wonderful or just sad?

I dunno, and I won't care after beer-backup-backup.

Ouch.

I'm miserable. Ever been stung by a wasp? I thought I had, back when I was a kid. But I don't remember anything like this.

I was pulling weeds in the landscaping because after we returned from vacation Tropical Storm Ernesto left behind a growth of Tropical Crab Grass. While leaning over the hedge I yanked on an alien foot-long grass strand and felt a flaming rake tearing across the back of my left hand. I envisioned poison nettle, but as I fell backwards, cursing in a way mommies do in front of their 5-year olds ("Holy SCHARFENBURGER!!!!") I saw the slow, taunting retreat of a wasp where my hand had been.

That was Sunday morning. It is now Monday night, and my hand has swollen to freak-size, so I guess the Benadryl, Ibuprofen, ice packs, and Icehouse aren't doing the trick. If I make it through the night without losing a digit, I'll be heading to the doc tomorrow morning.

Stupid nature.

The Fattie Wants Prada

My gift to myself when I lose 20 pounds will be a pair of Prada pumps.

These, specifically:

I don't usually care about shoes or couture, but I loved the book (The Devil Wears Prada) AND the butchered-book movie (which I just saw in an actual THEATER), so now I crave both svelteness and Prada shoes. See how easily-influenced I am? Now if I were only easily self-disciplined.

Oh and this has nothing to do with anything, but a little while ago my son started shampooing me (out of revenge, really -- he hates to be shampooed) and my 5-year old daughter was near so I shouted out, "Hey! Your brother is dumping shampoo on my head! How much is he putting on there?" She looked at my scalp and replied, "56."

So...

Apathy-in-training

Is it normal for a stay-at-home mom to feel this lonely?

And it's not that I don't care, it's just that I'm learning to not care.

And speaking of suspected abnormalities, I think I love prosciutto more than I should. Does anyone besides me (and possibly Tony Soprano) snack on prosciutto?