Dead Downton

I think I might be having a mental breakdown.

Not just any old breakdown.

 

This kind.

Why, you ask?

 

 It's not because I'm moving in a mere 46 hours and I've barely packed a thing.

Or that today my nanny-child told me, "Elmo-ly, you're pretty, but your singing is ugly."

It's because I just read this.

Too many emotions to work through. Anger? Hurt? Resentment? Betrayal? YES. To name a few.

I'm going to leave you now so I can start working on a seething letter to PBS wishing horrible things upon them (including funding for Big Bird getting cut. Puppets creep me out)

Downton Abbey, 

If this is true, you're dead to me.

Thanksgiving Fashion

Oh hello, I know what you're thinking. You don't hear from me in nearly 6 weeks and you're giving me another link-up post (read as "the lazy blogger's post) to read? Well, my wonderful readers the answer to that question is an overwhelming yes, and you won't get any apologies out me, so stop waiting for one. Instead focus on that which is the glory of the photo below.

Officially Sponsored by the color Coral and Lions coming out of the wall.

I, sneakily suggested we, "line up by age." But I'll be honest for a slow second and tell you that I really just wanted to be the center of attention. (Maybe I can blame that on middle child syndrome?)
The hawt mama winking at the camera would be my wonderful mother who gave me both her beauty and attitude featured very clearly in the next photo:

Sass.

And the polka dot princess is the younger sister affectionately known as Sarah aka "Fashionista" because she schools me in both hair, and accessorizing daily. She also sings, writes, draws, sews and acts. No, there isn't anything she can't do well. Don't ask, it will damage your self esteem.

13 yr old prego? Scandal

She isn't growing a child inside of her, so don't freak out. We just know how much Grace loves poses like this so we thought we would throw her a bone on Thanksgiving.

Now that I'm done talking up two of my eight favorite family members, I'll finally conclude with the clean deets about where our outfits hail from and sign off with love and affection.

Mom: Her Closet (duh, I really have no idea where my mom shops these days)

Sarah: The mall, where every 13 year old girl longs to spend her babysitting income on Friday nights

Emily: I was kind of embarrassed when I realized every single piece of clothing I was wearing came from Target, with the exception of my boots. They are from this trendy little boutique known as Ross. Then I realized, I don't have the luxury of being embarrassed. Plus in my opinion Target is a perfectly acceptable place spend 5/6ths of my discretionary income and if someone has a problem with that, I really don't care to defend myself to them.

Go visit The Camp for true fashion posts.

And that was all she wrote.

Link Up Virgin

*Cue witty intro on how this is my first time 'linking up' with any blog ever and so I figure why not link up with with the wildly popular  Jen over at Conversion Diary?

1. Because I know you lovely folks (my mother) haven't slept a teeny tiny bit since I announced my imitate death in the last post, I want you to know I'm surviving. Barely. Did anyone notice the stock in Kleenex go up last week? I did, because I filled 1.25 trash bags full of the nastiest used tissues of all time. I can't even imagine using handkerchiefs back in the day.

2. Since hearing about my own health is much too personal and I would never over share, I'll let you about my Nanny Mom's health instead. Yesterday she underwent emergency surgery for several abdominal pain. Appendicitis did not get the best of her, and she is currently back home resting. Any prayers you want to offer for her recovery are generously accepted and appreciated.

3. Because of this surgery, I ended up having some where between a 12-16 hour work day. (Closer to the 14 hour mark, but if felt like 48). Anyway, it sounds weird and is much too complicated to explain why, but I have never actually met the father of these kids...until yesterday. The first encounter with "Nanny Dad" deserves it own Take so please skip down.

4. He walked in for a brief teeth cleaning, and change of clothes before going back to the hospital only to find his nanny *ahem* me, semi- drooling on his suede leather couch while one of his 11 month old chillens was learning the important lesson of crying it out (read horrendous and incredibly painful lesson even when its not your own child). After the initial joke of "I swear I'm not being negligent" wore off, I wiped the drool from my brow, shook his hand and asked if he needed me to stay late? He said only if it wasn't too much trouble. So, of course being the professional that I am, I said, "No, of course not. Don't worry about a thing, just go be with your wife." OH WAIT. That would have been the normal response. The one I was supposed to learn in public school or something. Because instead I responded with, "Of course I can, after I give the twins their hot toddy around 5:30 it'll be a breeze anyway." Yes. That. Did. Just. Happen. I told this sleep deprived man, whose wife is in the hospital not to worry about his kids. This alcoholic was taking care of things at home. I almost fired myself on the spot.

5. Cue his reaction. Without skipping a beat, he responded with, "Well okay, but the boys really prefer bourbon over whiskey so just keep that in mind."  It was awesome. And I'm so happy to be working for such a great family.

6. Oh, follow up story. On his way out, he paused looked at my shirt and asked, "Is that blood?" Then I went on to explain that yes it was, but it was my blood and not his children's and that I don't have HIV or anything so once again, his children are perfectly safe in my ever capable care.

7. Simply put, yesterday was not the day I would submit to any contests labeled, Best Nanny Ever, Semi-Competent Employee or even Has a Handle On Basic Hygiene.

And so puts a bloody end my very first quick take Link up. Thanks for taking charity cases like me Jen!

A Long Time Ago In A Reality Far Far Away...

I started a blog. Then I fell off the Blogwagon and didn't know how to get back on. My readers, my dear wonderful, loyal readers have surely abandoned me by now and I thought I needed a stellar post worthy of breaking my silence to publish...turns out I just need to fall deathly sick on a weekend.

Judge away for not posting in such a long time, but in this period of time I have had 4 different jobs, a family reunion, a Mumford and Sons concert to attend and...well that's about it actually. Sorry about that.

Moving onward and downward to this plague. I think it's the same one that brought death to the eldest of the Pharaoh's Sons, the one that convinced Pharaoh to let God's people go, and the one that resurfaced in the middle ages when children made up that mildly cheery, but actually incredibly depressing song that went something like, "Ring around the rosey, a pocket full of nasty tissues, ashes ashes, we're going to suck the life out of you until you give in and watch hours (and hoursss) of Dawson's creek and then all fall down?" Yup, that's the one.

I think the worst was when I started hallucinating and texting my friends about my imminent death and bequeathing my most beloved objects to them. (My leather jacket, sky miles from SouthWest, etc) I even tried giving my sense of humor to someone but they politely declined calling it sarcastic and unforgiving. Oops.

Oh well such is the life. If I do in fact survive this, I'll probably drop another post about my adventures of being sick, creating home remedies from Pinterest and picking up the youngest Seaton Son up from a Greyhound bus station in one of the worst areas of town around Scare O'clock last night. (But I'll keep it PG because the parentals don't need to know about the gory deets).

That's all for now. Many thanks to you lovely readers for well, reading. I hope this plague isn't contagious via the interwebs.

My Shallow Existance

Sometimes I like to think my prayer is really deep, genuine, mystical, mindblowingly (not a real word, deal with it) awesome and then other times I sit down and say, "Jesus, (pause for dramatic affect) Thanks for making me HOT!"

I know that might come as a surprise seeing as the last time I blogged about such a topic I was tipsy from an ill advised creamy pumpkin liqueur purchase and not in best mindset, but tonight I'm callin' it like I see it. And that is what my prayer consisted of--Thanking the Good Lord for my Hotness Factor.

Oh well, you lose some -- you lose some more.

Also, since I've clearly lost all hope for my moral integrity to remain in tact on this blog and in the real world, I might as well be honest about my daily dose of literature and share with you this trashy garbage I can't wait to devour the moment it hits Netflix.

Catchy sign off,

~Emily
Oh!...Were you waiting for me to give some deep reflection on how having normal conversations with the Lord produces a more 'personal' relationship or something? Have you not been paying attention? Here at Justweirdenough we set impossibly low standards and hit the nail on the head every couple of months when I drag my head out of People long enough to write my own trash. If you're really desperate though give this a once over. He does a wonderful job of easing my mind by rationalizing that even the more distracted, directionless prayer has to be doing us some good.

*Feel free to leave comments on how to focus in prayer and I'll feel free to leave my eyes in the permanently elevated position known as the eye roll. 

Real Life

"Well, it's not actually my goal in life to look 'hot'."

I'll give you one guess as to which job I uttered this sentence at earlier today.

You have two options:

Nannying for two boys ages 5 and 8, or a completely demoralized fine dining restaurant where you're publicly ridiculed for your lack of knowledge on how to operate a bong.

I know what you're thinking. Demoralized restaurant? Okay fine, I'll give you one more guess.

That's right ladies and gents I felt the need to explain this to an 8 year old today. If you were hoping for some sort of glory story, renewed hope in humanity, or a post on the innocence of children please go ahead and hit CTL + Z (or Command + Q for my mac followers) because you will find no such positivity around these here parts for at least a fort night.

I wish I could walk you through the events that led up to this statement, but the steam blowing out my ears is clouding up the room and making it hard to see the computer screen and to find the high amounts of liquor necessary to subdue the horrendous, judgmental and blanketed statements I'm about to make about the state of our society.

Bear with me while I stumble my way through our foggy living room and find some liquor.

Brb.

Two shots of Bailey's and one terrible shot of some Pumpkin liquor (only half joking, sorry Mom) I am feeling much better. As tempted as I am to try and change the world with a sarcasm riddled, anger filled tangent, I think I'll wait till I'm about 20 posts in before getting up on my high and mighty horse and staying there for good.

Till then, please continue to enjoy the substance-less, humorous (hopefully) happenings of my life and take 10 seconds to pray for 8 year old boys everywhere. Actually scratch that. Pray for my soul to have mercy on them and that I don't release my wrath upon one particular 8 year boy tomorrow. I hear internet privileges are hard to come by in prison.

*I rarely succumb to peer pressure, (Liar liar) but I must dedicate this post to my sister who has plugged this pathetic excuse for a blog multiple times and each time I have failed to deliver any post at all, much less one worthy of her compliments. I hope this run-on filled, angry toned, non-proof read post appeases you. 

Harsh.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Just checking, do you want Grandchildren via your third child? Because it kind of seems like you don't.

Love,

Your wonderfully eligible daughter

Back in the day when I was living at home, checking in with my parents was an absolute must if I was out later than say --- 5 pm. It was the law (and rightfully so) to let my parents know where I was at all times. If I mistakenly didn't contact them soon enough I would get the ever scary text: "WHERE ARE YOU!?" I instantly knew I needed to contact them ASAP or fear for my life.

What does this have to do with me being single? I now have an immediate reject button when it comes to being interested in a guy.

It's easy really. If you want to be my FRIEND--shoot my a text. If you want to shoot your chances with me in the foot--send me a text. Perhaps it seems odd, but my parents have instilled a hate-hate relationship with texting. You do it as a necessity. Not as a way to woe me. If you don't like me enough to want to hear my voice, you probably don't like me enough for me to even think about being interested in you. Plain and simple.

Perhaps the letter should read:

Dear Mom and Dad,

Thanks for making it really easy to decide whether or a not a guy is worth practicing my new last name on my note book in my spare time.

Love,

Your ever grateful, albeit ever single daughter