#7 Passwords & Recycling Bins Gone Rogue

So, after an extremely lengthy absence and the addition of a beautiful (sometimes screaming, possibly poo covered, ever so slightly perfumed with the faint lingering scent of baby spit up…yet still exquisitely beautiful) baby girl, I am completely and totally back.   Just please do not judge us if our new perfume smells vaguely like a combination of Dove body wash and a small carton of milk that’s just a teeny tiny bit past its prime.

I really do make every attempt to keep us both smelling clean and fresh.  In fact, everyone in the house has actually been bathed and/or showered at some point today which is nothing short of miraculous.  A few hours have gone by, and we all have managed to remain relatively tidy.  I say relatively due to the fact that the shirtless toddler may or may not be hiding a bit of grape jelly in his armpit, the littlest cherub happens to be on her third impossibly adorable infant outfit, and I am on shirt number four.  Luckily, the lower half of my body has been spared the waterfall of baby barf that repeatedly strafed my upper half, which is fortunate since the washer and dryer are both now full.

This is also why I am currently sporting a pair of shorts on a brisk winter day in the middle of February.  All of my pantalones of the non pajama-esque variety are still just a smidge too tight.  The remaining “more pajama than actual legware I might actually  leave the house wearing” pants are flip flopping about in one of the two laundry machines in my basement.  So, on this blustery morning, out of wardrobe desperation, I am in fact sporting a lovely pair of denim maternity shorts.  Needless to say, I do not plan on receiving guests today.

Hopefully,  I won’t have to go outside for some bizarre unexpected reason like the fact that our recycling can is blowing down the street and out into the open waters of the  Great South Bay.  This would require me to carefully extract some form of watercraft from the garage, launch it from the dock, and despite the frosty weather and fog, drag my two life jacket wearing children out to sea in order to retrieve our recycling can all the while wearing shorts.   Surely it would make more sense to at least wait for a pair of dry trousers or simply let the big blue barrel drift away and get myself a new one?

This is obviously based on the erroneous assumption that replacing the recycling can where I live is no big deal.  Not, so bro.  This would require me to get myself and my two children over to the town hall (A noteworthy feat in and of itself).  Once there, I would be expected to wait in line for several hours while balancing a breastfeeding baby in one arm and wrangling an impatient toddler with the other.  I mean there are only so many one handed shadow puppets to be had out there.  At the front of the line, with cramped up fingers and one bare breast exposed, I would then provide no less than three different forms of acceptable identification and at least six months worth of paid bills from two different utility companies in order to prove that I do in fact live where I say I do.  (I am guessing that at some point in the past they had a lot of problems with unsavory out-of-towners pretending to be locals and making off with a whole lot of free recycling containers.)  Once my identity was positively confirmed, I would be asked to fill out a notarized form outlining exactly why I was so irresponsible with the special blue recycling barrel that the town was so very gracious to provide me with when I moved into my home six years ago.  Finally, I may possibly be asked to hand over my first born child in exchange for a replacement receptacle.  And what would be the worst part of this scenario?  I would be the only chick at the town hall wearing a pair of shorts…in February.

Obviously, the town is trying to teach a lesson to all of those careless homeowners who let their recycling bins languish in the streets unattended and unsupervised.  While the poor cans are alone and unprotected, the residents are doing unimportant things like working at their full time job so that they can keep paying their mortgage and thus still have a need for a recycling bin in the first place.  Town hall tyranny and wardrobe issues aside, I have still done little to explain why it has been such an extremely long time since my last post.

Two tiny kiddos too overwhelming?  Nope. Writer’s block?  Not exactly.  Lack of motivation?  Absolutely not!  Too busy to even think about typing?  Only occassionally.  Lost my writing mojo?  Never.  Too busy tracking down missing recycling containers while the neighbors stare because I am wearing shorts?  Negative.

How about lost my password…and couldn’t remember it…at all.  Under any circumstances.  No matter how many times I tried to access my account in vain.  Numerous attempts to sift through my mental archives in search of the wacky combo of passwords that I have invented over the years continuously resulted in the same dastardly “Login Attempt Failed” message.

Until today!  This morning after my husband gently woke me up by accidentally allowing a soaking wet ninety pound German Shepherd to step on my face, I finally remembered.  Shortly after the man of the house apologized and headed out to make the bacon, I had a miraculous moment.  The tricky secret combo that was so stealthy even I forgot it came to me halfway between my third cup of coffee and my twenty third diaper change.  Lo and behold this time the magic combination was actually correct. Of course…how could I forget part of my grandparents street address (after they moved when my dad was ten but before they  retired and moved back to their home state)  + random symbol no one would ever choose as part of their password + the former zip code of my best friend’s gay uncle who used to live in Paris but got divorced from Pierre-Francois and now lives in a bungalow outside of Poughkeepsie with some new guy named Bernard.  How could I have ever forgotten that?

With my trusty password finally recovered, I am fairly excited about the prospect of continuing my little posts dedicated to you mon frere.  My only regret is that I have had numerous prospective posts tumble through the interior passageways of my brain over the last few months (okay truth in disclosure it has actually been TWO WHOLE YEARS). Luckily, for me, your inability to fully comprehend time concepts will allow you to completely overlook this fact.  Unfortunately, like my temporarily unretrievable password, I have forgotten almost all of my previously planned posts.

Don’t worry though, slowly but surely, they will come back to me, just like my password which I am going to write down and keep in a safe place just in case my mind gets junked up with other important data…like where I parked my car at Target or if I’ve fed my children something other than goldfish crackers in the last 24 hours.  Now excuse me, while I tromp out to the curb in the middle of a monsoon to retrieve my lovely cobalt colored recycling can.  (I’ll be the one in my husband’s enormous red raincoat, with my still wet hair wrapped in a hot pink towel, wearing purple polka dotted rain boots and shorts.)

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