The Mrs. Yoy Blog: The Quarantine Coronacles

On Saturday, we took the boys for breakfast at Goldberg's.  As we pulled up, I noticed a crowd of animated girls in front of the restaurant.  They had signs and were trying to catch my attention. Well, it worked.  It was the dang Girl Scouts.  We are deep into cookie season, and up until this moment in time, I had done a pretty good job of avoiding the delicious mouth gift that are thin mints.  Or samoas.  Or tag-alongs.  Or anything chocolate-y. I dragged the Yoys into the restaurant where we met up with Mr. Yoy.  I commented about the cookie situation out front.  Big E was on it. CAN WE BUY SOME COOKIES?  PLEASE?  CAN WE?  CAN WE? Mr. Yoy gave Big E a $5 and told him to go out front a buy a box. I started getting the cookie sweats.  Those thin mints would soon be melting in my mouth.  Giving me surprisingly good breath while sticking around in my back molars for days to come. Through the windo...

With the onset of daylight savings, the morning bus stop has, once again, gone dark.  I could wait for the bus in my bathing suit and no one would know any differently. Little E has developed a phobia of the dark and insists on waiting for the bus up on our front porch, which is always lit up like daytime.  In summary, my kid is deathly afraid of waiting for the bus in the pre-dawn hour, but has a pretty strong relationship with all the ghosts that live in and around our home. The bus is slated to arrive around 7:10.  We headed outside around 7:05.  At 7:15 I saw the bus round the corner on the far end of the street.  She stopped to pick up a child. As I turned to yell out BUS! to Little E he yelled down to me. MOM!  I HAVE TO POOP! Of course.  He's been sitting on our bench doing nothing for ten minutes.  But now that we are t-minus 30 seconds until the bus pulls up, he's got a bathroom emergency. I sprinted up hill to the house. ...

Little E's current favorite song making its way around the pop airwaves is the Rihanna/Kanye/Paul McCartney combo of FourFiveSeconds. AND WE'VE GOT THREE MORE DAYS TIL FRIDAY... And if we are listening to this song and it is more or less than three days til Friday, he goes ballistic and makes me turn it off. First we count the days.  Then he makes the judgement.  Basically, the only day we can listen to this song in peace is Wednesday.  Sometimes he will let me listen on a Tuesday, if I can explain how I'm counting the days. Little E is way too literal for a four year old.

Our home went up for sale last Friday.  I teared up as the man hammered the white post into our front yard.  We've had like 8 million showings this week.  Well, not actually 8 million, but it feels like it. For each showing, I go through a multiple hour process of transforming my lived in home into a soulless hotel.  And I'm not talking about the Bates Motel.  I'm talking about something you want to actually stay in. The process involves cleaning, removing everything from the counter tops, replacing all used towels with fancy, unused towels, replacing used pillows with pillows I bought strictly for house showings, and turning the end of my toilet paper into beautiful bouquets.  Yes, I'm losing my sh*t. My realtor sent out his stager.  She provided me with a lengthy list of things I MUST do to sell this place.  She told me I had to pick up the dog poop in the back yard.  I growled at Poodle Yoy, but agreed that the minefield had to go. ...

The beginning of 2015 has been a very stressful few months for me.  I have hardly been writing as the stress has been debilitating.  Every creative thought was banished from my brain to make way for agonizing ones.  Atlanta's own Waffle House had nothing on the infighting happening in my own brain. Insomnia took root and the 4AM Law and Order and I become besties.  How I love Lenny and Mr. Big.  I parked myself at my kitchen island and stress ate anything I could find.  For the record, it's not Skinny Pop if you chow the whole damn bag in one sitting. It was shameful, really.  Even as I type this, I'm listening to Indigo Girls.  I might as well go down in flames, right? What is the root of the this angst I speak of? The Yoys are moving.  To the suburbs.  East Cobb, specifically. I can barely say it aloud.  I'm excited.  I'm scared sh*tless.  I'm leaving my wonderful, amazing community of moms who are my support syst...