Damn you, lake community, with your lake and your water slide and your swimming pool and your various other places where I must be scantily clad.

I am terrified of warm weather.

So far, this week, I have been slowly starving to death. I’m looking at calories to the point I budgeted in booze for when Wee One was at His Inept Father’s house.

That’s right, I bought Diet Coke. What?!?

I’m so hungry. So, so hungry.

Plus, I have been at work since, you know, 10. I’ve been yelled at by My Incompetent Boss and hugged by Strange Man in Camo.

So help me, if I ever make it home tonight, I’m stopping for ice cream. YUM YUM YUM.

“Wow,” I said, looking at the 26-year-old characters. “They sure do drink a lot. Don’t you think?”

I waited for an answer, but the boyfriend was too busy opening my bottle of riesling to hear me.

And that’s it. Wow, do I like to drink. Do I enjoy that fuzzy warmness you get? Erm, yes.

But, at some point, I got the ludicrous idea in my head that when I became an “adult” my alcohol consumption would decrease. To an extent it has — there have been no moments like the ones I experienced in school or while in Athens.

Like the time I was dressed as a French whore — it was Halloween, okay? (Actually it was Oct. 30, but there was a costume party, and I was spurned by my not-quite-lover …) — at JR’s Baitshack (came home with a t-shirt, what what!) and was so inebriated by the end of the night that the boyfriend — who was just a friend all those years ago — threw me, literally, over his shoulder, slapped my ass and carried me to his vehicle.

Or there was the time I got hiccups and sat outside DT’s crying because I was drunk and had hiccups, thus making me the stereotypical 1930s comedy drunkard.

Or, once, when I was at Firehouse (not because I wanted to be, but I was with a friend …) and fell off a stool. Just fell off. Then I jumped up and tried to find the “person” who had knocked me off said stool. Said person? Didn’t exist.

Of course, my most glorious moment would be the Urinating in Public ticket I received. I feel that’s rather self-explanatory.

So yeah. Those sorts of things haven’t happened in months. I’m rather glad they haven’t, but oh, how I am simultaneously in love with and shamed by the memories.

And that is why, in a roundabout way, “How I Met Your Mother” is my new favorite show. It reminds me of the person I was, and in a more mature, adult sort of way, still am.

Mordack. That’s what he’s calling everyone else.

Candy corn. That’s his food of choice, and because “corn” is in the proper name of said sugary concoction, he thinks he can justify it as a vegetable and therefore, eat it for every meal.

Being three is hard, but being the mommy of a three year old is infinitely harder.

In yay-I’m-not-homeless news, we have moved into the house, or as Wee One calls it, “The big, big, big giant house that has stairs on it.” In actuality it is not giant; it is normal-sized. However, going from Mommy’s tiny single parent apartment (while in a lovely area of town) to a 3BR/2BA home one street back from a lake and — oh yes — playground is vuuuunnderful for my little spawn.

It’s weird to be living with a man again. It’s odd to see his giant man Chucks next to my delicate lady Chucks and Wee One’s tiny preschooler Chucks. (Clearly, we are a Converse house.)

I debated long and hard about Shmoopsy and I living together. After our respective divorces, I know that we are both gun shy and both toting very different, mismatched baggage of our own, in addition to all the tangible boxes that sit on every available space.

But if anything made the decision easier, it was when Wee One and I went to look at the house while it was still for sale, and Wee One said, “I want this one, Mommy.”

Now. Unpacking. Painting. Installing hardwoods — or rather watching Shmoopsy, Friends of Shmoopsy and Father of Shmoopsy installing hardwood while desperately trying to corral Wee One away from said installation.

I think we’ll be okay. That is, of course, assuming that Wee One finally tells me what the “rodank” in his room is.

I love that my child speaks in 1950s Sci-fi movie speak. Really. Really.

Really.

He eats his boogers.

He also lies about it, which is — possibly the worst part.

I glanced in the backseat this morning, and Wee One was rolling something between his fingers. He looked so sweet, deep in concentration, that I glanced back at the road and waited until we were at a red light before I turned back to say, “Baby, what are you doing?”

At that point, I realized that he was eating something.

“What are you eating?”

“Nothing.”

“Wee One. What. Are. You. Eating?”

Then I realized his nose was running, and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Are you eating boogers?”

“No.”

“Are you eating boogers?”

“No.”

“Wee One.”

“Yes, Mommy, I eating my boogers.”

Oh. Ew. Ew ew ew.

No one ever mentioned this to me. All your childhood memories, your elementary school memories involve The Booger Eater. And he’s the gross kid. No one wants to play with him.

My child is The Booger Eater.

I never thought this would happen — that my kid would eat his own boogers, or that I would love him anyway.

Le sigh.