I didn't know I was pregnant..

The other night my husband and I watched this show on TV called "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant". It was an entertainment documentary, of sorts, in which they showed re-enactments of 5 different women who had no idea that they were pregnant.That is until they actually gave birth, and were shocked to see a baby, and not a large poop or some other vital organ coming out of their body. Surprisingly, a couple of these women had even had children before. Honestly, how could they not have known? One word: Denial.

Now, while I lack the prenatal experiences of say, Michelle Duggar, or even Octomom, I have had three kids, each with varying degrees of pregnancy related symptoms.

[super- human birthing machine]

In two of the instances, I spent the first three months primarily eating soda crackers and drinking warm sprite just to be able to get out bed in the morning. I stayed abnormally tired with my last one, going to bed 20 minutes after I would get home from work, sleeping late, napping as often as I could get away with it, so much so that my husband said that it was like living with a narcoleptic. Honey, could you pass the....zzzzzzzzzzz. And in each of the pregnancies, I looked as though I had swallowed, not one, not two, but three large bowling balls.

Naturally, I watched this show with a fair amount of skepticism.

One of the women on the show had been told she couldn't get pregnant, and to be fair, she was a pretty good sized person with some other health problems. She actually seemed the most believable and had never gotten pregnant, despite not being on any type of birth control for over 16 years. She had symptoms all throughout her pregnancy, constantly getting sick, swollen feet, barely able to walk, extreme tiredness, but apparently none of those were extreme enough to go to the doctor. I have a hangnail, and my butt is down there whining for him to remove it.

[not my finger]

One day she takes her mom to the hospital for dialysis, and was experiencing a lot of "pressure down there" and had a horrible backache since the night before. Her mom insists that she get seen by the doctors, and they take her moaning, and eventually screaming to a room for an evaluation. She tells the triage nurse that she *really* has to go the bathroom, and the next thing you know, bam!... she poops out a baby in the ER bathroom toilet. The nurse runs back in...HORRIFIED at the sight, tells the woman not to look down into the bowl and hustles her back into the bed. Others rush in to fish the poor little baby out and try to save it. She was still screaming that she still "had to go" and it was right then that she found out not only did she just "poop" out a baby, but there is another one coming. TWINS.


Sadly, the 2nd baby didn't make it, they were both premature, but the one born in the bathroom is alive and well today. A true miracle, really. I was thinking about this later...ok, let's say that she didn't know she was pregnant, and had no reason to suspect that she ever could get pregnant. That part seems plausible and I am willing to go with it. But if find yourself with a lot of "pressure down there", with a strong, primeval urge to go, and you have been up all night previously, sweating, gripping the sheets in your teeth with stomach and back pain, you are not experiencing an "abnormal bowel movement". No amount of Ex-lax, Metamucil, Rolaids or Gas-X is going to fix your problem.

If, at intervals of a minute apart, your stomach gets hard as a rock, despite the fact that you haven't done a situp in over 20 years, those are not contractions that will ever occur, even if you are severely constipated. Later, when you find yourself actually able to "go", and look down to view what you assume to be a Guinness Book worthy turd and then see hair on it, guess what? You get to name this one and are legally bound to support it for the next 18 to 21 years.

Another lady, approximately 30-ish years old, had already given birth to 3 children and was working at Burger King. She went into the bathroom with excruciating stomach pains, and delivered her baby right there on the BK bathroom floor. *GROSS*

[how would you like to give birth here?]

... I don't even like to pee in there, much less consider giving birth to a baby near one of those stalls. Even the parking lot would have been a better option! How would you like to be the new guy at Burger King whose responsibility it is to have to clean the bathrooms that day? Two words after seeing the aftermath of all that: I quit.


[Creepy BK guy does not make me want to buy a whopper with cheese, they need to fire their marketing team]

Personally, I didn't believe her at all. She already had three kids, none had the same father; she and her children were living with her own dad, and she was going out partying with her friends every night. I wondered how she had time to do that when she had three children at home, but I shouldn't be judgemental, now should I? I figured she knew she was pregnant, but if she told her dad, "hey...let's play good news, bad news"...he would have hit the roof and maybe kicked her out. Better to not say anything and then act surprised when the baby just suddenly pops out on the BK bathroom floor. What? How did that get there? I had no idea. I am shocked. Sadly, they showed her and her 5 month old "surprise" and the narrator announced that she was 4 months pregnant with her 5th child. If I were her dad, having to help support her and all of her kids, I would start crushing up birth control pills in her morning juice, I'm just sayin'.



Another lady on there had numerous symptoms throughout her pregnancy. FWIW, her and her boyfriend did seem a tad on the slow side, so for awhile, I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. That being said, she had gained weight, had nausea, tiredness, swollen feet, would only eat never before liked Chinese food for every meal, her boobs were 10 times their normal size and strangly leaking, and yet it never occurred to her that she might be pregnant. Afterall, she had taken a pregnancy test a little more than 9 months prior and it came up negative. Hmmm...in each of my pregnancies, when I suspected that I was pregnant, I bought every single kind of test made, and peed on all of them...just to make sure. In addition, she thought she had "extreme gas" throughout her pregnancy, and could have sworn she had had her period every single month, but oddly enough never had to restock her feminine care supply...in 9 months.

Here is another little tip that you might be pregnant: Your internal organs do not just spontaneously "protrude" from your body at any given time. That would be a baby foot, butt, back, or knee trying to poke its way out of your body.

[Not your kidneys]

As far as extreme gassiness goes, and while I am not a gastroenterologist, I do know that even the most extreme "I just ate 4 chili dogs, a pound of onion rings, and a head of cabbage" gas will not blow your stomach up to the point that it looks as though you just swallowed a watermelon whole.

[Not gas]

All in all, it was a train wreck of a show; I wanted to turn it off, but couldn't do it. I do believe that there are people out there that will suffer no symptoms, are already on the big side and may not gain weight throughout the entire thing, and in fact, may even lose a little weight. But I don't believe that they were able to go through 9 months of growing a human inside of them and not have a single solitary clue that they are pregnant. Just not buying it.

I told you so...

After talking about the snake incident concerning my dads grill, that reminded me of the instance we had last year at our own house.

Inside of our garage is a storage room, that contains the usual assortment of shelves stuffed to the gills with junk that lacks any type of organization. I personally hate going in there, but the freezer is also in there, so I find myself there anyway at least once a day. My husband had a bad habit (at the time) of leaving the garage door open when he left the house. Despite repeated attempts on my part begging him to please close the garage door, he always forgot. This incident "cured" him of that.

So, one month while he was working a weekend night, I went out to the freezer to forage for something dinnery. I had already told him about a new birds nest that I had spotted on one of the shelves earlier that month. At the time I was the only one parking in the garage, and every time I got out, momma bird would swoop and try to peck my eyes out for entering what she considered "her domain". This went on *every day*, several times a day. I would get a broom and shoo her out and then close the garage door. Lloyd would come home, open the garage door, leave it open and sleep all day. We played this little game for weeks. I asked him if he wouldn't mind getting the step ladder and removing the nest before she laid eggs. He said he would handle it. Finally, momma bird gave up and I didn't see her again. (woohoo).

Well...guess what? When I went to the freezer that night, I saw the nest still there. AND...heard the unmistakable sound of baby birds cheeping. Crap. So, I got the step ladder, climbed up there and we had *very fresh* baby birds. New born baby birds really are not very cute.

They were both cheeping their little hearts out hoping that their momma would come and bring them some food. So...I opened the garage door in hopes that she would hear them. (although I had not seen her in weeks, and didn't hold out a lot of hope). Unfortunately, a storm came about and it thundered, and was lightning, and drowned out the poor little baby birds cries.

I called "he who was supposed to remove the nest before we became orphaned bird parents", and explained the situation. I knew that I was not going to be able to forage for insects in which to feed these birds, unless of course they didn't mind eating a bit of charmin with the insects that I did manage to squish with some toilet paper, or being served off a flyswatter. Those were the options available.

So, all night long, I worried about these little birds, and asked Lloyd that when he got home, to please please handle the situation. What I meant by that was, move the nest to a place outside of the storage room, in a nice perch of a tree in hopes that the birds would be adopted. What can I say...sometimes I am idealistic.

The next morning I had to go to Wal-hell, and left Cole at home with Lloyd. Upon my arrival back home, I immediately went to put some frozen items in the freezer and check on my little orphans, and that is when all hell broke loose. You may not know this about me...but I have snake radar. Snake-dar, if you will. It acts much like my Spider-dar, and I know when I am being watched. I get up on my stepladder, and all of the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flick of a tongue, identified its source, almost wet my pants, my eyes bugged out, I fell off the ladder, and ran out of the storage room...as fast as I could.

snake in my storage-room

I then spent a few minutes calming myself down in the garage, and considered my options. I decided the best option would be to ask Lloyd to put the items in the freezer and not tell him about the snake (it turned out not to be poisonous...but truthfully, I wasn't 100% sure of that at the time). I would also ask him if he had "handled" the baby bird situation. (muwahahaha)

So, off to the storage room he goes, not a care in the world and up the ladder he climbs. Cole and I followed a few feet behind him....to watch. Just then I heard, "OH HELL NO, DAYUM!" Paint cans were overturned, the ladder was toppled once more, his arms and legs were literally swimming through the air in an attempt to vacate the room.

That's when I said...

*I TOLD YOU SO*...

So, now he has to remove the snake, and he feels as though I set him up. There could be some truth in that. He goes and gets a Home Depot bucket, and the tongs he uses on the grill. In 4,000+ hours of animal planet watching, that isn't the usual method I have seen employed to catch a snake. I'm just sayin'.

We follow him back out there once more, because...now...it is "show time". I also brought the camera for documentation purposes. So, there I am, literally inches behind him, clicking away, not getting good shots at all. He was doing some deep breathing excercises to psyche himself up, when he turned around and noticed both me and Cole literally crowding him closer to the snake. He snapped the tongs at us and made us wait outside. (hmmph)

We still didn't know for sure whether this snake was poisonous or not, but even being bitten by a non-poisonous snake still kinda sucks. This I do know.

So, I watch him grab the snake with the tongs, and attempt to throw it in the Home Depot bucket, while yelling out like he was preparing for tribal wafare. ayeyiyiyiyiyi.

I really was nearly peeing my pants now because the snake was having none of that. It had NO problem crawling up the 6ft or so to get at the baby birds, it was completely unphased by this shallow orange bucket. He is running holding the bucket handle with one hand, and trying to keep the snake from slithering out with the barbecue tongs in his other hand, before he finally just threw everything down on the driveway. Again, he is trying to dispose of a potentially vicious creature wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. No shoes, no shirt, no socks, not even flip flops. So, when the snake popped out of the bucket and tried to bite his feet, he had to do the Mexican Hat dance to get away. Much much more laughter.

He makes us back further away and he gets a hoe and kills the snake. Cole, having watched the entire thing says, "that was cool Daddy...do it again". Turns out it was a good snake to have, and probably...he should have just let it go in the neighbors yard. ;)

Anyway, he goes back into the storage room to handle the ROOT of this problem, the I told you so part. He asks me what I wanted him to do with the nearly dead baby bird in the nest. Um...what do you mean bird? There are two baby birdS in the nest. He said noooo...just one. (awwww)...

He shows me the one remaining, barely able to even cry out baby bird. Of course Cole tries to grab it and "love" on it. Looking closer at the snake, we saw the unmistakable bulge in the center of its' body (awwww....Part II). I don't know what he did with the remaining baby bird, I didn't have the heart to ask after all that.

HOWEVER, he does close the garage door with regularity now. Sometimes we just have learn lessons the hard way, I guess.

Yeah...so...I meant to tell you about that....

Looking back on my mom's passing, there are very few moments of levity. Really there was just one, and with that, I shall share it with you:

So, while planning my mom's funeral with my dad and my brothers, I recieved a phone call. It was from my aunt and uncle who were holding down the fort at my parents house. They called to let me know that they had killed a large copperhead in my parents backyard.

"That's not good", I said. They wanted to know what to do with it. I thought for a minute..."*sigh*...I don't know, whatever you think is best, I guess." I am all for pawning that sort of job on someone else. I don't know a lot about snake killin' and removal, that's generally not my department. Lloyd is Chief Officer of Pest Services (COPS), I am simply the dispatcher. So, I get back to their house and am met by uncle, RM, at the door. He looks at me very solemnly and tells me that he placed the dead snake in a Hefty Black Garbage Bag, and then put it underneath the lid of my dad's beloved Weber Grill.



"Huh." (all I could think to say)...I am sure my eyes bugged out a little. "Well, that's a good spot I guess." He said that he didn't think putting it in the kitchen garbage can seemed like a good idea as we were going to have people in and out for the next few days, and the smell might get a little rough. Not to mention, my dad's canine garbage pickers, Lula and Jackson might be tempted to dig through and and play with it during what would probably be an inappropriate time.

He thought about just tossing it over the fence. However, although my dad lives in what *I* consider the country, it actually is a neighborhood and I would imagine that it tends to make the neighbors a little pissy to see a large copperhead being flung over the top of the privacy fence for their own dog to pick up and proudly drag to the door. (Look what I brought for you mommy!)So, he felt the best choice was the Hefty Sack/Weber combination. He told *me* this to make sure that I would tell my dad at a later time, preferably before he used the grill. You can count on me.

Later that week, my dad invited all of us over to eat; I think we all needed the company. Of course, we accepted....even in our grief, you don't turn down barbecued ribs and chicken. When he told me he was going to be grilling...something brief sparked in my brain. Very...very brief. And then nothing.

So, we show up at his house at the appointed time and all the family was gathered. I know my dad like the back of my hand and I could see he was irritated and I asked what was wrong. This is the look I got:


This look says..."are you an idiot?". "Yeah, there is something wrong. I want to know if any of you know about (insert bad words here) snake being stuffed up in a trash bag in my grill??!"

Oh yeeeeaaaahhhh.....what do you know? Total Recall! I decided the better tactic would be to tell him that I had already told him about that. Didn't he remember? I was counting on the fact that he had been walking around in a fog just as much as I had, not to mention, he can be very forgetful at times.

He was like, "OH HELL NO, I would remember you telling me about a dayum snake up in my Weber!". Point taken...I believe he would have...he really loves his grill. So, I backtracked some and said that I had "thought" that I had told him, but I must have been mistaken, and I did apologize.

But I had to ask, you know: So...um, how bad was it? (lol!)..More importantly, how will this be affecting the ribs and chicken?

Again with the look from above...(because evidently I am an idiot), he says, "well, I went to open the grill to clean it and the smell knocked me back a few feet. I knew it was something dead, but I didn't know what it was, couldn't figure out how it had gotten inside a garbage bag AND ended up in my grill. So, I opened it up to discover a dayum rotting snake and about had a heart attack, thank-you-very-much!".

oooops. My bad. :)

He was right, and I was wrong...

Last weekend my husband mentioned that he lost his hairbrush. Actually, he lost one of *my* hairbrushes that he has borrowed on a permanent basis from me a few years back. He went to visit his parents, and somehow managed to lose it there. That's pretty much a gone brush as far as I am concerned. He asked if I would get him another one.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that it was one of those ridiculously expensive boars hair brushes that I "had to have" because I read somewhere that they were good for long hair.


ridiculously expensive Mason Pearson Brush he stole from me

While I *liked* the brush, I didn't love it, so it didn't bother me that much that he took it. However, it *was* going to bother me to replace it...as I am in a frugal stage of life and don't spend that kind of $$ on frivolous things. (unless it is on me of course) Not to mention, I didn't want him to know what I had spent on it in the first place. Some things are just better left unsaid, you KWIM?

So I told him I was "all over it". Later that weekend, I found myself at Kroger and wandered down the hair care aisle and spied a brush that looked kinda similar. I thought to myself, just because it is made by 'Titan', doesn't mean that it is crappy brush. It cost about the same as a Conair or Goody, so I figured it would be fine. I bring it home, all proud of myself for finding one that was under $170.00. What a bargain.

So, he looks at it and says..."Um, Lee...why....(I can see he is trying to choose his words here)...why, would you buy me a black persons hair brush"?

WHAT? I did not! That's made for....non-black people. In fact, that's made for... straight haired Asian type people. I go on stating my case further that there were no black people on the packaging, and it didn't have a picture of white people on it with a circle around them and a line drawn through. He is shaking his head the whole time, looking at me like "Helloooo this is Earth, have we met?". I tell him that that brush is exactly like the one he had before, and that I didn't want to hear another word about it. He then argues that he has had to go through many peoples cars...both black and white. AT NO TIME did he ever find a brush like this in a white persons car. In FACT, he had seen many of these exact brushes and they all had black owners.

Pfff...whatever. He is really ruining my good bargain "chi".

He takes it out of the packaging and proceeds to "brush" his hair.

I know I can be jaded, but even this surprised me: I would say the brush acted as more of an intense exfoliant than anything else. I didn't see the bristles bend...not even a millimeter. Really, it had the stiffness of.... a dog brush. Even Rufus eyeballed it and left the room just in case it was going to get used on him. I didn't tell Lloyd this, but I could see with each stroke he made, that skin (and hair he doesn't really need to lose) were being sloughed off in great quantities onto the kitchen floor. I made a mental note to steam mop later.

OK...so, the brush is a little stiff. I am sure that it has to get broken in, or something. Jeez. What a baby. Nothing else is said, but this past week I noticed another one of my favorite brushes was missing. I feel certain he is hiding it in his smelly patrol car.

So I find myself at Rite-Aid today, and cruised down the hair care aisle (as I always do...they have good stuff!). Guess what I should see? The *same* hairbrush I had bought for him on Saturday...with (evidently more) updated packaging than the one Kroger was carrying.



Huh!! What do you know? I guess it is made for black people. So, I took a picture of it with my camera phone and sent it in a text to him telling him that he was right, and I was wrong. Within seconds...he calls me back, (a little panicked)..."Lee, tell me you didn't buy me another black person hairbrush!". (lol)Nooo...I was just letting him know to mark his calendar that I was admitting I was wrong. As I said before, I *really* feel like this hair brush needs to break in and I am sure he will be using it in no time. ;)

Date Night in Mississippi...

So, my husband and I don't get to go out a lot. We would like to go out more, but between his schedule, and lack of planning on both our parts, it just doesn't happen very often. Of course, when we do go out, we are usually just so happy to be out of the house without the kids, that it doesn't really matter where we go, or what we do. Unfortunately, there really isn't a whole lot to do around here. You can go to the movies, or out to dinner, but there aren't that many restaurants to choose from, at least locally. You could also hit the "Beechwood", for a night of rednecky fun, or sing karaoke at Jacque's. I don't mind singing karaoke when most of the people I am with are worse singers than I am, but it always happens that I end up following people like Don, Lisa or my professional singing friend Maria. Following one of them, my singing then sounds like two cats having a "really good time". And God forbid you decide to get up from your seat to use the ladies room or something and your *friends* sign you up to sing Jimmy Buffets "Lets Get Drunk and Screw"...solo. Always a crowd pleaser.

So, last summer we were all out at my dads lakehouse with the kids. The girls and all of their friends were up watching some Chipmunk movie and had overtaken the entire living room. Hmm...what to do? HEY...my husband says...let's go gatorspotting! HELL YEAH. Me: Um...you sure that's safe? Absolutely, he assures me.

Not having been "gatorspotting" before, I wasn't sure exactly what this entailed. Again, 4,000+ hours of Animal Planet watching has failed me. So, we get into his boat, it's around midnight, several flashlights in hand, and the largest can of industrial strength mosquito spray made, and we are off. It's a date.

We assumed that the alligators would be on the other side of the lake where there are no houses. After an hour of searching up and down, and driving from one end to the other, we only spotted one lonely gator, or it could have been a coke can...we werent' sure. Surprising because we have heard that there are LOTS of alligators in Eagle Lake, and have seen a few during the day time. According to all of my research (yeah, animal planet watching...*and* I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express), they are nocturnal feeders. So, we head back and drive closer to the side where all of the houses/docks are. Guess what?

Under every single dock, in every single cove...it was gators galore. In fact, although you could only see their glowing red devil eyes, you could tell how big they were based on how large and how far apart their eyes were. We would see groups of them, smaller ones, and see large behemoths hanging out by themselves. I stopped counting after 25 and we still weren't 1/2 back to our own dock. By this point, I was freaking out a little. I didn't expect to see so many; I really didn't expect to see them so close to all of the houses. Some were only just a few inches away from the boat, and would put their heads under just as we were passing them and pop up on the other side of the boat. At least the big ones did that...they really didn't seem to have a whole lot of fear of us.

It looked like this, only the eyes glow devil-red.

My imagination went into overdrive then, and I started envisioning them knocking the boat over with their huge tails, or leaping up onto the boat deck with me. I was ready to go home, and call it a night. We finally get back to our own dock and he sweeps the flashlight around one final time...guess where we saw the biggest of the alligators? That's right, underneath our own dock. This thing was HUGE...I really do mean *huge*. Even the crocodile hunter would have been proud to catch this one HUGE. Needless to say, you won't see me, or any family member of mine out taking a night time dip.

Now that I have embraced my inner redneck, I really can't wait to do it again, only this time, I am bringing my camera.

How does a Southerner get back at a yankee?

SO...how does a southerner get back at a yankee? A damn yankee at that? Simple...feed them okra. Okra, to my knowledge, is not native to yankee states like Illinois, for good reason...it tastes like smelly @ss. Anyway, a few summers back we were invited over to our friends houses, Don and Lisa. And let me tell you...did they put out a spread. I have never ever ever seen so much food, with the exception of the family reunions I used to go to when I was little, and I think that everyone had to bring something. Anyway, the food was GOOD...really really good. Southerners know how to put on a spread. So, there we were, putting food on our plates and I came to a pot that not only smelled like nasty feet, but had little green eye-ball looking things rolling around in it. Lisa said, "Oh, you have to try some".


[Boiled nastiness with maybe some beaks and claws]


UM...well....UM...yeah, ok...since you are standing there and all, I will go ahead and help my self to as little as possible to seem polite. Had she not been there, I would have done the sniff test, and passed by it like I didn't even see it. So, we all sit down at their very large dining table. I really have no idea how many people were there, but the table seemed crowded.

I ate the food I recognized right off the bat, and was "saving" my green eye balls for last. Apparently, Don, Lisa and Company were waiting for this dumb yankee to try some. (it's showtime) I place a couple of eyeballs on my fork...(no easy feat as they are way mushy), and proceeded to take a bite. I noticed that it had grown quiet. Too quiet.

Looking up, I saw that everyone was staring at me, and I could hear them mentally vibing me, "EAT IT, EAT IT". So, I shoveled the few pieces in. O....M....G (as my daughters say), the horror.

The whole concoction congealed, and tried to melt in my mouth in a pasty, gelatinous nasty assy- feet tasting goo. My taste buds revolted, I felt bile start to rise. I thought OH HELL NO, I am totally about to vomit all over their table. I felt my stomach heave once and did something I have never ever ever done before: I spit it out in my napkin. There was just no other choice. I could feel my ears burn, (due to the uncontrollable laughter I was hearing from everyone seated near me), and I tried to apologize, but the words were hard to come by as I was trying to ensure that all remnants of said okra nastiness were removed from anywhere near my teeth or tongue.

I have mentioned this story to anyone that has ever talked to me about okra. They all tell me to try it "fried". Again, HELL NO. I am sure that turds taste better fried too, but it is still a turd deep down.

Low Carb Diets are the Devil...

Orginally posted February 28, 2007...

Anyone every tried these? I have a friend Sara, that has very successfully lost weight from doing the Atkins diet. And there are several guys that I work with that have also done very well. If you haven't ever done a low carb diet, let me explain how it works.

SUPPOSEDLY...you can eat all the meats, fish, fowl, a fair amount of vegetables, eggs, other high protein foods that do not contain sugar or starch...and you will lose weight. Does it work? YEP, it does. The premise is that when you deprive the body of carbohydrates, it will then turn to burning fat for fuel.

In regards to the vegetables, you don't get to eat any of the good ones...no tomatoes, no corn, carrots, purple hull peas, cucumbers, potatoes, etc. Basically, what you get is over 45 different kinds of lettuce and all the ranch dressing you can pile on it. mmmm.

So, what does it take to master a diet like this? Balls of steel...and an ironclad will strong enough to not slap those around you that dare to eat bread, or God forbid, a brownie in FRONT of you.

The most I have ever made it on the diet...is three weeks, and I lost around 10 lbs. However, I ate one measly slice of white bread at the start of the 4th week...and somehow gained back 13 lbs. It has to be that new math, because I know that bread didn't weigh but a few ounces...but apparently my blood sugar level spiked to such a level that I blindly drove myself to the nearest gas station and bought a 5.5 lb bag of M&M's and scarfed them all down before I hit the driveway coming back home.

I give credit to Sara...and anyone else that manages to stay on the diet, even after a few days without killing someone.

You see, for me...it worked like this:

Day One: I am pumped...I can do this. I don't need sugar...it is the devil (my mantra). I am going to ENJOY the three scrambled eggs for breakfast, the grilled chicken salad for lunch with 25 tablespoons of ranch dressing, and boiled chicken, green beans and boiled eggs for dinner. I can hardly wait.

mmm...eggs.

Day Two: I have a headache, supposedly this is normal. I am still looking forward to my eggs for breakfast, my grilled chicken salad for lunch and whatever variety of chicken and green beans I will have for dinner. My resolve is strong, I can do this.

Day Three: I discovered sugar free candies. It says not to eat but a few as the lactitol "may" upset your stomach. Maybe this will make my headache go away, and for some reason...I cannot add two numbers together. Again, supposedly...this is normal. I come to find out...there is no "may" upset your stomach about it. I ate the whole thing of sugar free reeses peanut butter cups, and have DEARLY paid the price. I am moderately concerned that I may not be able to go to work tomorrow with these gassy issues.

Day Four: Gassy issues are gone (TMI, I know), but I have decided that I really hate eggs. I have always hated eggs. I am still going to eat the eggs...but am now dipping them in salsa. I get another salad for lunch, but go for the one with ham in it...as I am almost about to start hating chicken too. I am undecided what to do for dinner. The kids are complaining that they want some pasta, which is a no-no for me. I make them hot dogs and macaroni and cheese...and stare at them (drooling) through dinner while I eat more chicken.

Day Five: I still have a headache, and I am getting dumber by the second. I drove right past my work ...a route I have taken nearly 365 days a year for 6 years...and forgot to turn in. I remember glancing over and thinking that it looked vaguely familiar. It was when I reached the other side of town...the fog briefly lifted and I remembered that I was supposed to have actually gone to work an hour before. *sigh* I decide that I can have peanuts for breakfast. They are an "approved" food. A total of 9 peanuts...are approved. I count out my peanuts...and can smell that someone has donuts in the office. I may have to hunt them down and "hurt" them. I decide that a plain whopper with cheese, no bun will work for lunch. Again..an "approved food". lol...go figure.

Day Six: My headache hasn't gone away, however, I have lost 7 lbs, so it has all been worth it. I feel vindicated. I can do another day of eggs, chicken and green beans, and maybe a double cheeseburger or two, no bun. Maybe I should buy a book and see if there are recipes that my kids probably won't eat.

Day Seven: My husband makes pancakes for breakfast. I may have to kill him. The entire house reeks of pancakes...and syrup. Sweet Jesus (as my great Aunt Lucy says)...not SYRUP. It's ok I tell myself, I don't need that sugar. I can just eat...eggs. Nasty eggs and nasty bacon. I decide not to kill him...as there may be bugs that need squashing.

Day Eight: It's a conspiracy...everytime I turn on the tv...it's a commercial for candy, Kool-aid, bread, McDonalds, Outback, Krispy Kreams, etc. What happened to the good 'ol tampon commercials? Or the ones about Preparation-H? Where did those go? Since when is EVERY commercial on tv about food? I am considering writing the networks nasty messages.

Day Nine: I realize...that I haven't pooped since Day three. That's a problem, and one that I don't necessarily want solved while I am at work. And again...it must be "donut day", because I can smell them from a football field away. If I just eat ONE, then I will feel better I know it. So, I (guiltily) eat the donut. MAN, I feel GREAT!...I haven't gotten this much work done in YEARS. I feel like a new woman! When I get home...I am going to re-arrange every closet, balance the checkbook, run on the treadmill! However, 30 minutes later...I am nodding off at my desk. I get home later that night...and my husband asks how long this is going to "go on". What do you mean, I ask? (actually I growled at him, and must have looked pretty scary because he backed off, but then went to make himself some popcorn...a "NOT" approved food). grrrrrr. Passive-Agressive much?

Day 10: The smell of popcorn still lingers. Screw this. I haven't lost a pound in three days...probably because I haven't pooped since God knows when. Apparently, I am not getting enough fiber, which I find impossible to believe because I thought LETTUCE was fibrous, and I have eaten bushels of that. I am so hungry that I am starting to look at the dogs in a "stranded on a desert island and I haven't eaten in three weeks sort of way". I finally succumb and drink a cup of coffee...with sugar, REAL sugar, eat some toast for breakfast...and I am reborn. My husband is happy, real Coke is now back in the house, the kids are happy, they can openly eat their Halloween candy, even though it is March and the dogs are relieved that I am not looking at them like they are ho-ho's.

As I said, I have done this diet a few times. My memory must be short...as I forget all of these things each time I start this diet. The truth is...I am a carboholic. I love breads and other sweets and I am much nicer (and saner) person when I get to eat them. I seem to do much better when I limit the overall amount of food I eat and workout.

Everything in moderation, right? riiiiiiiiiiight.

You're gonna need a hairnet...

I went a whole year without blogging...probably a good thing, as I didn't have anything nice to say. And as your mom has always said, "if you can't say anything nice...don't say anything at all". Wait, maybe that was Thumper from Bambi, I can't remember anymore...as I am getting *old*.

A good friend of mine was driving her daughter to school the other day and noticed that her daughter was wearing a miniskirt. She then proceeds to tell her daughter that she thought it was too short and her daughter replied with the infamous eye-roll, please just die look. So then she says..."well, if that skirt gets any shorter...you're gonna need a hairnet."


I was just taking a sip of my coffee when she whipped that last line out, and actually spewed. Something I haven't done in YEARS. The visual was just too much for my mind to handle because I know her daughter and instantly, I pictured that hairnet and then tried to take it back. Unfortunately, you can't "unknow", once you already know.

I prefer to think of people in their more genteel forms. IE...not farting, burping, vurping, scratching, picking, and now I have to add a whole new category...also not wearing a hairnet(in the immortal words of Sharon Stone)"down there".

And it is so funny that I want to think of people this way, because my reality is very far removed from that. For instance...let's examine my husband. For the record, I adore him, but at times, he is only once removed from Grok. He is a consumate picker, farter, belcher and scratcher. He can rearrange his privates seven ways to Sunday until he is happy with whatever position they have been placed. Not having a penis, myself, I probably will never understand the need to rearrange body parts (particularly private ones) in which other people might notice. At no time will you ever see me reach into my bra, and sling around one of the girls into a "better position". Not happening. I don't care if they look deformed with one hanging down to my knees and the other up by my neck. Again...Not happening.

Of course, there is the argument that boobs are contained in a bra, and a mans frank and beans are contained in merely underwear, and therefore more subject to movement. It sounds to me like the nut-bra would be a pretty viable option! haha...otherwise, I guess men could just wear a hairnet. ;)

What's the worst trouble you got into as a kid?

I was thinking about this a lot last night, things I had been punished for as a kid. One of my brothers tended to get into more trouble than the other, but it could be that one was just better at hiding whatever he was doing.

My oldest daughter (Frau Hitlerbrow - 12.5) came home from school yesterday wearing a pair of shorts she had been the previous day told she could NOT WEAR to school. Ever Ever Ever. We were pretty clear on the whole matter. So, what does she do? She sneaks them in her bookbag and wears them anyway. When she was busted on it, due to my husband picking her up a little earlier, she went into the whole, "I forgooooooot" spiel. Almost a Bill Clinton-ish lack of recall, she has. Also, she had forgotten her homeworks logs and reading logs several days that week. She conned my husband into signing a note the first time saying that she had completed her homework, but that through some great misfortune (and surely due to someone else entirely) her homework log was misplaced on, or around her desk, prior to her leaving the school that day.

The next day when she forgot it again, we said "too bad, so sad, hate it for you". She whined a little, "but they will take time off my recess". Lather, rinse, repeat. Hate it for you. So, the NEXT day, she sneaks in the shorts, lies about it...by saying that "she forgot".

Well, my husband was really mad, and when I found out...so was I, because she can ruin a nice new set of clothes quicker than you can say "spit". The question becomes...what is the right punishment? I mean, we take things away, but the girls each have so much crap, they are sort of blasé about the whole thing. OH, no tv? Well, we still can play the DS. No DS? well, we can still play with the gameboy. No gameboy?, well...we can still do our "homework" on the computer. You get the picture.

Growing up, I had some type of portable radio/casette player thing until I was 13, which was when I got a very small 13" black and white tv that had large rabbit ears and some tinfoil AND a bent coat hanger sticking out the window so I could get UHF reception, which added another two channels to the 4 that I already had. (woohoo!) The remote consisted of, "put it on the channel you planned on watching all night, OR get up, walk across the room and turn the knob". I loved that tv. So, when I got into trouble, my tv was taken away...or my radio player, and in either case, I was going to do what I needed to do to get them back.

So, my husband was leaving for work and I was going to be stuck with the raw end of the deal as far as I was concerned: how to deal with her. I decided that I wasn't going to take anything away...or ground her. I was going to make her work, something that she truly hates to do.

She was going to scrub the grout in her and her sisters bathroom. She hadn't ever done this before, so I had to go through the instructions on how to properly clean grout with a scrub brush, (wax on, wax off danielson). Then she had to mop the floor with lysol, followed by a clean water mop. And then clean the countertops, cabinet fronts, and finally the faucets with a toothbrush, polishing them to a shine. All in all, it took two hours...a few tears, and she was exhausted and ready to go to bed when she was done. I told her that if she "forgot" anything next week...that she would be doing it again, only with a much smaller brush.

I can't wait to see how my experiment turns out. Will THIS get her attention? God knows...everything else we have tried sure hasn't.

Which is what got me to thinking, what was (one) of the worst things I had done and gotten punished for? Well, I remember being young, maybe 7 or 8 and I had to use the bathroom. BAD. Both of our bathrooms were in use, so I went outside and surveyed the landscape. I spied my dads shed, which was right next to the carport. In the shed, was a large cinderblock with holes in it. Perfect..for my 7 year old butt. So, I pooped in his shed, and then closed the door and went on about my day, never thinking another thing of it. Several weeks later, he went into the shed to get a rake or something...and saw a perfectly formed human turd in the middle of his cinderblock, and I would imagine that the smell of it being enclosed in the shed for several weeks wasn't very pleasant. I remember I was playing outside and heard him start screaming at the top of his lungs (to where EVERY neighbor kid could hear), "WHO CRAPPED in MY SHED????!!!!!!!!".

I do not have a pokerface. I cannot lie and get away with it. Ever. My eyes bugged out when he was yelling and I thought about making a run for it, and he knew very clearly who that turd belonged to. He jerked me up and started beating on my butt right there in the yard and all the way into the house; yelling, "YOU DON'T CRAP IN MY SHED!!" over and over again. My dad never spanked me much...a few times really, and that was one of them. I learned my lesson and never ever tried it again. Lol...instead...I went in the yard out behind the tree, where I could blame it on the dog. (I'm kidding!).

God's Country...

Anyone ever camped? I would imagine if you have read any of my previous blogs, you would probably think that this is something that I just wouldn't do. Not true! I love camping. In fact, if they invented an insect and snake-free camp-ground, I would be on that like white on rice.

Since living down here, we have gone camping several times to Lake Claiborne. Yesterday, instead of going to church, we went to "God's Country", which is my husband's reference to The Bass Pro Shop to look for camping stuff.

If you haven't ever been to one of their stores, I highly recommend it; fun for the whole family, including wives that don't fish, hunt or kill other things intentionally. They usually have some kind of giant aquarium that houses native fish to that particular state. HUGE native fish, and very cool to watch, particularly because they are enclosed behind safety glass. Not to mention, any kind of any outdoor kind of equipment you could ever want from unbelievable ski and pontoon boats to camouflage underwear or panties.

*I* don't actually own any camouflage myself, (nor do I want to), however, I do question the necessity for camouflage underwear. Would you buy something like that...just to make sure your WHOLE outfit is coordinated? Men don't usually care about stuff like that, unless they are metrosexual. There could be a whole lot of metrosexual hunters, and I am just not aware of it.

Or, would you buy something like that, in the event that you were going to pee off your tree stand, so the deer wouldn't be able to so EASILY see your frank-n-beans?


Anyway, we had a great time, and loved looking at all the cool camping gear and everything else. Can't wait to go again. :)

Only in the South...

Went to the show (going to the movies down here)...

Only in the South...

Will you see a lady eating barbecued chicken wings out of her purse. I shit you not. Lol…forget the popcorn, jujubes, or even nacho's. The new movie theater food is chicken "wangs", apparently. Fortunately, she only licked her fingers a few times that I was aware of, as she had a tub of baby wipes in that monstrous "house-o-chicken" purse of hers.

Phyliss Diller was there too. I thought she was dead, but I could be wrong. If she is…then this surely is a long lost sister of hers, as she had the same wild hair, pruny-overtanned skin and she wore clothes that only Peg Bundy would love. She still wasn't as interesting as the purse eating chicken wing lady, but worthy of a mention.

I guess we need to get out more, I had forgotten how much fun people watching can be, especially when they are crazier than hell. J

Dirty Harriet...

Originally posted March 8, 2007..

Women and guns….A good mix? The jury is still out on this one, at least in my case. My husband is trying to talk me into getting one of those "girly" handguns. I am not entirely sure what that means (ie..I haven't googled it). I assume that it is one of the smaller varieties, with smaller bullets, and not "girly" in the sense that it comes in colors (which would actually be kind of cool if you could match it to your purse, if any GLOCK makers are reading, hint hint).

So, what's the point in having a little gun with itty bitty bullets?? I mean, you get into a situation where you have to shoot someone, all you are going to do is piss them off, even if you do hit them. And let's say you actually DO hit them, you better make it a good shot and then pump a few more into them for good measure. (Mrs. Damyankee...did you need to shoot the perpetrator 72 times? Yes...yes, I did. I had a girly gun.) The laws in Mississippi are quite liberal when it comes to that sort of thing. If your person or personal property (home or vehicle) are threatened, basically you can just go ahead blow the persons head off with nary a slap on the wrist.

It's not like the old days where the "alleged perpetrator" had to enter your house first and THEN you could shoot them. Now, if you were elderly, you could just shoot them on the porch or in your yard and then just drag them in to make it look like a forced entry. The police usually overlooked the bloody drag marks over the threshold in deference to your age. Just one of the perks of getting old, I guess.

I know a lot of women down here that carry guns. You might want to think twice about harassing some of these delicate looking southern belles. They will blow your junk off!

I, personally, have not ever fired a gun, unless you want to count the BB gun I got for my 8th, maybe 9th Christmas. I had it for all of three minutes. Long enough to put some BB's in there, go out in my grandma's front yard and accidentally shoot my dad in the @ss. Now, in my defense…it hit a rock FIRST and THEN launched towards his butt. Of course, those are just minor details; the fact remains the same that the gun was snatched up, never to be seen again.

[Red Ryder carbine-action, two hundred shot Range Model air rifle with a compass in the stock and a thing which tells time]


Honestly, I can't imagine carrying around a gun. While my purse is certainly big enough, I have a habit of not being able to find things when I need them, because I don't put them back in the right spot. I am moderately ashamed to admit that I have laid more than one unused tampon or other feminine product down on the McDonalds counter trying to look for some additional cash or something. This REALLY freaks out those teenage guys working the register. You can always tell who doesn't have a sister, lol. "UM M'AM…um…um….um…you can't put that on the counter". Well, it's not USED Opie, so take it down a notch.

And seeing as how I can't find my debit card when I need it 99% of the time, I don't need to be in the middle of being assaulted and trying to look for some tinyassed little gun in the middle of 157 unrecorded debit receipts, 1 thing of chapstick, a calculator that only works ½ the time, 17 various pens, a crayon from a restaurant, one of Cole's paci's, my wallet that won't close anymore because there is too much stuff in it, the checkbook register that fell out of the checkbook, the checkbook, gum that is no longer in the wrapper and now has hair on it, my keys, OH LOOK MY DEBIT CARD, a plastic spork, Kleenex that may or may not have been used, some gooey substance in the corner that I have been meaning to get out, (but am still holding out hope will just go away on it's own), one child's glove, hairbands, paperclips, one wayward Advil caplet, and the missing Colonel Mustard piece from the game CLUE.

I just don't see the "alleged perpetrator" being patient while I waded through all that crap to find a little girly gun in which I plan to use to cause him great bodily harm.

So, if I do get one…it's just going to have to be a .44 Magnum. Something that you can find quite easily amongst all that junk (and if it coordinated with the purse, EVEN BETTER!). This here's a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and it can blow your head clean off.


Now, you must ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well do you, punk?

You know you are tired...Part III

Still tired and we have a racoon problem at the house.

They like to eat our garbage, and toss it about the driveway. They try to eat the dog food out on the sun porch in the back, so the dogs have figured out that when they get fed, they better chow down now, and not try to save a snack for later.

Late one night, not so long ago, I thought I saw Rorie, our grey miniature schnauzer out in the backyard. I could have sworn that I let her in earlier, but she is somewhat sneaky and can past me with little notice.

So, I went out in the yard in my jammies and house slippers to call her in. She wasn't really all that far away from me, but in the dark, my vision isn't the greatest.

So, I called her...and called her to COME! COME RORIE!...YOU BETTER GET YOUR (insert really bad words here)OVER HERE.

No matter what vile thing I threatened her with...the little heifer wouldn't come.

It was when she stood up on her hind legs and HISSED at me...that I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle up.

A little too slowly, the gears in my mind started spinning....

Maybe this isn't Rorie, I thought to myself.

Maybe it is one of those giant racoon-a-saurus' that likes to bite.

Maybe, I have just spent the better part of 5 minutes, trying to call a dayum racoon into the house.

MAYBE...I need to get back in the house, before it realizes how *dumb* I am and decides to bite me just for being so stupid.

So, I go running back towards the door, (I may or may not have been screaming like a little girl)...

...and WHO should I see standing there?

That's right. My husband...laughing his @ss off. He had been watching the whole thing from the door, wondering if I had truly lost it this time.

The dogs were soundly asleep behind him on the couch, not a care in the world. I don't know what I would have done had the racoon actually obeyed.

You know you are tired when...Part II

After the baby was born last year, I set a new personal record for number of days without sleep. He had colic, so from late afternoon until late evening, he would scream. And scream.

And JUST when you thought he was done...he would scream some more.

It was awful, my nerves were shot, and even when he would sleep for a couple of hours, I could not ever get relaxed enough to get restful sleep.

One night, my husband found me laying in bed watching old-school Star Trek (the ones with Captain Kirk). He asked if I was alright...I replied I was fine. He then asked why I was watching Star Trek on Telemundo. WHAT?? Noway. As it turned out, I had watched nearly 30 minutes of this particular show...and hadn't realized the whole dayum thing was in Spanish.

I only speak enough Spanish to order a cold beer and ask for a bathroom, and that is after 6 years of taking it. That's American Education at its finest, folks. It's sad though, when you are so tired, you no longer recognize that whatever you are watching is not being spoken in your native tongue.

You know you are tired when...

So, I was thinking tonight, as I started a load of Permanent Press at 10:00 PM...how tired I am, and how late it is to be starting something like that. However, the alternative is to get up 4:30-5:00 AM tomorrow to run the load...and seeing as how I am not and will NEVER EVER EVER be a morning person, that just doesn't seem like a good idea.

And of course, once I start one little project, I feel compelled to whittle away at the 50 or so other neglected chores. I have asked myself time and again, what is WRONG with me? Why can't anything ever be completed from start to finish? The dishes...1/2 done as the baby threw a fit while I was washing them because he wanted to be IN the dishwasher licking the dirty dishes and I wouldn't let him. There are unfolded towels on my couch that the dogs have decided must be "blankies" because they are now laying on them. They will now have to be washed again as *one* of my (insert bad word here) dogs has rolled around in something that smells like a dead rhino's @ss.

There are 35+ socks (with NO MATCH) on my dryer waiting for a mate to suddenly reappear. The carpets...well, if you come in my house right now, it would be better to just keep your shoes on for health reasons. Since I opened the windows this week, there is a 1/4 inch layer of pollen on pretty much everything, and I believe that is why my nose is running to the level that I have just stuffed a rolled up kleenex (nose-pon) up there to at least hold the snot at bay and keep it from dripping on the keyboard.

And the fact is...I am tired and I do very dumb things when I am this tired.

Case in point, we were missing the remote to the main tv. Now, there was another tv very similar in the house that had the same remote, so we started using it; the problem came when the other tv was in use, and you had to GET UP, walk across the house, retrieve it, change the channel, walk back across the house and give it back.

This went on for DAYS. It had occurred to us, several days later that we could have just gotten up and manually changed the channel like it was done "back in the day", but I don't think we know how to do that anymore. We scoured the house for the missing remote, couch cushions were removed, chairs up-ended, toy boxes emptied, dressers re-organized. Still no remote; I was beginning to think we had thrown it away.

One afternoon, I went to get some orange juice out of the back of the refrigerator, and LO AND BEHOLD...standing up on end next to the orange juice, was the missing remote.

I knew as soon as I saw it...I did it. Unfortunately, the "watcher", Katie, was in the kitchen when I found it. Later that night, my husband asked where it had been found, I was just going to skirt (lie) around the whole thing...but she just had to tell him where it was. He just looked at me...and shook his head and wisely said nothing. So, now when it goes missing, the refrigerator is the first place we look. I probably won't live this one down for a long time to come.

It's Flip Flop Weather!

It's been warm this weekend, and my feet were dying to be free. Free from shoes, socks…basically any overall kind of restraint sans some flip-flops. Prior to moving down here, I hadn't even owned a pair of sandals. No sense in buying something you may only wear for 2 months out of the year. I had also never owned any foot care products sans a little polish and some clippers. Of course, I was only in my twenties then…and my feet still looked pretty good without an "intervention". The moment I turned 30, pretty much everything has gone to hell in a handbasket. My formerly smooth feet all of a sudden resembled the hide of an elephant butt.

Men can't possibly understand what it takes to get feet to be "sandal-ready". I'm not naming names, but it has been my experience that the only foot care that men engage in may be cutting their toenails. And only THEN…if their wife or girlfriend starts complaining about getting stabbed at night with their man's daggers. A woman, on the other hand…well, she has to have the "full on" pedicure. If you can afford it, and can find a good pedicurist, this is SURELY the way to go. However, a good one is hard to find, and very expensive when you do find her. I did have a good one once; sadly, she sold her business. I am a little scared of the Koreans in the grocery store plaza…they talk to each other the whole time in Korean (while not speaking a word to me), and it always sounds like they are pissed off. I am a little wary of pissed off sounding people with sharp tools. You know what I mean? Plus, I think they may be saying mean things about me because I can't understand what they are saying. Paranoid? Maybe. A little bit of the truth? PROBABLY.

So, I finally found an hour this weekend to do my pedicure. Like I said, men have no idea what this entails. First, the feet have to be soaked, cuticles cut or pushed back, nails trimmed, buffed and smoothed, heels and other dry spots scrubbed until all traces of dead skin are gone, feet moisturized, nails re-cleaned to remove moisturizer and finally you can start painting. If you have serious foot issues, corns or calluses, well…those require more work. A lot more work. If you have bunions…well, that requires medical intervention and no polish is going to be able to make those feet look any better. KATIE HOLMES…are you listening??

The painting part…is my downfall. First, I am bad at choosing colors. I have TONS of polish and pretty much every color looks like hell on me. And even if the color DOES look good on me, well…I guess I just don't get the whole "how to get the polish on just the nail" thing. The first coat always looks like some 5 year old unleashed with finger paint while on a "just ate too many cookies and had a few too many Koolaid's" sugar binge. So, then you have to get the remover out, and carefully take a cutip and remove the excess. In my case, maybe a cutip…AND some cottonballs. The art is to not drag the cotton through the wet paint…which I do pretty much every time. So, when things are all said and done, the color is on….it also looks like I have hairy toenails. I just pray that people aren't looking too close, and if they are…I just tell them I have a hormone problem. Invariably, someone will say…"oooh, I get that too!".

Haha...So, if I suck at it so bad…why go through all this hassle? Simple…in the south, that's just how it's done. If you wear flip flops or sandals, you have to do your feet. Period. Women are made fun of ALL the time by other women for having nasty feet, OR for committing a one of the largest of spring/summer social faux pas'…wearing sandals without polish on your nails. Now, you can go to the grocery store in your fuzzy house flip-flops, but by GOD…you better have slapped some polish on those feet.

It's that Time of Year Again...

The dreaded swimsuit shopping season. NOTHING...not even spiders can send me into a tizzy as easily as having to go shopping for a new swimsuit. As I have stated before, I am no Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Model. Hell, I couldn't even make it into Field & Stream modeling fish bait in a swimsuit. Unfortunately, I like to go to the pool and most especially the beach, and in general, those locales require a swimsuit of some variety. Whatever happened to the oldschool 1920's suits that covered your whole body?

For that matter, why aren't scuba suits acceptable beach wear? Surely they can make something that you won't roast in, but protects you from the suns rays, covers up (and CONTAINS) all necessary areas of fat...and looks good too? I think there is a market for it...I really do.

So, here is how swimsuit shopping works for me. In the car on the way to the store, I psych myself up: This year...you will find a suit that looks good on you, is the right color, style and allows you to either lay out or swim, and I repeat this until I am able to get out of the car and force myself into the swimsuit department. You see, several years back, before I was ever pregnant with Cole, I very dumbly bought a bikini. My first...since high school. I didn't look great in it, but the lighting must have been extraordinarily good in the store because *I* thought I looked acceptable.

I should note for the record, that any store that sells swimsuits, should put at least one chaise lounge in their dressing rooms. Because, what looks good while you are standing up, sucking everything in...may *not* look quite as good when you actually go to lay down on the chaise lounge.

So, there I was...at our neighborhood pool...I went to lay down on the chaise lounge...and my left boob decided that it was no longer going to be contained within the confines of the given material, and that it would rather go hang out nearer, if not under my left armpit. I felt pretty bad for the little kids playing in the toddler pool that day. They got to watch "the crazy lady" try to wrestle my left "girl" back into a piece of material that was roughly 2 square inches wide. I think Janet Jackson would have called that a "wardrobe malfunction".

Lesson learned. Now, the second reason for the need for a chaise lounge in the department store...you have to make sure that you can successfully flip over to your stomach while wearing your swimsuit. And it would be NICE to be able to see what you actually look like, while doing that. I have "issues" with chaise lounges. Rarely a season goes by that I do not collapse one, while trying to do "the flip", which usually ends up with my butt pointed towards the sky which causes the back of my suit to cinch up into the crack of my @ss, as I disentangle my legs and arms from between the pvc strips. Again...a sight no one really wants to see. As for the stores that sell swimsuits...they really need to do away with those fun-house mirrors. They should also put one of those disclaimer stickers on them that says..."caution...objects in the mirror ARE much larger than they appear" . Unless of course, you get a dressing room with the dreaded 3-way mirror. Even if you DON'T have any self-esteem issues, you will after checking out your butt in a swimsuit in one of those. And it really doesn't matter what size you are...a 4, 14 or 24: NO ONE looks good in those. NO ONE.

So, I discovered at the end of last years swimming season...a new kind of suit. They call it The Miracle Suit. My family and I were at a waterpark late last summer, and standing in front of me was this very attractive older lady, wearing a gorgeous swimsuit. I couldn't help but stare at her, as she was at least 10 years older, but she looked stunning in her suit. (b!tchIhateher), and I, by comparison, wearing a raggedy t-shirt and shorts over my suit, looked like I had been hanging out at the local cow pond all day long. So...when I got home, I decided to try to locate the suit she was wearing. I am, what you would call...a google guru. If it's out there...I will find it. It only took me about 15 minutes, and I located it. GOOD LORD...these things are expensive, no wonder she looked so good! I had to have one, but wasn't willing to pay that kind of money for something that may or may not work. The only solution...EBAY. So, I locate the exact suit, in my size and ordered it at a steep discount, NWT, of course, lol. It supposedly has a three-way containment material. I wasn't even aware there were two ways, but I digress...

My suit comes in and it is gorgeous. Plus, it is guaranteed to make you look 10lbs thinner. In my opinion, a true miracle would be 20lbs thinner, but beggars can't be choosers. The moment arrives, I tried it on. It really did make me look 10lbs thinner. It sucked my stomach in, to a near flat level, my waist looked several inches smaller, as did my hips, my butt was lifted, my boobs were where they were supposed to be, I didn't have fat trying to sneek out the back or the sides, and it hadn't pushed all the fat down to my knees. It really was a true miracle, but I still wonder...where DOES all that fat go? Of course, now that I have been working out...it is too big, and I am going to have to buy another one.

Let the anxiety begin.

Week from Hell...

What a week...So, of course everything starts out all nice and normal, hectic, with more to do than humanly possible, but I am pretty well used to that. Then we throw in the monkey wrench that it is spring break, and the girls are boooored. I have plenty of things that I think will keep them busy, but they are opposed to performing any actual work, as it is spring break, and they are on "vacation".

I can honestly say, the only thing I miss from being in school is all the time that you get off from it. Although I work as a government contractor and get a few more days off than non-government workers, it is still nowhere NEAR what I had off when I was in school. I could do with a two-week Christmas break, a week at Thanksgiving, several teachers institute days, holidays for Casmir Polaski, Martin Luther, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Passover, Easter break and course, a week long spring break and 2.5 month long summer break.

*whew*...all that learnin' is HARD work, you GOTTA have all those days off. And we wonder why we are behind the Japanese, Germans, French, English and other countries in the educational realm. It's because we take too many days off from school! Next thing you know, there will be a national day honoring Foot Fungus Sufferers (FFS) or some nonsense like that.

Of course, I say this, because although the kids have off of school from these days, *I* do not.

Cole still has to go to daycare (if it is open, and it isn't for a lot of those holidays). If he can't go, then I have to either take a day off or pay a sitter $50 a day to watch him, after already paying the daycare for the week in advance. The ol' double whammy.

In general, I use my precious Paid Time Off (PTO, which encompasses vacation and sick days) for the kids sick days. With three kids, typically, at least one of them is sick at any given time.

Although I had strep throat this week, that did not prevent me from going to work, as I could not afford to waste a day on myself; I may need it if one of the kids gets sick. The only illnesses to keep me from work would be a "combo" sickness: ear infection + sinus infection + strep throat + fever over 101.5 along with a small bout of diarrhea. Anything short of that...and I will be at work. Miserable, with Kleenex stuffed up my nose, possibly wearing depends in the event of an accident, but working.

I can thank my parents for that. If they did anything, it was to instill a work ethic that is bar none. Arm broken? Don't complain...you have another one, it's time you learned to be ambidextrous anyway. Fever? take some Tylenol. High fever?...cold washcloth and Tylenol. Ear infection? hydrogen peroxide and a cotton ball, you will be right as rain. Diarrhea? Imodium will do the trick, and only eat dry toast and drink warm 7-up. Broken ankle with the bone sticking out? Well, let's give it a week and see if it doesn't pop back in on its' own. (lol...you think I am kidding on this one...ask bug boy about that). MO TUSSIN'

So, anyway...I had bored kids that called me at work 937 times a day (some examples: "ummm...if I accidentally put something metal in the microwave and then heard a loud pop, but it didn't blow up or nothin'...do you think I could still eat the food?", ALSO "soooo....whatcha doin'? Me? Nothin'...I'm bored. Oh, and the dog threw up underneath the dining table. I just wanted you to know about that so you wouldn't forget to clean it up when you got home", AND "some guy came by to paint inside the sun porch, and he asked if you or dad were home, so I told him that you were both in the shower because I didn't want him to know we were home alone". *sigh*...

In addition, work has been a nightmare this week, my throat was killing me to the point where I couldn't sleep, and then I come to find out that I had a dentist appointment this week for a filling. Only the filling turned out to be a root canal in one tooth and a filling in another.

They gave me so much anesthetic, my face slid right off of my skull, which is always a good look for me.

Later that afternoon, Lloyd came home from work and showed me a sore that he has had on his leg for a week. I suspected on MONDAY that it was a spider bite. By Tuesday, it was looking pretty bad and he called his dr. to have him call him something in. By Wednesday, it looked like this:











I made him go to the ER, as I really thought it might be a brown recluse bite. The rent-a-doc there said it was just a regular old abscess, and gave him some antibiotics and cleaned it out.

Now, I have looked at 100's of pictures of abscesses, and 100's of pictures of brown recluse bites over the last week...and his wound in NOWAYSHAPEORFORM resembled an abscess. When he went to go get his prescriptions filled, the pharmacist said that it looked like a brown recluse bite, she sees them pretty often. Everyone who has seen it, besides Dr. Moron at the ER said it looked like a brown recluse bite.

For the moment, it looks like it is getting better, and I hope that is the case, because that is the damn nastiest thing I have EVER seen. And of course, I am very skittish right now...checking and rechecking the bed sheets and pretty much everywhere else for spiders.

Lastly, I think my trainer is trying to kill me. She upped the weights on my routine and didn't say anything. I went to use the leg press and it feels as though I strained a muscle in my hoo-hoo. I didn't think that I was even USING my hoo-hoo to help push up that stack of weights, since it is a "leg" press, but...that just goes to show you what I know. Which after this week...is pretty much nothing.

Dr. Visits Part II...

Another recent visit to my regular dr. in town didn't go as planned either. I was very sick. I had been running a fever for days, throat killing me, sinuses killing me, it even hurt to pee. So, I broke down and made an appointment.

This particular dr. runs a pretty tight schedule, and gets you in…and out. No time for leisurely reading here. Not that there is anything to read.

So, he diagnoses me with strep throat, ear infection, sinus infection, bronchitis and a bladder infection. He admonished me for not coming in much sooner, but I told him that I was hoping that it was just going to "go away". Haha.

It was decided that I was going to be getting a decadron shot in addition to a 10 day course of Biaxin. The big guns. So, his nurse has me stand on the floor with my pants down around my ankles, bending over the table so she can give me a shot in my hiney. Honestly, I was too sick to care where she put the shot.

I felt it go in, and I could feel her PUSHING me from behind. Which was weird for a whole lot of reasons I am not going to list here. Then I heard her grunt…while still pushing. Again…weird. She then told me that she couldn't get the stuff to come out of the needle, so she was going to try the other cheek. Like I said…I was pretty sick…I didn't care.

So, she sticks it in…pushes some more, grunts some more…and then I heard: "plink".

The unmistakable sound of a needle that has just broken off…while in your butt.

I heard her say, "Oh *&^%$ ...hang on baby, don't go anywhere, I have to go and get some forceps".

Now, I don't know about you…but where in the hell was I going to go…with my pants hanging around my ankles, blood dripping down from both sides of my buttcheeks and a broken needle sticking out of it? I really didn't see myself just wandering about the waiting area "socializing" given the circumstances. Do you mind if I borrow that magazine? I am just waiting for her to get back and dig this out of my rear.

She comes back, retrieves the needle, puts some sponge-bob square pants bandaids on each of my 'cheeks and I see that she has another shot. I chose this time to speak up and inform her that this was her final chance. If she couldn't get this to go in, we were going to have to consider other options.

Well, this shot worked…Oh…MY…GOSH…that stuff sucks. It's thick…and cold, and I honestly felt better with the broken needle in my butt. So, I finally get to leave…and can hardly sit down in my seat to drive home. It's hard to drive with your back pressed up against the seat, and your butt suspended in the air. I don't know how, but I made it home, got out of the car, limping…on both legs. Lol...

I wish I could say these were the only two incidents like this…sadly, they are not. These sorts of things happen about 75% of time with all of my dr/dentist visits down here, hence the reason I get so anxious when I know I have to go in.