She's a DamYankee

Motel Hell

2011-09-14T10:35:00.036-05:00

For Cori, on her birthday...

A little over a year ago, my baby brother, Nathan, and his gorgeous wife, Hope, were married. The wedding itself was beautiful. Stunning, in fact. It was held down in Natchez, MS at a southern plantation called Dunleith.

[Dunleith]

We had the option of staying at Dunleith for the weekend, but they are not fond of young children running amok inside the mansion, what with all of those priceless antiques and knicknacks. Can't say as I blame them; I have seen what Cole can do with scissors, a Sharpie, gorilla glue, and supposedly washable finger paint. Not that those things would be lying around the mansion, but if they were, he has an uncanny ability to sniff them out. He's like McGuyver, able to take seemingly innocuous items, put them together in unique ways, although his purposes are more geared toward destruction, rather than self-preservation.

Needless to say, we didn't stay there. My other, very slightly younger brother, David, found us a place to stay, that was not only economical, but on the internet...looked decent. Not only that, all of my other out of town relatives were staying there, so win/win..right? NOT SO MUCH.

[Front of our motel, obviously taken when it was built, because it sure as hell doesn't look like that now]

Looking at the pictures below, it doesn't really look like the hell-hole it is, right? However, had I spent two seconds reading the reviews on trip-advisor, I would have at least been forewarned. Did I do that? nooo...I did not.

[Internet picture of what our room was supposed to look like]

[Internet picture of what our bathroom was supposed to look like]

Anyway, we arrived at the hell-hole, mid afternoon on the day of the rehearsal dinner. Immediately we saw the sign in front stating that they offered "Free Deluxe Continental Breakfast with Frozen Waffles". I laughed, because I seriously thought it had to be some kind of joke. I mean really?...advertise the fact that you were offering L'eggo My Eggo's on the big sign out front? Like that would be the deal clincher.

Hmm...where to stay? where to stay? Ohhh...THIS PLACE has FREE frozen waffles...that does it for ME! I'm in!!!

We got our room key from the much less than helpful (if not downright rude) desk staff. As soon as we entered the room, Katie, my then 13 year old, asked why we always stayed in dumps? Um...not sure Kate, but it looked good on the internet! Of course, the motel was one of those older kinds in which you access your room from the outside.

We opened the door, and after getting past the initial smell of cigarettes, old people, and fungus, we noticed the room was TINY. The double beds were nearly touching each other, the TV was probably 20 years old, the carpeting was not the kind that you would ever consider walking around in bare feet, the sink was one of those rusted out basin kind with the plumbing exposed, with only a sink and NO counter space; there was a chair available near the TV, and of course...the ever popular Gideon's Bible. No self respecting motel is without one of those! The only thing missing was the chalk outline of the dead body of the previous tenant. Joy.

Entering the tub/toilet area, it was not possible to close the bathroom door, if in fact you were actually sitting on the toilet. Instead, you would have had to stand in the tub, close the door and then you would have had enough room for your feet. Actually, Lloyd still did not have enough room for his legs, he had to sit on the toilet, with one leg in front of him and one leg in the tub. I'm sure that was comfortable. The exhaust fan didn't work and I wasn't the least bit surprised. I happened to read some reviews when we got back and noticed that one person had complained about a bunch of toe-nail clippings near their sink. Toe.Nail.Clippings. *gross*

I was a little nervous about the double beds...Lloyd and I are not really made to sleep in those together. He is big, and I am not tiny by any means. Therefore we had to sleep on our sides, laying in the same direction, and perform synchronized flipping throughout the night, lest one of us fall out and land on the disgusting carpeting.

[Actual picture of our room]

[Actual picture of the "sink area"]

No crappy motel room is complete without the disgusting, rattletrap, leaking, moldy window unit. Lloyd immediately took that apart and set the pieces and parts in the tub for a thorough cleaning with bleach. YES...he has done this before in several crappy motels we have stayed in, so he is a veritable pro at it. And YES...we did bring bleach.

I know that one or two of these problems would have been enough to send some of you packing, but as I said earlier, we have stayed at a crappy motel or two before, and we can tolerate a lot. Or we are just stupid, take your pick.

Anyway, the rehearsal and subsequent dinner at Dunleith went well, and we made our way back to the motel around 11. We noticed that lots of folks weren't actually in their rooms, they had dragged their lowly chair to the balcony landing in front of their rooms and were partying with their friends, family and neighbors. When in Rome (or the ghetto, as it were)...you know. So, we spent an hour or so mingling with our out of town family ghetto style, and headed off to bed for our synchronized ~~swimming~~ sleeping.

[Balcony view...lovely, isn't it?]

The next morning, Katie got up to go and get her continental breakfast, consisting of NOT L'eggo My Eggo waffles, but the generic Walmart Great Value freezer burned waffles. She was already very unimpressed by our choice of motels, and that pretty much just sealed the deal for her that we, as her parents, are cheapskates and we suck.

I had to get dressed to go to the bridesmaids bruncheon at Dunleith, and really couldn't spend a whole lot of time worrying about her overall well being and happiness. I dressed in a button down blouse and khaki shorts that seemed acceptable at the time. Much to my dismay, not only was I the oldest bridesmaid there by nearly 15 years, but I was also horrendously under dressed. I vaguely recalled something on the invitation that said something about wearing a dress, however, I must have ignored that because I only owned two dresses: one that I wore to the rehearsal dinner the night before (purchased earlier that afternoon) and the one that I was wearing in the wedding that day. The other bridesmaids looked refreshed, wearing pretty dresses, with their hair and makeup looking perfect despite the fact that the majority of them had been out partying ALL NIGHT. I could only take solace in the fact that their 26 year old selves would one day be 40+, and looking great would not come so easily to them. Muwahahaha.

Having made it through brunch, somewhat sheepishly, it was now time to start getting ready for the wedding. Lloyd ferried me back to motel hell, and took the kids for lunch at Pizza Hut across the street, so that I would have the whole room to myself to get ready. THIS is when things really went down hill.

I went down to the front desk to see if I could get an iron, as I had not yet ironed my dress. To obtain an iron, in this fine establishment, the following things were required: $10 *cash*, a current drivers license (surrendered through the duration of the iron lease), your first born, 3 references with phone numbers, and a pap smear. Ok, not the last three, but you seriously had to pay for the iron and give them your drivers license. Obviously, that was a little bit too Orwellian for me....not to mention, the ladies at the front desk were just plain mean. I really couldn't understand what they said, although I have lived in the south a relatively long time. It sounded like a ghetto version of the guys from Swamp People.

...so I went back to the room and "attempted" to plug in my garment steamer to allow it to heat up. YES, we had brought the steamer, but I am not terribly good at using it and was really hoping for an iron. It never occurred to me that the room wouldn't have one!

Another thing lacking in motel hell were outlets. There was one behind the ancient chinese secret TV, but getting to it proved to be a b!tch. I tried to move the "entertainment console" however, it was bolted to the wall. I found another outlet behind our nightstand...however, that was also bolted to the wall. I discovered that if I removed the drawer, I was able to successfully plug in the steamer. A lot of work for such a simple thing.

Into the disgusting tiny shower I went, and upon exiting, I noticed that not only had the bathroom taken on a sultry/South American Amazonian type feel, but so had the entire room due to the steamer warming up. Crap, the fan doesn't work. Literally, you could not see 2 feet in front of your face. I half expected to hear the shrill sounds of those weird forest monkeys.

Women are going to understand this next part. It is NOT POSSIBLE to do your hair and put makeup on in 100% humidity. You can try, but I can assure you that any and all makeup is going to slide off of your face and your hair will go one of two ways: dampish poofy frizzy, or limp frizzy. Take your pick. Either way, it's all bad.

I won't lie, I felt slightly panicky then. I had less than 1/2 hour before Lloyd was going to be back, I couldn't put makeup on, I hadn't steamed my dress, and my hair, given the current humidity, was hours a way from thinking about being dry, or it was going to be an afro in minutes. Either way, the options were not looking good. So, I put on a bra and panties, shook an entire bottle of travel sized baby powder between "the girls", slapped a bunch of giant velcro rollers in my wet hair (which if you like to *keep* your hair is bad bad bad) and attempted to steam the dress. I figured if I got that done, I could at least cut the steamer off, and open the doors to the "breeze alley" of our motel and maybe it would be a little less rain-foresty.

Now the dress was one of those full length, poofy Scarlett O'Hara kind (I am sure there is a proper name, but since I only own two, I am no expert in dress "styles), and it was nearly as tall as I was. I tried to hang the dress on the steamer but it was just too long and was dragging on the disgusting floor.

[My dress, on a much thinner person...but in watermelon]

What to do? What to do?

Aha!! My dumb@ass came up with what (at the time) seemed nothing short of a brilliant solution. I would put the steamer on the bed, hang the dress from that, and steam it.

This WOULD have been a great idea if A) the steamer was made of cast iron and B) it didn't have roller wheels and C) the dress didn't weigh a lot more than the steamer. No sooner had I hung the roughly 35lb dress when the whole water filled thing tipped over...onto my dress, subsequently crashing everything to the floor. In fact, the entire butt of my dress was soaked right through the crinoline. At this point, I definitely started cursing and even made up a few new words, and then I cried. At *exactly* that moment my dear sweet husband came back to pick me up, expecting me to have my hair and makeup done, and dressed ironed/steamed. HA!! Was he ever in for a rude awakening!

He was assaulted by the Amazonian feel as soon as he entered the room, only to find his wife wearing only a bra and panties, velcro curlers in still wet hair, crying, and kneeling on the floor desperately trying to towel off her very expensive bridesmaid dress. I give him a lot of credit. Lesser men would have turned around and immediately fun far far away. But he must really love me, because instead of asking what the hell happened, or giving me a bunch of crap about it, he told me he would take care of the dress, and I could finish getting ready. Hallelujah. Amen.

I put on a blouse and shorts, opened the door to the room, and plugged my blow dryer into the single outlet located near the sink.

ZZZZTTTTT!! (I know that sound)

Oh. My. God.

I just blew the power to the room. No power. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Pure Darkness.

Insert maniacal "psychiatric ward" type laughter here.

Lloyd, being calm, cool and collected went down to the front desk and asked them to reset the breaker. Apparently, he hadn't yet had to deal with the mean women working the front desk. Good luck with that, I thought.

There was nothing I could do at that point, but wait. And wait. Ten to fifteen minutes later, he stomped back into the room, pissed off, and explained to me (with gritted teeth) that the building maintenance guy didn't know how to reset the breaker, and that it was "going to be awhile".

Insert more maniacal laughter here.

What the hell do I do now? I wasn't dressed, didn't have any part of my hair done, didn't have any makeup on my exceedingly greasy face, had giant pink ghetto rollers in my hair, my dress was soaking wet, and I couldn't see in the dark to gather up my stuff. On the plus side, since the steamer had been shut off, the room was slightly less tropical. Very slightly.

The only option was to call my dad and beg to borrow his room at the mansion to get dressed. Of course, he had no issue with that. I am sure he heard something in my voice that said, if you don't do this, I may end up killing you, so he really didn't have too many options.

The downside of this (haha...where was the UPSIDE?) was having to to do the walk of shame into the mansion with the big pink velcro curlers still in my hair.

The wedding itself was lovely. Hot, but beautiful. My dad's room at the mansion was amazing, probably the nicest room I have ever seen in my life. His bathroom, alone, was bigger than our entire room at motel hell. We were gypped...no doubt.

Much later that night, we arrived back to motel hell, the power was back on, our air conditioner was working, especially after Lloyd banged on it a few times. We slept the sleep of the dead, our stress was over. I had no more complaints after that, after all....what more could have happened?

Exactly a year ago today...

2011-06-10T23:07:00.012-05:00

Funny isn't it? How times flies? It was a year ago today that my family and I were visiting Disney World. If I could turn back the clock, we would be at Typhoon Lagoon...

For those of you not Disneyfied, Typhoon Lagoon is one of two Disney water parks. It is a beautiful park, very tropical, which is pretty nice when it is hotter than the hinges of HELL if you are stupid enough to choose to go to Disney World in June. Although we were ridiculously lucky when we visited that week that it was only in the low 90's, I don't care who you are...that's STILL HOT. Factor in the humidity and even larger bugs than Mississippi has, and you are a complete moron if you decide to vacation there in the summer at all. That being said, I sure hope we can go back next year!! If you have ever read even one blog, you already know that we are morons.

SO...where does this adventure begin? *sigh*...

There we are, about to embark on our one day visit to the water park. I, Queen Moron, decided to wear "Old Faithful". Women know what I am talking about. Old Faithful is the bathing suit you have had so long, it is an extension of yourself, an appendage really. It no longer looks good on you, it just serves a purpose: You can get out of it to pee. That's right...I said it. It's the comfortable bathing suit that you really shouldn't even wear in your back yard, even if Favorite Neighbors aren't home, much less out in public.

You see, bathing suits for more...ahem...mature women aren't made of the usual material that you see women under 40 wearing. Women over 40 are wearing bathing suits constructed of rebar and space-age trampoline material. There may even be some of that sham-wow crap in there, I can't say for sure.

Take the ever popular Miracle Suit...guaranteed to make you look 10 lbs thinner. It's claims are absolutely true. You see, it sucks in all your stomach fat and pushes it into your boobs. If you are an A/B cup, you look fabulous. If you are a C/D cup, well...you look like Dolly Parton. It cinches your waist, lifts your butt, and gives you a brazillian wax. Ok, I am kidding on that last part, but it really does make you look like a much better you. The only catch is: if you take it off, you can't get the damn thing back on if its wet. It's physically impossible. You can't pull it to the side either if you have to use the ladies room. The steel netting just won't allow it. It would take the Jaws of Life to wrench that sucker to the side.

Your only option is to take the whole thing off, do your thing, hang your bathing suit on the hook provided, stand in just your flip-flops in the stall of the nasty bathroom of the Water Park, hoping to God that it will dry off soon enough that not TOO many people will be looking at your bucked naked booty through the crack of the stall.

YES...that's happened at Geyser Falls. Lloyd finally sent someone in there to look for me because he got worried. It takes 30 minutes for one of those suits to dry enough to get back on. That's a whole lot of people looking through the crack of the stall at your nakedness wondering what the hell you are doing. Just drying off...

Anyway, having had that little situation happen the previous year, I opted to wear Old Faithful to Typhoon Lagoon. I figured I would never see anyone I knew, and I don't care if strangers think I look like a whale. It's not as if I haven't seen a hundred Chewbacca looking European guys wearing banana hammocks at other water parks. At the very least, I am mowed down, and completely covered. A veritable super-model in comparison.

SO...One of the first things we decided to check out was the wave pool.

I have been to a lot of water parks, and spent a fair amount of time in wave pools...they are a lot of fun. This one, truly, is the biggest one I have ever seen. It's absolutely enormous. Every three minutes you hear a GONG, everyone starts screaming, and they release...one tsunami style wave. So, there I am, standing in about hip deep water, I hear the GONG, the crowd goes crazy and I noticed that everyone is turning around, placing their backs to the wave. Huh...interesting.

Like the good sheeple I am, I follow suit. Baaaa.

I turn around, and this wave (way way over my head now) propelled me forward about 10 feet, smack dab into the back of this young college guy in front of me. The only problem was that it also knocked off the top part of my suit.

So, me and my Mamaw boobs...are planted squarely on this poor guys back. In fact, I knocked him down, I am laying down on top of him...

bare boobed...writhing....desperately trying to get up

with more and more water rushing over the top of me, I couldn't get up, no matter how much I fought it, or how much he tried to get me off of him. Truth be told, he was just a little fella...he never had a chance.

[momma's gonna take good care of you]

You know, in some states, I could go to jail for lesser things than what just happened...

SO...the wave finally passes, and I am now in 18 inches of water, panicking, trying to get my suit back on...he's out from under me, but my boobs are scraping some seriously rough concrete.

I tried to apologize to him, but what do you say? UM...yeah...sooo....I am really sorry about just molesting your back with my big 'ol mamaw boobs... Meanwhile, he is just stammering, "uh uh uh uh uh", his buddies...are literally peeing in their pants laughing. Awesome.

Humiliated, I finally got Old Faithful back on. I really didn't care that lefty was trying to sneak out of the armhole, and that righty was pointed due north. Adjusting and positioning them at that point would have seemed a little superfluous. Coverage was the only consideration. Head hanging down, I went and went and sat with the other Mamaws and Papaws in the shade, where I belonged, looking around to see who had video camera's.

I haven't looked on YouTube, but with as many people that were there, the odds aren't really in my favor that someone WASN'T videoing their grand kids playing in the wave pool that day, and got more video than they bargained for. Hopefully they just don't know how to post it on the internet.

A funny thing happened...

2010-04-13T10:08:00.013-05:00

I had to let enough time pass in order to distance myself from the actual happening before I could write about it. This IS a small southern town after all, and you can't go to the bathroom without someone knowing about it.

One weekend, in the recent past, we helped our favorite neighbors put up a new fence. Fortunately for me and Mrs. Favorite Neighbor (Mitzi), we are just the grunts and do as we are told. Chief Engineer for this project, Mr. DamYankee, was the one with the muscle and would be doing the bulk of the work.

Prior to starting on the fence building we needed to rent a two person auger. Now, the last time that an auger was used, for a different section of fence, it was Mr. DamYankee, and Mr. Favorite Neighbor at the helm. This time, it would be Mr. DamYankee, Mitzi and myself.

I won't lie...I was a little nervous that we wouldn't be able to handle it since weighed more than a large bull (with horns).

That being said, we trotted off to a local rental place to obtain the beast. Mr. DamYankee told us to wait in the truck while he took care of business.

Um...riiiight. There is no way I am going to a place like that, with tons of cool stuff to look at and wait in the truck. Sorry...don't see that happening. Fortunately, Mitzi and her inner 5 year old felt the same way, so we hopped out. Just because we are grunts, does not mean we will always do as we are told.

Inside the place was a myriad of interesting things to look at, most of which I would never be able to name or describe. However, there was a party section amidst all of the machinery and tools. In this festivity section were a large selection of crystal and silver, wedding columns, fake looking funeral flowers (or wedding, depending on context...I suppose), candelabra's...you name it...it was there.

So...she and I busied ourselves touching everything and commenting on some of the gaudiness, when in the middle of our snarkiness...I stepped on something. (karma much?)

Something mushy. Something mushy...that stunk REAL REAL bad. At first I thought maybe it was a dead mouse or something. I have stepped on one of those before, barefooted, and it did have a similar "give".

Looking down...Oh no, Hell No...I just stepped on a dog turd...in the middle of a store... on berber carpeting no less. *crap*

And upon further inspection, this was no wayward turd...there were piles EVERYWHERE. You know...in hindsight, I realize it was my fault for not looking down and watching where I was walking. But in all honesty...in the 40 years that I have been here on this Earth, I have never stepped on anything even remotely like that in the middle of a business establishment. It just hasn't happened.

So...not knowing entirely what to do...I mean, this wasn't something that you could just flick off...as it was ALL UP IN the grooves of my tennis shoes, I solicited Mitzi for some advice.

After I explained my predicament, and trying to do our best to stifle our hysterical laughter, we decided to sneak outside and find a grassy knoll in which to attempt to remove said poo from my 993's.

So...there we are, me walking on the side of my foot, nonchalantly trying to exit the store without drawing attention to the problem, while nearly peeing myself from contained laughter. Across the way, we found a little grassy area, a small stick and I went to work...laughing even harder. I know that if I don't get it off, I will have to get into Mr. DamYankee's truck with crappy feet and he won't be happy. Not to mention the smell when he turns the heat on.

I managed to get a bunch of it off, and at that time he waved us over telling us it was time to go. We are still hysterically laughing at the absurdity of the situation when he asks..."what is the matter with the two of you?". We told him...and he asked us if we went back in to tell them about what happened.

UM...no. No we did not.

I mean...obviously judging by the number of piles over in the wedding section...SOMEONE in there is very aware that there is a dog that prefers to poop on carpeting over going outside. It wasn't like some random dog just wandered in from the outside and used the wedding section for its own personal toilet (multiple times), you know?

So...the question is...would YOU have gone back in and said something?

What's that smell?

2010-01-19T21:23:00.012-06:00

Cue the Lynyrd Skynyrd song..."oooohh...what's that smell?"

Tonight's topic: I smell bad.

No..no...I really do. I bought some new lotion from the Body Shop. You know, I often wonder...what the hell was I thinking? I don't know what it is about the Body Shop, but I can drop some serious cash in there, and never use one single thing I purchase. Here's the reason: they lure you in with these wonderful smells; it's just so intoxicating. So, the friendly goth helper person talked me into making my own lotion. UM...no, I just want some of the stuff that already smells good. You know...pre-made. "oh, you will be so much happier with your own concoction".

DERRR..ok.

So...I mixed together a few things...earthy things. I remember there being some cedar in there, maybe some saffron (I really have no idea what that even is...it just sounded cool), and some other things that the helper person said would be "interesting". I really should pay better attention...I don't want to be "interesting"...I want to blend, fly under the radar. Not smell like an armpit. That being said, the concoction smelled good while I was still in the store....so I left happily with my purchase.

However, something must change in the chemistry as soon as you walk out the door. You know how chili takes a few days to develop it's TRUE flavor? Apparently the crap that I mixed up from the body shop was much like that.

It's smells like an earthy...dirty...stinky

butt. hole.

I went to bed wearing the lotion on my hands and arms and within minutes Mr. DamYankee was asking me if I had farted. Uh...no. I am wearing a new lotion. Do you like it? He started to laugh and asked if I had really paid for a lotion that smelled farty.

Not intentionally.

Another 10 minutes went by and he was begging me to PLEASE go wash it off, as there was no way he was going to fall asleep with that putrid smell next to him. It would seem that the smell grew stronger, and more like pig poo on a hot sunny day...as my hands and arms warmed up. If you have never visited a pig farm, then you really have no idea of the level of stench I am talking about. TRUST me...it's hideous. I think the only thing that would be worse might be a chicken coop...with dead chickens inside of it.

Now, to be fair...this is NOT the first time I have come to bed with something smelly on my person. I have a deep conditioner that smells like a cross between an ashtray and rotten eggs. He really loves that. And I have been known to slather a pound or two of vicks vapo rub on myself when I have had severe colds. He claims that it makes his eyes water and nose run all night, but I am sleeping like a baby when all that happens, so I can't really confirm that. I would say however, that the scented pig poo moisture body whip...was much much worse than anything else I have donned at night. Sadly, although my hands smelled ridiculously bad, they were so soft and smooth. I really hated to get rid of it, but momma always said, you can't go through life smelling like pig crap. People just won't understand.

ok...you got me...she never said that, but had she smelled it...she might've. :)

So...$25 dollars down the drain and another lesson learned. C'est la vie.

It's that time of year again...

2010-01-11T15:23:00.006-06:00

You know...the time of year in which you realize that not only are your fat jeans too tight, but it also looks like you've got a double set of boobs. One set that is actually inside your bra, and the other set that is squeezed out, above, under and around your bra, maybe with some trying to escape near your armpits if the problem is bad enough. Knit sweaters are NOT your friend, I'm just sayin'.

[unfortunately, this is a behind shot of this young woman!]

And yes...it's that time of year for me. On top of that, besides the health reasons for needing to go on a diet, my wonderful future sister-in-law has asked me to be in her wedding in July. While I am honored to be asked, I am very nervous about this prospect. She and all of the other bridesmaids look like super models. I really am not kidding. I...on the other hand, am going to look like a large watermelon colored SOW up there if I don't do something drastic.

You know, I haven't worn a strapless dress since the 80's, in which "the girls" didn't need apparatus made out of rebar to keep them contained. I would like to point out that my arms did not flap at that time either. I am in deep (insert bad word here...rhymes with oh ****).

So...here we are. It's January, and WAY WAY too cold for me to start walking/jogging outside, my preferred method of excercise. Mr. DamYankee is working his normally goofy hours, and therefore sleeping at the moment and my treadmill contains an assortment of clothes that need to be dealt with. What to do?

OH...I know! How about I whip out that Slim in Six DVD set I purchased off TV at 2 in the morning, 6 years ago.

6 weeks to a NEW YOU, it claims. I did use it before Lloyd and I got married, and it works, but it is HARD. Honestly, you should be in good shape before you start this sort of program.

So, yesterday morning, I psyched myself up for the Start it Up session. This is supposed to be the "easy" one. The one for lard butts (like myself) that haven't excercised in a LONG while, and need to learn the basic moves, while not sending them into cardiac arrest. (I can look forward to that 2 weeks from now...YAY).

So, there I am, water bottle in hand, workout clothes on, living room cleared...ready to begin. It really does start off easy...(that's just to lure you in, I'm sure). Three minutes in, I know I am in deep trouble. They are kicking left, I am going right. They go forward, I go backwards. Even Cole, who is participating...notices that mommy "isn't doing it right". Thanks, son...you really just don't miss anything do you?

By 15 minutes in, I am no longer doing the squats. I can't...because my leg muslces have turned into quivering jello. I can no longer feel my butt, which I am sure is KEY in the whole "squat move". I half-heartedly imitate the arm moves, as that is the only part of my body that seems to be responding to any commands.

20 minutes in...it's LUNGE time. hahaha...I lunged once, and stayed there. There was no "popping" back up. The hateful wench on the DVD, with her perky little smile, and perky little everything...well, I just want to slap the crap out of her. I really do. Especially when she seems to be so condescending..."if you are too weak to do the full move, just do the 1/2 lunge...like THIS!". Even Cole seems irritated and wonders when I will be putting the Penguins of Madagascar back on. VERY SOON, son.

The next set...pushups. SERIOUSLY? I am afraid that if I get down on the floor, I will be stuck there. I picture Cole waking his daddy up, telling him that mommy has fallen and can't get up. 911 being called...me being wheeled out on a gurney while all the neighbors watch.

Oh gosh, what happened to DamYankee? Heart attack maybe?

No...she went down for a pushup, and never got back up. Her muscles have completely quit working! She's stuck!

So...I did two struggling girly pushups...out of the 100 or so that are supposed to come to me "easily" over the next two weeks as I build up my strength. I did think it was pretty funny that even when I was 1/2 way up my girly pushup, my boobs were still firmly planted on the floor. I may need to bring out the "binder". The workout bra so tight, you are guaranteed to look like a 12 year old little girl.

30 minutes later, and 100 or so crunches, and other assorted ab moves, 1 downward dog, and 1 mountain pose...I am through. WOW...

I feel terrible.

I mean AWFUL.

I crawl over to the couch, and stayed there for the remainder of the day. I kid you not. No chores were done. No dishes washed. No laundry completed. I did manage to scrape myself off the couch long enough to get 3 advil and some water.

Today, I can't walk down a set of stairs, without grabbing hold of my leg and flinging it down to the next step. I am eating advil like they are tic tacs. And in one hour, I get to go home...and do it all again.

I am just SO excited. No. Really.

KFC...no grilled chicken for me...

2009-09-19T22:16:00.007-05:00

You know...I get that there aren't that many eating establishments here in Vicksburg. When I first moved here, I drove all over town looking for a Boston Market. I guess I should have looked in the phone-book first, but what can I say. I never did find one, but I did find the Chexican restaurant in our pseudo-mall.

Chexican...you ask?

Yes...the Chinese restaurant run by a Mexican family. Chexican. Sadly, the food tastes neither Mexican, nor Chinese. It tastes like fluffy nothing. There also used to be a Chinese restaurant over there by Fred's. The one and only time I ventured in there...the special of the day was sweet and sour catfish balls. You know I had to try one.

My mother always taught me that it was impolite to spit food out that others have cooked. Your own nasty concoction, if spat politely...fine. Other peoples...you better choke it down. That day, I did choke down that nasty catfish ball, but vowed that I would be a little more discriminant after that. Sniff first, politely beg off (if possible), or make sure you have lots of liquids available to help wash it down, just in case.

So, the other day, I saw a sign that our local KFC is now serving grilled chicken. Alright!!, I thought. I got in the drive through line, eagerly anticipating my healthy grilled chicken lunch. I was only 4 cars back, which usually equals 25 minutes of waiting time in our little burg. We aren't exactly known for our speediness, which is why I always have a book on hand.

Seventeen minutes later, with no less than 3 cars behind me now, I make it to the intercom.

Bored voice: Welcome to KFC, can I take your order?

Damyankee: Yes, m'am...I would like to order two grilled chicken breasts, please.

KFC: Silence, following by some crackly static.

Damyankee:Pardon??

KFC: Could you repeat your order?

Damyankee:Two Grilled Chicken Breasts. Please. M'am.

KFC: M'am. We don't sell the grilled breasts individually. You have to buy a bucket.

Damyankee:Pardon? (which is Southern for What in the Hell are you talking about???)

KFC: Buck-et. You have to buy a bucket of them.

Damyankee:I don't want a bucket. I just want a couple of them.

KFC: You gotta buy the bucket.

Damyankee: Seriously, I do not want an entire bucket of chicken for lunch. Just a couple of pieces. In fact, just one piece will do. (Ideally, you should never show them how desperate you are)

KFC: M'am, would you just pull up to the window.

Great, now I am in trouble. Unfortunately, I could not pull up to the window anytime soon as there were still 2 cars on front of me. I couldn't back out either, with all of the cars behind me. Ordinarily, I would have just gotten out of line, and avoided the "window of shame", but I was ....stuck...grrr.

I just know I am not getting any chicken now. *sigh*. And even if they do give me some chicken, I bet it will be some "special" grilled chicken...rubbed on God knows what nasty body part of theirs first. (and yes, I was envisioning my bucket-o-chicken being rubbed on the drive-through lady's butt)

So, I get to the window, and I could tell that I have completely pissed her off by trying to order something that is just completely out of the realm of happening in her little fiefdom. Apparently, although they are a CHICKEN place, and DO IN FACT sell grilled chicken, and you can buy individual pieces of chicken that are FRIED (original recipe or extra crispy), GLAZED, or BB-Q'd, you cannot buy anything less an ENTIRE BUCKET of grilled chicken under any circumstances no matter what.

To this I say: Pardon????

So, I went back to work and ate a nasty lean cuisine and stewed. I contemplated writing KFC, but I am sure all that will net me is a couple of free coupons to a restaurant that I am probably no longer welcome at. For whatever reason (that I cannot fathom), people tend to remember me, and that will pretty much guarantee me the "special" rubbed-on chicken. Yay.

I'm shedding!

2009-09-10T21:54:00.000-05:00

You know...I think somewhere in my genetic mix, there must be a little bit of Irish-setter. Twice a year...I go though these shedding phases, and everywhere you look, my car, my desk, my bathroom counter and floors you see hair. Honestly, it just grosses me out.

Before I leave for work every morning, I have to roller lint my shoulders nearly all the way down to my waist. Unfortunately, my boobs seems to catch the majority of the hair, and if it weren't for the clothes I am wearing, I would only look one step above Cro-Magnon woman...only with hairy boobs. Groketta. If they ask me to start appearing in those Geico commercials, it's gonna be "on".

It's when I start shedding like this that I think about cutting my hair short again. In fact, several years ago, I did cut it to my shoulders, and it looked cute for all of about 2 days. By Day Three, I dearly missed my ponytail and all I could produce was a sad pathetic looking pony-nub. Despite the fact that I looked ridiculous, I still wore it anyway, and my face, chubby even on my thinnest days, began to resemble that of a chipmunk, preparing for winter. Nice.

[Hmmm...*maybe*...this isn't my best look. ]

So, I immediately began growing it out again. Two years later, it's almost down to my bra-strap, and fairly healthy. With the exception of the profuse shedding. My friend Mitzi suggested that maybe I was "molting". hmmm....shedding just sounds so much better.

At one point, I decided to speak to my doctor about this, wondering if I had some sort of thyroid problem. He assured me that hair loss was normal, and that I had nothing to worry about. Hmmm...REALLY? I mean, I had to call a plumber out to the house to snake the drain in my shower due to all of the hair clogging it up. Is that normal?

Is it normal for my husband to wake up one morning, go to use the bathroom, only to find that one of my long hairs has somehow wrapped itself around his "junk", strangling it to the point of cutting off circulation? AND that it has happened more than once! That's normal? Let me tell you what, both times, although he loves my hair, he has threatened to cut it all off himself if "something wasn't done".

So, I started taking hair and nail ~~horse-pills~~ vitamins again. After a month of that, the hair loss has slowed down, and my nails (particularly my toenails) are veritable daggers, and very difficult to cut without "heavy duty" clippers. If it gets to the point where I need to trim them using a bench grinder, then I will probably slow down on the horse-pills. Until then...this seems to be helping.

However, if you run into me...and notice that I am covered in hair, just keep it to yourself. Trust me, I get it. :)

The Flu...

2009-09-07T22:39:00.000-05:00

Do I really need to say more? Probably not, but I will...

So, we finally got to take that "family vacation" we have been longing for. Unfortunately, it was entirely forced. One by one...like domino's...we fell.

First, Cole started off with what appeared to be a sinus infection, mild fever and extreme whininess. Katie came home the next day from school and went straight to bed, sick as a dog. Starting Monday morning, I placed over 90 calls (NO, I am not even kidding) to the pediatrician's office before I got to speak to a live human being and was able to get an appointment for Wednesday.

The doctor didn't even test them, pronounced that they didn't have the flu, but a "flu-like" virus. OH, ok....good. She suggested I give them thera-flu. Have you ever tasted that stuff? In comparison, Nyquil tastes like water. I think what theraflu has going for it...is that it burns all of the germs out of your insides. Much like...say....vodka or crown royal would. VILE VILE stuff.

That same day, Kayla comes home and goes straight to bed. It must be pretty fun in high school, because even though she was told NOT to go to school, she got up anyway and got on the bus before any of the rest of us were up. The school called at 7:53 to please for the love of God and all that is Holy...come get her, from the quarantined area in which she was placed. We were given a stern note from the nurse that suggested (in a not so nice tone) that our dumb@sses might need to take her to the doctor and to NOT bring her back anytime soon.

Meanwhile, what started out as a mild backache, joint achiness, soreness in both Lloyd and I on that Monday had progressed to all-out...we feel like HELL. Throats burning, congestion, coughing, fever...Although we tried, it was hard to be nice to each other, under the circumstances.

We could not get Kayla into the clinic on Thursday, and on Friday, the dr. on call tested her. Lloyd said he broke out into a cold sweat when the she came back into the room wearing a SARS mask and gloves that went up to her elbows and proclaimed that Kayla did have swine flu AND...due to all of the symptoms that we all had...we all had it too. YAY. We're statistics.

Of course, as the rest of us are progressively getting worse, Cole has rebounded, and was steadily kicking our butts. You know you are sick when you are laying on the couch with a kleenex wadded up into each of your nostrils and your child is hitting you repeatedly on the head with mallet from his Whack-A-Mole game, and you just don't even care or try to take it away from him. We watched the movie Wild Hogs approximately 75 times that week. Yeah, I know...not exactly appropriate for a 3 year old, but give me a break. It kept him quiet, somewhat, and YOU try to take care of a rambunctious 3 year old when you have the swine flu. Let me know how that works out for ya.

Well meaning friends and family offered to bring us food...and leave it at the end of our driveway. HA. Like we would have even had the energy to schlep all the way out there to get it! We did good just going from the bed, to the couch and vice versa. Although we did end up getting the world's best smoked butt out of the deal, so it did help to take the sting out of being stuck at home with the flu!...Thanks M&M. :)

My poor husband, normally as hot natured as they come...wore his fleece winter jammies and three blankets 99% of the time. Meanwhile, I...normally very cold natured, and dressed for a fire and any given time...had taken to wearing pasties and the skimpiest of shorts. Ok...I didn't wear pasties, but I was sweating 85% of the time.

Finally, by Monday, a week later...we were all better. A WHOLE fun-filled, snot-ridden, phlegm-having, coughing, sneezing, aching, stuffy-nose, fever, cannot rest...sort of vacation.

On the plus side...we don't need to get the swine-flu shot. I am sure when they make it mandatory, we will be forced to get one anyway.

I hate to say it, but I have never seen anything quite as contagious as this, except maybe the chicken pox. I mean, I was literally bathing in germ-x every day, I had washed my hands so many times a day my cuticles had started to rip, and I STILL got it. My house had been lysoled, cloroxed, 409'd...and we ALL still got it.

I really hope that you all fare better than we did.

Look before you sit!

2009-07-30T22:38:00.011-05:00

So...last week was a pretty craptastic week, to say the least. It was one of those weeks when everything you touch falls apart, everything you say comes out wrong, or you trip on smooth carpeting in front of 10 of your co-workers, and you walk out of the public bathroom with a very long piece of toilet paper hanging off of your shoe. That kind of week.

So, on one of those days, I came home, tired...the house is a wreck. There is nothing to eat. My youngest child is whiny, and will remain so until I feed him. My oldest child needs a ride somewhere, which will not be conducive to getting the youngest to quit whining. I just wanted to go and lay in a nice relaxing calgon bath. Instead...

I take Kayla where she needs to go, which is not anywhere near the house, come back, feed Cole, clean up the mess that my wonderful husband and equally wonderful daughter left for me in the kitchen, despite the fact that neither of them had ANYTHING to do all afternoon. But, I digress..

After I get the kitchen cleaned, I tackled all of the messes in the living room, again...that I did not make. Crushed up sunchips all over my end tables, some gooey substance stuck to my coffee table, 2 empty Capri Sun's stuffed in between my couch cushions, and about 15 other things that looked questionable. I then decided to vacuum the majority of the house as I noticed that my socks looked a little "hairy". I am sure that it has nothing to do with the fact that I was dog sitting my dad's 100lb Chocolate Shedding Lab. Good thing I love him too. I had two loads of clothes to fold that had been thrown on the treadmill, I don't guess either of the above mentioned wonderful people knew about that either.

Finally, around 12, past the point of exhausted, I was ready to go to bed. Jammies are on, my face has been washed...I just needed to use the little girls room, and I was done for the day. Halleluah.

So, there I am...sitting on the potty (as it we call it for the benefit of our 3 year old), contemplating the crappious day, I quickly finish my business...look down...and OH HOLY HELL WHAT IS THAT???

I jump up, start screaming!!!.... I tried to run away, but in my haste, I had forgotten to pull up my pajama bottoms and I toppled over, splatting my face onto the floor with my bare butt sticking straight up in the air. Undeterred, I army crawled onto the carpeting pulling my bottoms up simultaneously.

Now that I was properly dressed, and slightly hyperventilating...I decided to go back and give it a closer inspection...this is what I saw on the INSIDE of the bowl, just underneath the rim when I looked down:

Yeah...that's right! That was not even "2" inches underneath my dangling butt. I guess that it had been hanging on the rim as I never saw it when I sat down, and crawled onto the bowl while I was seated. So, I did the only thing I could think to do.

I grabbed my camera. lol...

After taking several shots, I then got the camera phone and snapped a few more to send to my husband. You see, he was on duty...and despite the fact that he was working, I wanted him to share in my misery. That's what married couples do.

(Do you agree to have and hold this person, sharing in their misery until such time that you both shall part? Yes I do.)

Not to mention, I was trying to prove yet another point that he needed to *DO SOMETHING* about the dayum spiders in this house!!!

After he recieved the text, he immediately called and asked what I was going to do about it. Ummm...what do you mean, what am *I* going to do about it? Killing bugs is YOUR job.

He asked if I wanted him to come home and kill it. I could tell by the sound of his voice that he really didn't want to...because he is a REAL titty baby when it comes to spiders, so I already knew that he was going to be worthless in this situation. In truth, he was laughing about the fact that I was seriously freaking out. I had the worst case of willies I have had in a really long time.

I forced him into listening to my mini-rant for several minutes, all the while he continued laughing. I mean, what IF that thing had jumped on my butt? Worse...what if it had jumped on my cooter? Huh!!?? THEN WHAT??

(hmm...I don't seem to be garnering the sympathy I was looking for here...I need to switch tactics.)

Lloyd...what if it was YOU sitting on the toilet and that spider had jumped on your man parts? Hmmm? How do you think YOU would feel to look down and see the 2nd largest wolf spider ever...hanging upside down off of your balls? What THEN?? Do you think you would still be laughing?

(a long pause...)

Him:...that's just not even funny. You shouldn't stay stuff like that. In fact, we need to quit talking about this altogether. I can't believe you said that. You know how I feel about my man-parts.

My work here is done.

For what it's worth...I wasn't able to just flush the toilet and have the spider go down. I had to stick a toilet brush in there and shove it down as I flushed. 8 times.

Now, if I could just kill Wolfie, the spider so large (that he had to be named) that currently lives in our garage , I would feel a whole lot better. In fact, I will probably let him live...as long as he stays out of my toilet.

Inspiration!

2009-07-26T12:06:00.002-05:00

This is not my usual post, nothing anecdotal...really. My goal today is to show you something new.

For a long time now, I have had an avid interest in photography. My very first camera was an old Brownie Camera that my grandmother had purchased at a garage sale. I was probably only 6 when she gave it to me, but I had it for many years. I wish I knew where it was now.

Through the years, I have moved on from that to a Polaroid when I was in junior high, and then to various Canon's including a 35 mm Canon AE-1. I *really* miss that camera too!

Ultimately, I purchased my first digital camera in 2000, and I have not used a film camera since. That being said, I am always on the lookout for ways to improve my picture taking, as I am an amateur's amateur. I needed inspiration, really. As luck would have it, one afternoon, I stumbled across Marty Kittrell's site and then spent the better part of the day checking out his photo's. Talk about inspiration! I have lived here for nearly 12 years, and I had no idea so much of this was right under my nose. Apparently, I was looking, but did not see.

He has captured the flavor of not only Vicksburg, but other parts of our deep south. Truly, he is a very gifted photographer, and by that I mean that he has "the eye". Spend some time going through his photo's and you will see what I mean.

http://martykittrellphotos.blogspot.com/

The Uni-Pony...

2009-07-14T21:07:00.003-05:00

My youngest daughter, Katie...now 12, has always been a hair "experimenter". I suspect this will get worse as she gets older. I may or may not be speaking from experience. Right Stephanie and Meg?

One late afternoon, I went to pick up Katie from Prime-time, an after school program sponsored by the YMCA. When I walked into the school cafeteria, I noticed that she had a long ponytail smack-dab in the middle of her forehead. It took me off guard a little...this certainly wasn't a normal hairstyle for her.

Damyankee: Well, that's new...

Katie: uh huh.

Damyankee: ah. looks good.

I have learned, over these years, that you must pick your battles. Hair...is not worth battling over. If she wants to walk around looking like a unicorn...so be it. I figure that either she will start a new fashion trend or kids would call her unicorn-doody-head and she will find a new style.

This is not my first go-round with Katie and her hair. When she was in first grade (her first foray into Mississippi public education) she came home one day and asked if she could wear her hair like some other girls in her class. She said it looked cool!

Damyankee:What kind of style would that be?

Katie:"Well, they have all these braids all over their head, and a big barrette at the end with dingle balls. I want some dingle balls mommy!"

Damyankee:I am pretty sure they aren't called dingle balls Kate. Anyway, that's beside the point. I don't think I can braid your hair like that, it's just too fine. It won't hold.

Katie: Sobbing...But I waaaaaaaaaaaant it.

I went on to explain that her hair was different than some of the girls in her class. That her friends hair had more texture (with a short course on what texture meant) and that it was easier to braid hair when it had more texture. Katie seemed pacified and I thought nothing more of it.

....Until .....

I went to pick her up the next day from school. She had *50* little braids sticking up all over her head with multicolored barrettes (some with dingle balls) on the ends. Apparently, one of her little classmates had given her a makeover during recess.

Fortunately, she didn't wear it like that again because she said it HURT to have all those braids put in and she didn't like getting her hair yanked on. She said that her little friend must be a lot tougher than she is to have that done everyday! Indeed.

Three years later...having picked up the Uni-Pony Kid from school, we go home to start working on dinner, doing homework, etc. She stays suspiciously quiet throughout the evening. I knew something wasn't right, but couldn't quite put my finger on it. Hmmm...

Eventually, she gets ready for bed, which includes a shower first. I was at my desk working on something when she comes out of the bathroom wearing a towel on her head. She stares at me for a few minutes...and then just starts to WAIL. Big huge crocodile tears... (what in the world??)

Damyankee: Oh my gosh Katie...what's wrong?

Katie: (sobbing)...I don't want to tell you...you're gonna be maaaaad....

*sigh*...those 4 words have the power to clinch a butt tight enough to flatten a nickel...

Damyankee: Well, I promise I won't get mad. I'm sure it isn't as bad as you think. (parenting mistake #5,227 here. Never ever promise you won't get mad. You should say you won't get AS mad...that way you aren't lying.)

She takes the towel off of her head...and my eyes bulged. I would give *anything* for a poker face sometimes.

Damyankee: WHAT DID YOU DO??? (editors note: I feel certain that I didn't say it quite that nicely)

Katie: (still sobbing) It was an acccc..ci...denttttt....

Damyankee: WHAT??? That's no accident!

Apparently, her sister had dared her to cut her hair...with poultry scissors. She started off just cutting a snippet of bangs to her nose. But, she figured that I would notice that right off since we had been painfully growing out her bangs for the last year. So, she just cut them to the scalp....and then went back a little further to make it look "more natural".

Damyankee: Katie...you have school pictures in just a few weeks!!

It's gonna grow mom! You said you wouldn't be mad!

Damyankee: Ok...I am not mad...(gritting my teeth)...I am upset.

They did grow back...not before pictures were taken, but she sported a nice comb-over that year. She then moved on to the flat-top growing through the comb-over until such time that she could plaster it with enough hair spray to get them to lay down flat. It wasn't her best hair year.

I haven't told her all my stories, but I am sure one day she will find out all of the "mistakes" that I made too....and still make.

Waterpark...O How I Love Thee...

2009-06-30T23:07:00.006-05:00

Let me count the ways...

It's that time of year again...WATER PARK season! I wish I could describe to you how much I love going to Geyser Falls. From the moment we start to get close, I am suddenly 10 years old again, bouncing in my seat with anticipation. Wait for it...wait for it...THERE IT IS THERE IT IS!!!

So, why do I love the water park so much? well...for one...there are no live 'gators or snakes trying to bite me on my nearly bare butt that dangles through an inner tube as I float down the lazy river. Always a plus.

I also love laying in the lagoon, looking at the faux imported sand, real palm trees and in my fantasy I imagine myself swimming up to the tiki bar ordering a Coco-Loco, served by an Adonis looking, heavily accented man named Paolo. My fantasy comes to an abrupt halt when I hear my young son shrieking because he has dropped his dippin' dots into the lagoon two seconds after my poor husband has walked nearly a mile over the 1,000 degree concrete, flesh peeling from the bottoms of his feet to get them. But for a minute, I had channeled myself to a Greek Island somewhere... *sigh*

One of the best parts about going to the water park...is that in comparison to some, I look like a supermodel. No kidding. I know...HARD to believe, but oh so true.

The first few times I went, I was so self-conscious, I wouldn't take off the shirt or shorts I had worn over my suit. It sucks when all that stretchy cotton gets wet because the shirt that used to hang at your waist has become as long as a Pentecostal skirt. The shorts...about two inches longer than that. If I ever had an accident at the park, they would be able to determine where I had been previously, with a fair amount of precision, due to the wet drag marks my clothes left in my wake.

However, I got over the self-consciousness when I started to really look around. Holy crap...some people have NO modesty.

Men wearing Euro-speedos...banana hammocks, really. Funny how you never see a good looking guy wearing one, it's always the ones that have the huge beer gut that overhangs the banana, forcing the back end of the suit to become a thong. I have a theory that men don't really lose their hair, it just becomes displaced...to their butt. (pardon me while I vurp). <== vomit+burp=vurp. Now you know.

Last summer, we were hanging out by the dippin' dots stand, when we saw a very large woman wearing a bikini. Well...you couldn't actually see the bottom to her suit, but I feel certain she had to be wearing something! That's what I am going with, anyway. It wasn't even the bikini that she was wearing and the fact that a couple hundred pounds of fat were covering it up that got our attention. It was the sight of her monstrously overgrown bush...that went half-way down her thighs. I was just scanning the crowd, and briefly glanced at her...

DOUBLE TAKE...what the hell was that? My mind couldn't compute.

Wait...OH....MY...GOSH...that's not part of her suit! ok..full on stare now. Train wreck. Must.look.away. CAN'T!

Honestly, I felt bad for her...the only way she was going to be able to trim that up was if she had a weed whacker. It was that bad. Just then, my dad and brother noticed. Both did the double take, and Dave said..."DAAAAYYYUUUMMM".... kinda loud. My dad said, "GoodGodA'Mighty"!

We pretty much ran from the dippin' dots area, and sent Lloyd back to get them after that! haha...

For what it's worth, I have no issues with people being too thin, or large, or anywhere in between. We are all made of many shapes and sizes. But for the love of God and all that is Holy...you have GOT to shave the cha-cha if you are going to the water park. It should be one of the rules posted on the sign as you are walking in:

1) No bottles or open containers
2) No outside food
3) Children under 12 must be accompanied by an adult
4) No peeing in the pool areas
5) Kindly shave your CHA-CHA so that it stays within the bounds of your swim suit.

Regards,
Management

All that aside, I do love Geyser Falls. The kids have a great time, and a bonus is that they are too exhausted to fight with each other on the way home. Lloyd and I spend at least several relaxing hours riding the lazy river forgetting about all of life's stresses. If I had the $, I would *so* put one in my backyard. Tacky maybe, but I bet at least a couple of our favorite neighbors would enjoy it too!

Happy 4th of July everyone!

AND a special shout-out to Meg & David...17 years! Happy Anniversary, I hope you both have a great one. :)

PET PEEVES...It's called MERGING...

2009-06-26T17:36:00.002-05:00

Dear Fetus driving the newish white Altima in front of me today that nearly got us both killed:

Glad I was on my way home at lunch, because that's where I keep fresh pairs of panties. I hate to admit this to you, but I very nearly crapped my pants following behind you while we attempted to merge onto the Interstate from Indiana Avenue. Gratefully, my butt puckered up like Fort Knox, or I would have been REALLY mad at you.

I can't be certain, but you seem unaware that one of the key elements of merging onto an interstate, is that you use the looong length of the merging roadway to gain speed in order to match that of traffic already on the interstate. The idea is to blend in seamlessly. At 3/4 of the way down the merge lane, and we had just gotten up to 35MPH, I broke into a cold sweat. When we finally made it onto I20, we were going a whopping 38 miles per hour. Thirty-eight. OMG, we are gonna die. My cold sweat turned into a stomach cramp that can only produce BAD THINGS.

In almost 25 years of driving, I have never had to pass someone in a right-hand emergency lane, but you didn't even look over when I did it to see me flipping you the bird. Imagine my surprise...when I saw that not only were you a fetus (thank you Mitzi for that one!), but you were TEXTING.

That's right...texting!! While merging onto a busy interstate. In the words of my father: Have you lost your mind?

No offense, but you are a moron, plain and simple.

Nah, I am selling both of us short with that last statement.

I DO mean to offend you by saying that you are so much more than a moron, but I can't put that sort of language in here; it should be noted that I still feel like strangling you some four hours later. I wish that I had the foresight to have gotten your license plate number because I would pay a visit to your parents, and let them do their own share of strangling. However, I was too busy trying to keep myself from having an accident, both literally, and figuratively.

Although I do not know your name, I do know that this is a small town and somehow, I have to hope that you will end up reading this or at the very least hearing about it. If you ever see a dark blue 4-Runner with a crazy eyed looking lady driving past you, giving you the finger, now you know why.

Regards,

Damyankee

The Ladies Room...

2009-06-18T21:19:00.013-05:00

Click here to view the original blog.

I work in a large facility (at least for around here), with a number of women. In my lab there are at least four ladies bathrooms that I am aware of. Let me say this as kindly as I can: some women are just nasty. I have seen several that don't wash their hands after they go, and others that did the half-flush. UM...yeah, you may have needed to flush that twice. And then clorox it, 'cuz DAYUM.

However, this past week...I experienced something that has never happened to me before. I walked into one of the larger bathrooms and had crossed the point of no return (the one in which they would be able to identify me by my shoes when I ran out of there gagging). *sniff sniff* OH LORD that is just awful. I almost choked it was so bad. I picked a stall and practiced breathing through my mouth while I took care of business. Not *that* business! If I have any sort of intestinal issues, I am going home, possibly breaking a few laws on the way if need be. That's just the way I operate.

So, there I am, trying hard not to gag, hurrying as fast as my bladder will allow, when I heard her open her door and begin to wash her hands. Just as I thought she was walking out, and I was about to exit my stall, out of politeness, I tried to put on my game face in the event that she was still around.

I usually don't have much of a poker face, but I willed the muscles around my nose and mouth to relax from the stench smelling grimace they had locked themselves into. I won't be winning any Oscars for my performance, because my eyes bugged out, and my nostrils instantly re-flared when she suddenly came back around the corner, pointed to her stall and said that she looked for some air freshener, but couldn't find any. Huh?

I was SO taken off guard that she had just owned up to what could be a record setting smelly turd, and was apologizing for it, that I literally stuttered. In all the years I have worked out there, not one single person has ever done that. Most of the time they will pretend it wasn't them, or that they didn't smell anything; other times they acknowledge the smell, but are quick to inform you that it wasn't them, and whoever was in here before them clearly had "issues".

But not this girl, not only had she ponied up to it, in the politest way possible, she actually had looked for some spray. I stuttered to her that I thought there might be some spray in the other bathroom down the hall, but I didn't finish that sentence before I started a new one, jumbling all of the words. Spray, here didn't see glade bathroom HELL I...don't...matches...Ihaven'tseen.here.ever.spray...candles good.

*crap*...what did I just say? jeez, I am a such a moron. At this point, it was her that couldn't get out of the bathroom fast enough to be away from the crazy lady.

I suddenly had a much better understanding of Amy Poehlers character in Deuce Bigelow: BALLHAIR!!

warning: not safe for work...at least wear headphones! :)

As a side note before people think I am making fun of people with Tourettes: I went to school with a guy from 3rd through 8th grade that had Tourettes that was mostly controlled through medication. However, he could come up with some off the wall stuff, and some kids were mean to him, I guess because they were just ignorant. However, I loved the rare occasions when he had an outburst, especially during Algebra...he always made the boring, much more interesting. Thanks Brian. :)

Lil' Bit...Future Gator Snack..

2009-06-13T19:35:00.017-05:00

Click here to view the original blog.

Family members of ours...Jay & Sara have a mangy little rat terrier named Lil' Bit. Now, before I get any hate emails, let me preface the forthcoming ugliness, and state that I love animals. Most animals anyway. I am not all that fond of birds, but that is a whole 'nother blog.

I have nearly driven off the road to avoid running over a dog, cat or even a rodent-like squirrel that inadvertently dashed in front of my car. Despite my best efforts, I have accidentally run over a couple of animals, and felt TERRIBLE afterwards. So, let's keep that in mind when you read the following below. K?

Jay & Sara adopted Lil' Bit a couple of years ago. I don't recall all the whys and wherefore's of how they obtained her, but I believe she was about 2 years old at the time, making her about 4 now. Immediately, she took to Sara and simply tolerates the rest of the family members in their house.

From day one..this dog has hated me. All dogs LOVE me, except this one. This little ankle biter even hates my husband Lloyd and he is the veritable pied piper of animals. Even the mangiest of cats, will curl up in his lap and purr like a newborn kitten. Then there is Lil' Bit. The underbite havin', non-stop barking, pees when you look at her, separation-anxiety ridden, Prozac needing rat terrier.

Last summer, we were all out at the lake house and she barked for three solid hours. Whole time. No breaks. I prayed to the Gods of Barking Dogs that she would go hoarse. But nooo. Never happened.

You see, Sara was out on the boat for the afternoon and Lil' Bit absolutely couldn't handle it. Unfortunately, I was stuck at the house and despite all the vile threats I uttered to her, she never shut up for even a second. I finally raided some aspirin and Advil bottles for their cotton balls and marginally soundproofed myself against her tirade. I briefly considered giving her some Benedryl (and a maybe a little Bud Light chaser) knowing that would probably shut her up for awhile, but I worried about it shutting her up a little too permanently. Truth is, I just didn't see how I could get away with it without getting caught. Not good to have both motive and no alibi.

Another time, *early* one morning, she had been let out on the back porch and barked for an entire hour to come back in. Personally, I think Jay & Sara must be deaf to it as they didn't let her back in. WE heard her loud and clear, though. Finally, I jumped out of bed and started hollering I was going to kill that little turd if she didn't shut up! lol...They heard that.

Sara: "Hurry Jay, I think she's going to kill Lil' Bit!".

Nah...I wasn't going to kill her. I was just going to "help" her inside to their bedroom, but he beat me to her.

Now, I wasn't going to blog about her. While she has been a bit of a barker, I get that she has emotional doggy problems, and she can't help it. However, that changed this week...she became fair game...when she bit me in the butt.

Jay is back for two weeks from Afghanistan and he and his family spent the week out at the lake house. We went to visit them one evening, and immediately Lil' Bit started growling and snarling at me and Lloyd. Hmm...seems she hasn't forgotten us.

We all decided to take a leisurely boat ride, the sun was just setting and it was absolutely gorgeous. I wasn't on board for even a minute before that little wench jumped up and bit my butt! I am not sure what hurt more...my butt or my pride at being sneak-attacked and bitten...UNPROVOKED. Neither felt very good, and I started thinking some very bad thoughts about what I might do to their little dog. Sara must have sensed my murderous thoughts and scooped Lil' Bit up before I could act on them.

Shortly after we took off, we spotted our first alligator. I cut my eyes towards Lil' Bit, still being protectively held by Sara, and mind-vibed her in my best Italian mob voice: Do it again you little heifer and you will be swimming with the fishes. Big ones.

Maybe 45 minutes later, she bit Lloyd in the ankle. lol...glad it's not just me.

He very calmly asked Jay if Lil' Bit could swim. Sara scooped the little she-devil back up again before he could give more serious discussion to tossing her overboard.

Aside from Lil' Bit's "issues", we really did have a very nice time, and I took some of the best pictures I have ever taken.

Just after dark, we made our way back to the dock, and began the walk back up the hill to the house. I guess she felt safe, being off the water...no gators in sight, because she jumped up in front of me and bit the inside of my thigh! This one hurt a whole lot worse than my butt...and I yelled out. Holy Crap, she just bit me again!! DAYUM!!

It's a good thing for her sake that we weren't still on the boat. I make no guarantees or promises that she wouldn't have suffered an unfortunate "accident", and been swept overboard into the waiting jaws of the nearest alligator. A Gator Snack. :)

OK...I may have thought it, but I won't actually do it. For whatever reason, Sara loves this ugly@ss dog, and Jay is only home for a few weeks. I would imagine it would put a damper in things if I fed their dog to an alligator while he is on leave.

For what it's worth, I tend to think about doing a whole lot of things, but almost never do them. Unfortunately, if anything ever does happen to their little dog, I am sure they will be pointing a finger or two my way.

muwahahaha.

Windtunnel Hunk O Junk...

2009-06-09T23:39:00.004-05:00

I have met very few vacuum cleaners that I couldn't break...within an hour. Whatever you do...don't ever lend me yours, especially if it is a cheap piece of junk.

When we were living in our old house, I desperately needed to vacuum one weekend, as I had taken to wearing shoes in all parts of the house, even to bed. My girls, who don't wear shoes, unless forced, looked like they had grocery store feet. Nasty.

At the time, I had a Hoover Windtunnel Bagless something or other. Hunk.of.Junk. I HATE the bagless kind, because you have to pry the door open, empty it out, as you become enveloped in a Hiroshima-like cloud of fuzzy dirt nastiness; then take out the hepa filter, that reeks like wet dog, beat it against the fence outside, shaking off all the remaining dirt, creating another dust-bowl cloud that blankets you in even more crap.

Then you have to try to shove the filter back in the right way, and then put the plastic "waste container" back into the properly fitted slots, which is NO EASY feat...let me tell you. The average idiot would never be able to figure the mechanics in all of that out. Good thing I am an above average idiot. ;)

I had to do this for every 1/2 (yes, you read that right, ONE HALF) of room that I vacuumed. Three times for the living room alone. When I finished vacuuming, I looked like the Miner 49'er, minus the cool beard.

And on top of that...the opening hole to the hose, just beyond the agitator brush would get clogged up very easily. A little too easily, if you ask me.

So, in order to get to that, you have to remove all four 12" long screws. To remove the screws...you need the right sized Phillips head screwdriver. This is easier said than done as my husband tries to hide his good tools from me; you know, the ones that will actually unscrew something. Instead, I am left with the 15 Pack-O-ScrewStrippers from The Dollar Store (retail value $4.99) that I got as a stocking stuffer one year. Thanks a lot Santa.

After searching for the right one for at least 30 minutes, and then tucking it in my waistband, sneaking through the house so that he doesn't know I am messing with the vacuum cleaner again...(or playing with his tools), I am ready to remove the nasty agitator brush to get to the hose.

With that off, and only losing one of the FOOT LONG screws, I then have to find something long and skinny to pry that crap out with. It's ironic that the screws I just removed aren't long enough. A little household tip here: I do NOT recommend the sharp side of bamboo skewers. I can 100% guarantee you that it WILL puncture the obviously VERY cheap plastic hose. I found out that little nugget of information 10 MINUTES after using it the very first time and sucking up a Barbie Doll dress that needed to be pried out. (I may be an above average idiot; but I am still an idiot, nonetheless.)

But...that's what duct tape is for...and fortunately the silver matched the hose nicely. I was able to get away with that repair for almost 2 weeks before my husband noticed.

Him: What happened to the new vacuum cleaner?

Damyankee: What do you mean?

Him: Why is there duct tape on the hose?

Damyankee: (blink blink) I don't see anything.

Him: RIGHT THERE. The grey duct tape...RIGHT THERE on the HOSE!

Damyankee: Ohhhh! that duct tape. I didn't even notice it. Maybe it came like that?

That particular weekend, I was 1/2 way done with vacuuming the entire house, when I noticed that I didn't have as much suction. Crap...clogged hose. I found a screwdriver, and snuck the vacuum cleaner back to the bedroom, locked the door and took it apart. I unclogged it with a state of the art, precision-engineered coat hanger and then cut all of the strings, dental floss and about a pound of hair out of the agitator brush.

Very gently, I put the brush back on...being extremely careful to put the flimsy rubber band of a belt back on properly. I can LOOK at a belt and break it. Another household tip: in a pinch, duct tape can fix a broken belt too. In fact, duct tape can fix most anything, along with some Gorilla glue. :)

I then moved it back into the living room...as if nothing had happened. I turned it on and this cloud of white smoke started coming out from under it. DAYUM...I had blown another belt. The smell in unmistakable...and I couldn't get the febreze out fast enough before my husband was onto the fact that something had gone horribly wrong with the vacuum (again). And if that wasn't clue enough...he walked into the living room to see me kicking the crap out it.

What's worse is that I had to sell my previous vacuum, that I really liked, at a garage sale because I sucked up fresh soft-serve dog poo with it. (Hey. It's a garage sale...it's not like selling a house in which you have to disclose every little thing...jeez).

Apparently, my sweet little Rorie, who hates to get her wittle paws wet when it is the slightest bit damp outside, had just pooped underneath the little play table, on a dark rug, in my daughters room. I must have gone in there 30 seconds later to vacuum. The smell coming out of the exhaust after I sucked it up was absolutely hideous. *Sniff Sniff* Huh? Oh, no!!!...did I just suck up poo? OH HELL NO. I did!

Even though I scrubbed it, cleaned it, hosed it down, even bought new filters for it and then sprayed the filters with my some of my husband's Acqua Di Gio because it STILL stunk, every time I vacuumed it smelled sickeningly like "Acqua Di POOGio". Both the cologne and the vacuum cleaner had to go after that, and I made a few people at my garage sale very happy that day, at least until they got home. What a bargain.

As for the Windtunnel Hunk O Junk, I wouldn't have wished that vacuum on my worst enemy. Although it technically worked, even after I kicked the crap out of it, I threw it straight in the garbage and went and bought a much nicer one that I haven't broken...yet. :)

48 Odd Things About Me...

2009-06-08T22:45:00.007-05:00

48 Odd Answers About You! Please Share by tagging people!Copy and paste this into your own notes section with the 48 odd answers about you!

1) Favorite object in your room?
Pictures of the kids as babies.

2) Have you ever been out of the states?
Yep. Only Mexico, though and it shouldn't count as it is attached.

3) Do you own a gun?
I *personally* do not. My husband has a few.

4) What flavor do you add to your drink at sonic?
Raspberry (tea)

5) Do you get nervous before doctor appointments?
Depends on the type of visit, but yeah..most of the time I do.

6) What do you think of hot dogs?
I think they are the most delicious lips and buttholes, beaks and claws I have ever eaten. I just love them!

7) What song are you listening to?
Lady Gaga - Poker Face

8) Drink in the morning?
COFFEE...strong enough to wake the dead

9) Any plans last night?
Unpacked from being at the lake house all weekend. Woo.

10) Can you do a chin up?
please! I could only do one if I was standing on a chair.

11) What's your favorite piece of jewelry?
engagement ring/wedding ring. My 3 stone blue diamond ring is also a favorite.

12) Do you like blue cheese?
No. It tastes like goat @ss.

13) Ever been in a car wreck?
Yeah, when I was a lot younger, but it has been awhile (knocking on wood as I type this)

14) What color is your couch?
Beige

15) What's one thing that you hate about yourself?
My boobs. I wish I had my perky perfect 19-24 year old boobs back. Good thing for Wacoal Bras.

16) Middle name?
Lee

17) Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment?
1. I wonder how much a boob job would cost?
2. I wonder how much a boob job would hurt.
3. I really need to get this survey done so I can go to bed and think about how much I would like to have "the girls" more perky looking.

18) Name 3 things you bought yesterday?
I don't guess that I bought anything yesterday. That has to be a record or something.

19) Name 3 drinks you drink regularly?
Diet Lipton Raspberry Tea, water, Coke

20) Current worry?
The sunburn on my legs is KILLING ME. I am worried that it is going to take a whole lot more days before it feels better. I feel a whine coming on.

21) Current hate right now?
Hate is a strong word. I intensely dislike arguing with my daughters when they are all hormonal and everything.

22) Who was your last text from and what did it say?
It was from Katie trying to ask me if a friend of hers could go with her to her ortho appt today and then later be dropped off at the pool. Limo service.

23) How was new year?
Um...I am old. I do not remember what I even did *last* week, much less an event that was 6 months ago.

24) How was your day?
Interesting. I managed to piss off 2 people, not even trying. Must have spent too much time with my dad this past weekend and he is rubbing off on me in a not so good way. :)

25) Name three people who will complete this?
Hmmm....I don't know. Sara, Wanda, April? iffy on April. :)

26) Do you own slippers?
Yep, very ugly fuzzy flip flop ones. Am wearing them now.

27) What shirt are you wearing?
Mississippi State t-shirt - to bed

28) Do you like sleeping on satin sheets?
porn sheets? uh...no. I like sleeping on 600 thread count buttery soft Pima cotton sheets.

29) Can you whistle?
I don't mean to brag...but I can whistle like nobody's business.

30) What kind of shampoo do you use?
Kerastase Reflection Bain Miroir #1

31) Would you be a pirate?
I don't see that happening. No.

32) What songs do you sing in the shower?
Depends on what's on the radio.

33) Favorite girls name?
Stephanie, Kelly, Kathleen,

34) Favorite boy's name?
Cole, Ian, Zane

35) What's in your pocket?
my jammie bottoms do not have pockets.

36) Last person that made you laugh?
My brother Dave telling me about the copperhead that he killed that got into his garage.

37) Best bed sheets as a child?
I had these yellow ones that must have been washed a million times. They were very soft.

38) Worst injury you've ever had?
Probably when I went through the windshield of a car and cut my forehead up. I picked glass out of my scalp for the next year.

39) Do you love where you live?
Yep, I do. Although it is HOT and HUMID and there are lots of giant bugs. All that aside, I do love it.

40) How many TV's are in your house?
4

41) Who is your loudest friend?
Melissa

42) How many dogs do you have?
2

43) Does someone have a crush on you?
Only if there is something wrong with them.

44) What is the most recent picture in your phone?
I took pictures of Lloyd killing the snake that was in our storage room.

45) What book are you reading?
I am reading 2 books, one is a true crime called Blind Faith (Joe McGinnis) and the other is a fiction one called Left to Die (Lisa Jackson). So far...both have been excellent.

46) What is your favorite candy?
I love Turtles and Dove Chocolate Caramels. And fresh Junior Mints. ok...I just love chocolate...period.

47) Favorite Sports Team?
Da Bears. or MS State bulldogs.

48) Where is the next place you want to travel?
Anywhere...but I want to go with just my husband. :)

Oh why oh why does sleep elude me?

2009-06-02T22:25:00.011-05:00

That is the question of the day....why does sleep elude me?

Could it be because I drank 7 glasses of sweet tea (liquid southern crack goodness) throughout the course of the day? Yes, this could be a reason, but I my body has adapted to drinking a pitcher of tea a day and this no longer affects me. I no longer have the shakes, nor do I foam at the mouth, or suffer from erratic eye twitching from over consumption. I have succumbed to my addiction and I love the precious.

Could it be because I stayed up watching Forensic Files in which a young women was hacked into little pieces and they solved the case (in under 30 minutes, no less) by identifying the perpetrator through a wayward microscopic hair that had fallen off of a dogs butt onto a blanket used to transport the victim? Again, yes...this could be a reason. But I am sufficiently disturbed enough after YEARS of watching crime shows that this sort of thing no longer bothers me the way that it used to. (or the way it should)

Maybe it was because I had also just finished reading a novel about a serial killer that preyed on prostitutes, torturing them with poisonous spiders before killing them. Eh...this isn't the reason...it's just fiction, and I've read far worse before bed.

It could be because, after having had three kids, my poor deformed bladder will only hold 4 ounces of liquid at any given time and I have to get up 3 times at night to ensure that I don't become a bed wetter. (A situation I am sure my husband would not enjoy) This too is a problem, but probably not THE reason.

Could it be because my cute, sweet, precious cat-dogs are busy groom-licking themselves while lying underneath my side of the bed? A possibility. I am not willing to rule this one out, but I know deep down this isn't the REAL reason I can't sleep.

So...what's the story? Why am I not sleeping tonight? If anything I should be getting a great nights sleep. My husband is on duty tonight, I have the entire bed to myself.

hmmm...maybe it is because I am being torn to hell by two aggressive vampire mosquitoes.

I have 10 bites on my left arm and hand, 4 bites on my right. I have gotten up looking for the little bastards no less than 15 times in the last hour and have only managed to kill one. The remaining elusive mosquito must be using some type of Klingon cloaking device, because no matter what tactic I employ, I cannot find him. But I can hear him. eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee......

I decide to bury myself under all my covers, but now I am thinking of coffins, Edgar Allen Poe's The Premature Burial, having my head wrapped in a dry cleaning bag and every other suffocating thought my sick imagination could can up with. *sigh*....

Alright...that's it!!...I now have two bites on my jaw and one near my ear; the little turd is under the covers with me. To add insult to injury...I have run out of benedryl cream. grrrrrr.

There is only one thing left to do....600 thread count buttery soft Pima cotton sheets be damned.

I must have DEET. And lots of it. Off! Deep Woods Insect Repellent, in fact.

Not that sissy Avon Skin So Soft. You know that crap never works.

A quick trip outside, a liberal spray of the strongest, yet still legal amount of DEET available in the United States, and I am ready for bed. I smell like a skunks unwashed @ss, but I dare that little bastard to try to bite me now.

Yeah..I know...nasty. I don't want to hear it. Desperate times, desperate measures and all that. I will buy new sheets tomorrow.

*yawn*....'night.

I am a bad wife...

2009-06-01T20:45:00.014-05:00

Sometimes.

My husband was very sick awhile back. There he was, laying next to me in the bed shaking, with a high fever, seemingly freezing cold, yet enough heat coming off of him to fry bacon. One minute he was buried underneath several blankets, the next, even a sheet grazing his baby toe was intolerable to him. He tossed, he turned, he moaned, he flung covers off and on and then begged for more covers.

I truly felt awful for him...he was so delirious and I could only make out 1 of every 10 words he said. I pondered moving to the couch, but he seemed insistent that I stay. Misery loves company, I suppose. Late that night, he woke me up, mumbling something...incoherent. Red Koolaid...mumble mumble....advil...mumble mumble...that was all I got.

Off to the kitchen I went and made him some red Koolaid and brought him three Advil. My work here is done.

Several hours later, his fever broke. Mercifully. I knew that this had happened because one minute I was dry and the next, I thought I may have had "an accident" as the sheets and everything else were soaked. Ahhh...I guess that's what they mean to sweat out a fever. *gross* I watched him slumber peacefully for a few minutes, before I went and changed clothes and moved myself to the couch.

The next morning, he asked me why I didn't take him to the hospital the previous night.

Damyankee: Huh? What do you mean? You were just running a fever. It's not like you had blood coming out of your eyeballs or anything.

Him: I begged you to take me to the hospital.

Damyankee: No..no...you asked me for some red Koolaid and some Advil, which is what I brought you.

Him: Nooo...I sure didn't. I thought I was dying and I was begging you to get me to the hospital and all you brought me was some Koolaid and Advil. I thought maybe you were trying to kill me.

Damyankee: Wow. I had no idea that's what you were saying, you were so delirious. And you know perfectly well if I was trying to kill you, I would make it look like an accident. *grin*

Him: blink.blink..........blink.

[the operation was called hobbling]

Sometimes he just doesn't appreciate my sense of humour. :)

I don't think those are peppercorns...

2009-05-29T13:32:00.010-05:00

I have mentioned before that sometimes I am just dumb. I promise you, it is not my intention to be dumb. I read all the time, try to stay current on news and world events, watch educational programs on TV, all in an effort to expand my knowledge. I know a little bit about a lot of things, and a great deal about a few. When it comes to playing games like Trivial Pursuit, there is a pretty good chance that I am going to kick your butt, especially when partnered with my husband. He and I are the king and queen...of useless knowledge.

That being said, I continue to say and do...very dumb things.

Last summer, we had a large cookout at my dads lake house. Lloyd was outside frying catfish, fried green tomatoes and other things, and I was supposed to be preparing the "inside food". That works out good for me because then I get to be in the air conditioning. I like air conditioning...a lot.

So, one of the foods I was supposed to prepare was a large thing of boiled shrimp. I hadn't ever boiled shrimp before, so Lloyd came in and patiently explained the process. You boil the water, add a couple of things of crab boil, stick the shrimp in, let them boil, remove and drain them, and Voila! boiled shrimp.

(Good deal...I can handle this.) The shrimp get done boiling, and I noticed that the bags of crab boil had burst in the pot. No biggie, that will get rinsed off in the colander.

In the kitchen with me, I had my brothers girlfriend Hope and his friend Victor. Hope hasn't cooked a lot so she was interested in learning. (Given this particular situation, I can't say that I may be the best person for her to learn from.) Victor was just there for the air conditioning and beer.

So, I go to rinse the shrimp and noticed that there were peppercorns, apparently from the crab boil, all over the shrimp. So, I rinsed...and rinsed...and rinsed...and they would not come off to save my life.

*sigh*...man...those things are spicy when you bite into them, I really have to get them off. But we are talking...10lbs of shrimp...that's a lot of peppercorn removal. Especially if they are "boiled on".

These particular shrimp were "shell-on" shrimp. I don't generally eat shrimp like that, as I don't like to have to remove the flipper-thingies, or the exoskeleton. It just grosses me out because inevitably you have the little legs stuck everywhere on you, and you never quite get all of the shell off and unless the shrimp is fried, it just shouldn't be crunchy. If we go out to eat, Lloyd will usually peel a few for me, probably out of pity. Please sir...may I have some more.

So, I started looking at the shrimp a little closer and realize that these particular shrimp are a little more "shell-on" than I had realized. The head was still on them.

huh. Head.still.on.them.

Damyankee: you know...I just don't think the black things on these shrimp are peppercorns.

Victor: um...yeah. You thought the eyeballs were peppercorns? Is that what you have been trying to rinse off for the last 15 minutes???? bwahahahaaha...(and then he ran outside to tell my husband what an idiot his wife was...like he didn't already KNOW that).

Damyankee: Well, what am I supposed to do? Why would the head still be on there?

Hope: (grossed out look on her face) I don't know.

Damyankee: Well, am I supposed to serve them like this, you think?

Hope: um....well...um....I just don't think I can eat something with the eyeballs still on there.

Damyankee: yeah...I see what you mean. It's like they are lookin' at you. What do we do? (see how I have now made this *our* problem...lol)

Hope: I don't know. Maybe you can just cut the heads off. (hmm...she isn't seeming too keen on it being "our problem" and helping me mutilate these shrimp)

Meanwhile, Victor has come back inside from tattling on me, like the little girl he is. He watches me cut the head off of a couple of the shrimp...and I look down at the 5 billion or so left to go. I hadn't actually planned to touch the shrimp with my bare hands, and my dad doesn't carry disposable gloves at the lake house. A problem I plan to remedy this year. No house should be without a 500 count box of disposable gloves, as far as I am concerned.

He then tells me that I am "doing it wrong". He said you don't cut the heads off...you "pop" them off.

(Oh hell no...you have to be kidding me. I am not popping nothin' off with my bare hands.)

He grabs a shrimp and basically just rips the head off and throws it into another bowl. No big thang jangalang.

Crap. So, there I am...ripping the heads off, tossing them aside, for at least 45 minutes. When I got done, I had at least 5,000 little flippers stuck everywhere on me, in addition to several hundred eyeballs that had became dislodged (probably because I had loosened the hell out of them trying to rinse them off for 15 minutes), and I stunk. Like nasty tootie-tootie. (you know what I mean)

Needless to say, I didn't eat any shrimp that night. I hope everyone else enjoyed it, though, because it will be the LAST "whole head-on eyeballs and flippers included shrimp" we will ever bring up there.

Farm living is the life for me....

2009-05-28T12:11:00.002-05:00

The cube farm that is....

I am coming up on nearly 9 years of sitting in the cube farm. The walls are grey, the carpeting is grey, even our desks and cabinets are grey. I remember the first time I walked in here, I thought there was no way I was going to be able to sit in there without feeling claustrophobic. Caged, even. Jeez...where's my little spinny wheel?

However, like most anything, you get used to your environment, and you adapt. Like guinea pigs. In your cage.

I can't say it's really all that bad...I have a great job, one that I am happy to have. Over the years, though, I have had some *truly* whacked out people that have sat near me.

Obviously, there is no privacy. If you are on the phone, anyone sitting near you can hear everything you say with acute clarity...even more so if you are trying to be private about your conversation. Suddenly there are no more clackity-clack sounds, whispered conversations grind to a halt...and the silence is deafening. Fight with your spouse? I know about it. Little heathens for kids? Yeah, I know all about that too. Problems with your credit? trying to buy a house? an embarrassing medical problem? on a diet?...yep, I know allll about it. And wish I didn't.

There's one guy that used to sit in the farm....he hated his wife, or maybe just women in general, but especially his wife. No doubt. He was so mean to her on the phone...raising his voice, telling her to shut up, that she was stupid, criticizing any little thing she did. He just made me want to throw up every time I saw his ugly face. Every so often, I may or may not have buried some tuna or other rotten smelling food in his garbage can when he walked away from his desk. I imagine that the stench was unreal...especially when it got hot in here in the afternoon. This probably wouldn't have been so bad if our garbage was picked up more than twice a week. Yeah, I know...that's wasn't nice, but it wasn't to make me feel better...it was for his wife.

I remember another guy that used to sit a few rows away from me that would talk on his speaker-phone all morning long. For those that don't sit in a farm, this is a pretty major social faux pas. It's just not done. Worse, he was a pompous @ss that had been booted from a nice cushy office and felt that he was too good to be sitting in the farm. *sigh*. He really had to go; he just wasn't fitting into the farm schema. What to do?

Welllllll.....near him sat an old school fax machine that had run out of toner, perhaps a few years before. You could dial the fax machine, but it wouldn't pick up...and would just ring and ring. Very annoying...if you sat right beside it. Every time he got on a speaker-phone call, I may or may not have dialled the number to the fax machine and then placed the phone down on my desk for 5 or even...10 minutes. Riiiiiiiiiiiing. Riiiiiiiiiiing. Inevitably, he would have to switch off of speakerphone because the person he was talking to couldn't hear him, and he seemed genuinely puzzled (and highly irritated) that it always seemed to do that when he was talking on the phone. Odd. He lasted a month.

The first Christmas that I worked here, I sat right near a guy that played the same Irish Christmas CD over and over and over again. All day long, every day. By the 8th day, I thought I might be going insane and despite the fact that I was wearing noise cancelling headphones, I could still hear every single note played. Being new, I didn't understand that normal societal politeness just doesn't apply in the farm with some people; I went to him and told him how much I enjoyed the music he was playing. I was wondering, however, if he had any other Christmas CD's? That as much as I liked the current selection, it was getting a little "old". He smiled, and said absolutely...and for the next 10 straight days, I listened to wonderful sounds of Christmas as represented by bagpipes. It's a Scottish Christmas. Yay. That's so much better...thank you.

My mistake was in not going with my first inclination which would have been to render his CD/DVD drive permanently inoperable. A few well placed toothpicks and some peanut butter and that sucker would have never opened again. But, that would be destroying property, and I don't do that. The better option would have been to hide his speakers, until such time that Christmas was over. The following year.

On the whole, there are some very nice people that sit near me, and we all tend to leave each other alone and behave like civilized folks. Every now and again...we get a dolt in the mix.

I almost feel sorry for them. muwahahaha....

I will never learn...

2009-05-27T21:09:00.016-05:00

I was talking to my friend Tammy one day while at work, discussing our mutual fear of spiders. She told me about a spider that carries it's egg sac on its butt and that, awhile back, she stepped on one, and out poured all these little baby spiders. She said she nearly came unglued.

I didn't sleep well that night after that conversation. I have never seen a spider with an egg sac on its butt...and I hope and pray that as long as I live...I never do. Because I have just typed these words, I will probably see one tomorrow, with my luck.

Last week, while taking a shower, having just shampooed my hair, I felt something run across my feet. (Oh God, please don't let it be a spider) I look down and it was a prehistoric sized wood roach. Like Madagascar hissing sized cockroach. I screamed like I was being killed, nearly busted the shower door down trying to get out. Although naked, with shampoo running down my back, I ran to my closet, grabbed some ugly flip-flops, went back and beat the hell out of it. I do not fear roaches the same way I do spiders. To my knowledge, roaches do not bite, although they are TRULY disgustingly nasty. Especially when they are half the width of my foot.

[woodroach...nasty, huh? crawled across my FOOT!]

Ahhhh...I love living in the south.

Anyway, we have had TONS of rain these last few weeks. This seems to be driving the outdoor bugs, inside. This is just not sitting well with me at all. I already don't sleep much...and the thought of having these insects in the house, potentially crawling on me while I sleep, dropping down from the ceiling and landing on my face is the stuff nightmares are made of. Is it bad to mix a bottle of wine and a couple of Advil PM? I think not. At least if something did land on me at night, I might not care as much.

I have seen several good sized spiders in the house lately, and after all we went through last year eradicating them, I just don't know if I have it in me again to launch that level of warfare. Although my husband is very manly, he is more scared of spiders than I am. Granted, I do not have a large hole in my leg from being bitten by a Brown Recluse, I still think as the man of the house, he should be doing more to remove these pests. He likes to play the ol' "I don't see them, and I also don't hear my wife's terrified screams when she sees them" game. I see some passive-aggressiveness in our future.

Well, after what I went through the other morning, he is going to have to "man up" and start doing something about the problem. I am not even kidding. He needs to call up his sister-in-law once removed, get the heavy duty commercial grade insecticide, bring out the hazmat suit, slap on the air tank and start doing some killin'!

Two mornings ago, I was getting ready for work. I had just finished cattle-prodding the kids to finish their breakfast. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a spider making its way towards me in the kitchen. Brazen little thing. Since I was wearing heavy tennis shoes, and my husband had already left for work, and he hates when I call him for what he considers trivial problems, I decided to handle it myself.

I went over and stepped on the spider...

...HUNDREDS, maybe thousands of little spiders fanned out from the carcass! I went absolutely BERSERK. Screaming, hollering, yelling, a whole lot more screaming, stomping, doing the Mexican hat dance on them trying to kill them all. Katie and Cole came running...I am sure they thought that I had finally gone certifiably insane. To a degree...I had.

I won't be the same after witnessing that. Obviously, I didn't see it coming. I figured if babies were involved...there would be an egg sac or something stuck to the butt. But noooooooooooooo....apparently, they can carry them on their back! WHAT THE HELL??? Since when did they start doing that???

[this looks exactly like the 'possum-like spider I stepped on...GROSS!!!]

Again...4,000 hours of Animal Planet watching...and I am unprepared. I see no point in watching the stupid channel anymore if I am not learning the educational things I need to know. WHO GIVES a DAYUM about lions ripping apart a stupid caribou, or elk or whatever those fast running horned things are called! I don't have lions and caribou's running amok in my kitchen! They need to dedicate an entire show to pest removal and killin'. I am telling you...there is a market.

You know, I spent the majority of my life up north. Never...ever...ever...ever.....(one more time)...EVER...did I see anything like that, anywhere I lived. If a yankee stepped on a spider like that up there, they would sell their house...and move. That very day. No questions asked. See ya...ba-bye.

Down here....yeah, it sucks, and when it happens (especially) to someone else, it's sorta funny...and gross at the same time. But, no big deal, really...happens all the time. Sorry...I'm calling BS on that! It is the grossest.thing.ever.

ever.

By the way...I know of a nice 4 bedroom split that will be going on the market soon. (small spider problem).

Crazy...

2009-05-24T22:01:00.000-05:00

One of my very favorite songs, Crazy, by Gnarls Barkely has been around not quite 15 years. For a long time, I thought it was an old song by Al Green. It sure sounds like something he would sing. My dad has listened to Al Green since I was a youngling, and I can remember being maybe 4 years old sitting in the backseat of my parents Cutlass Supreme singing the lyrics to "Let's Stay Together". Nobody can sing R&B like a 4 year old. "Why somebody, why people break up....Oooh, turn around and make up I just can't seeeeeeeee".

Recently, we were slow cruising out on my dads boat, and Crazy was one of the songs playing on my iPod. He heard the first few lines of it, and said..."I LIKE THAT!". I knew you would.

I have heard that the writer of Crazy had been told, repeatedly, that an artist had to be genuinely crazy, in order to achieve true success. There is probably some truth in that. Many great writers, musicians and painters have certainly led...mmm...colorful lives, to put it conservatively.

Personally, I think the song is about self-awareness. While I am not certifiably crazy (so I have been told), I know that at times, I am a little off my rocker. I am completely aware of these moments...and instead of fighting them off, like we are conditioned to do, I now embrace them. Between the heightened senses and the clarity of ideas, thoughts, and images that flow in my mind much faster than my fingers can type, or my mouth can speak, I know I am entering the proverbial zone.

If you have not been in the zone, all you have to do is just let go...for a little while.

"Crazy" - Gnarls Barkley

I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place.
Even your emotions had an echo
In so much space

And when you're out there
Without care,
Yeah, I was out of touch
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much

Does that make me crazy?
Does that make me crazy?
Does that make me crazy?
probably

And I hope that you are having the time of your life
But think twice, that's my only advice

Come on now, who do you, who do you, who do you, who do you think you are,
Ha ha ha bless your soul
You really think you're in control

Well, I think you're crazy
I think you're crazy
I think you're crazy
Just like me

My heroes had the heart to lose their lives out on a limb
And all I remember is thinking, I want to be like them
Ever since I was little, ever since I was little it looked like fun
And it's no coincidence I've come
And I can die when I'm done

Maybe I'm crazy
Maybe you're crazy
Maybe we're crazy
Probably

Uh, uh

Quirky friends...

2009-05-20T16:32:00.001-05:00

Everyone has one friend that is a little different. Not "rides the short bus" different, but odd. Quirky. For most of my friends, I have a sneaking suspicion that *I* am their quirky friend. I certainly have my eccentricities, and that doesn't bother me a bit.

However, like I said, everyone, even a person that's a "little out there" has at least one friend that's a little weirder than themselves. My quirky friend would be Melissa. I have known her...I don't know...maybe 7-8 years now, and she never ceases to surprise me with her antics.

Driving with her has always been an experience. One of the first times I rode with her, she was giving me a ride to the dealership to pick up my car. Looking inside any of Melissa's vehicles, you are surprised *she* even has a place to sit. She loves to shop, and is always finding interesting things. Only she doesn't unload them with any regularity. Her backseats are filled (RIGHT NOW) with Christmas decorations she bought the day after Christmas, in addition to light fixtures (garage sale), dishes (flea market), tiki lights, shoes, a Dutch Oven, bags of concrete, some kind of camel poop that she swears is good for her flowers, and only God knows what else.

I recall this one time, she was driving a Lincoln Town Car. Mike (her very soon to be husband) bought it for her from the previous owner who was...maybe 97 years old. This elderly woman liked to drive around with her 3lb excitable Yorkie...that had a bladder problem. I sat down in the passenger side, and before we made it out of the front gates at work, I could feel my butt growing damp. Hmmm...I sure hope it's water since I am wearing light colored khaki pants. *sigh*

We get to the dealership, I get out of the car...and turned around and asked her if my butt looked wet. She lies about as well as I do. Her eyes looked upwards, her eyebrows went cockeyed, her lips pursed. If she had dog ears, they would have been flattened back against her skull. Yet, she still said, "I don't see anything". LIAR. Well, my butt feels a little damp-ish...is it noticeable? "No, no...you can hardly see it. I am sure that it is just tea or something." Hmmm.

I walk in, pay for my car repair, turn to leave and the kid at the cash register says, "m'am, I think you sat in something." (grrrr...I knew it!).

Another day, we were going out to lunch and she insisted on driving. I hadn't ridden with her in awhile, but she had a new truck by this time. No previous geriatric owners with pet bladder problems, that I was aware of. So, there we are...she is irritated because her kids, despite the fact that they are mostly grown adults, have called her 327 times, needing something, since 9AM. She is talking on her cell phone, smoking a cigarette, with a large cup of tea between her legs and trying to drive with her knee. I won't lie...I felt a little nervous...because we needed to make a sharp right turn. I offered to get the wheel, but she was busy yelling at one of the little heathens and didn't hear me. She mostly made the turn...we totally jumped the curb in front of the gas station, but she hung on to her tea, cell phone and cigarette. That's talent right there. She then told whichever child that she had to get off the phone because she needed to concentrate. No, no. The roads are pretty straight from here on out...you should just keep talking.

She also has a thing about leaving her keys inside her vehicles. Of course, the automatic locks don't help a bit in this situation. I have literally begged her to make a spare set of keys, but noooooo...that would be too easy. One day, we were having lunch at McAllisters. Upon leaving, she realizes that she has, once again, locked the keys in her truck. She told me "no worries, I have it handled this time". Oh good...you finally made a spare key and put it in one of magnetic boxes?

She looked at me like I was crazy.

Out of the bed of her truck, she pulls out a 6 foot painters pole. She had left the windows cracked just enough (even though it was raining) to stick the ridiculously long pole through and hit the unlock button.

Huh. Clever. You know a spare key is much more compact.

I won't LOSE a painters pole, now will I? Beats the umbrella we used last time, remember? Or the coat hanger the time before. And we didn't even break the window this time.

You do make a compelling argument, I'll give you that.

Eating out with her is always fun, as well. I am not saying she is demanding, she will be the first to tell you that she just wants things how she wants them and why settle for less? I have seen her send sandwiches back for being tainted by a tomato, or something else on there that she found unappealing, rather than just taking off the "offendee". I keep telling her that every time she sends it back they are making her a "special turkey club". She just doesn't believe me.

Other foods have been sent back because she saw someone else's plate at another table, changed her mind and wanted what they had; and she will keep a waiter or waitress on the run asking them for additional packets of sweet n low. What they don't know is that if you opened up her purse, at least 5,000 packets of the stuff would spill out. Those are "spares"...for later.

She always gets most everything to-go, especially her tea. One time, they told her they didn't have any to-go cups, she suggested they look anyway. lol...They put her tea in what looked to me to be a specimen cup (probably from some guy that had to report to his parole officer that day) and sent her back with that. She was pissed because it didn't have a lid, but she still drank out of it anyway.

At any rate, she is hilarious...and will give you the shirt off her back. Or which ever one she may have stashed in her backseat.

Harpoon the whale!

2009-05-19T18:55:00.001-05:00

Katie's birthday is on Saturday; she has asked for a new tube for the boat. Hmmm...yeah. I am going to have to think about that.

We spent a lot of time last summer at my dad's lake house tubing with the kids. It all seemed like good fun (and it was) until that last ride. I used to be able to tube with the best of them. I would DARE anyone to throw me off. Couldn't be done, I said. I had a death grip like no other and could withstand G forces that would make even the hairiest of pilots reach for their complimentary barf bags.

This last day, we had been tubing with the Marshall's and my dad all afternoon. Angela could hang with the best of them. For a California girl, she could holler woooooooooooooohoooooooooooo when flying over a wake better than Daisy Duke jumping a washed out bridge while being chased by Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane. You know Mike was proud.

I don't like to get into the water...personally. ON is fine. IN, not so much. It may sound a little sissified...but I don't care. I know that there are all sorts of things in there, weeds, large catfish (maybe even those bitin' kind like on River Monsters), oozy mud, more weeds, and lets not forget the GATORS. Plenty of them. But they only come out at night...so I am told.

Anyway, everyone had already tubed for the day...it was my turn. I didn't want to seem like a big wuss (although I am), so I made my way over to to the boat. I also don't feel comfortable getting into the tube from the back of his boat, but I am unable to get into the tube if I am already in the water. I look like a large seal trying to flip itself up onto a high dive. How many times have you seen that happen successfully? Yeah, I didn't think so.

So, I fall back into the tube, grab onto the handles and see my husband look backwards, thumbs up, and off we go. yay.

At first, he was taking it easy on me...a nice little grandma ride that I enjoyed immensely. It was a trap...he was just trying to lull me into a false sense of security. I saw him look back again, and maybe it was because I was kicked back, legs crossed, only holding on with one hand and sipping a fruity beverage, that he felt that I needed a little more action. I saw him push forward on the throttle, and the front end of the boat came up out of the water like the Titanic...in its final death throes...

Oh Lawdy...

OFF WE WENT like a bat out of hell. He started doing donuts and I could almost taste the butt enema I was getting, as I skated across his wake, while simultaneously being slung nearly around to the front of the boat. Maybe it was the maniacal grin on his face, but I started trying to recall if I had ever mentioned the value of my life insurance policies to him.

I was screaming at him to Please for the love of God and all that is Holy STOP, SLOW DOWN, ANYTHING. I couldn't let go to give him a hand signal (and I had a very specific one in mind) because I knew that would be the beginning of the end.

You see, I have water splatted many times before, and each time...I vow....that I will never ever ever ever get on a tube, water ski, or knee board again. Each summer rolls around and it is as if I have amnesia. Splat? What splat? I didn't do a face plant. I didn't ski myself into reeds cutting my legs into thin ribbons of flesh. I didn't hit a stump and catapult 29 feet into the air and oh so gracefully land on my face. That wasn't me.

OH...but it was.

So, there I am, my face has become rubberized, cheeks flapping much like a skydiver having just fallen 1500 feet in 4 seconds, I am contemplating my beneficiary choices, when the boat slows.

oh...thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou...

HOLDUP...I am leaning too far back in the tube...OhNo...I better reposition myself before I hit the wake or I will....

BOOM!...

I see sky...

and a pontoon boat...

and the Mississippi River...

(ok...I didn't see that last thing, but I shot way way up there...)

falling...need to turn so I don't land on my face again...almost there...(yes, I was multitasking my contemplations with some girly screaming)

SPLASH!

I'm in the water...ugh, this stuff is so nasty, please don't let me touch bottom, it's going to be gross... Good thing for the jacket...it just pops me back on top. AIR...sweet air. Oh hell no. GASPGASPWHEEZEGASP. Can't breathe! no air. wind must be knocked out of me. Relaaaaaaaaaaax. ahhh oooooommmm aaaahhh oooommmm. Breeeeeeeathe. Caaaaaalm...I suck in a little air. I still feel constricted, can't get in a deep breath. Lord...what have I done this time?

So, I floated...just laying there...like a dead whale gone belly up. Couldn't swim, couldn't take in a breath. I could hear Lloyd laughing as he pulled the boat along side me. I imagine that it was quite a spectacle to have launched me 50 feet in the air then watched my less than "clean" landing. She should get a 10 on the dismount, but a 2 on the landing.

He tells me to pull myself up on to the deck. I am only afloat because of my jacket and my double D's. I can't breathe, and can't move. I can't talk either. Maybe it was my lack of communication, maybe it was because I was gasping and wheezing, or it could have been the fact that my eyes had rolled back in my head...

The next thing I know, a long rod has been hooked into my jacket and I am harpooned and tossed onto the deck like a large fish. Only I didn't flop around. I just laid there, much like a dead one.

I could see him standing above me asking me what is wrong. I told him I didn't know....but I think I may have broken a rib or two. "DAYUM. that sucks.", he says.

you have such a way with words...

I waited three days to go to the Dr...yeah, dumb, I know. But if you have read my Dr stories then you know why I typically wait until I am on the verge of death before paying him a visit. I didn't break my ribs, but I did tear the muscles in between them. Hurt like a....well, it just hurt real bad.

So here it is...nearly summertime again. We have already had a few days in the 90's, the humidity has also returned with a vengeance. Maybe it is the humidity that plays tricks on my mind causing my amnesia or dementia, as it were.

I am contemplating the new tube that Katie wants. A bigger, badder 3-person tube. With additional jet propulsion. In green.

Hmmm...maybe I don't need to be DamYankee...I need to be DumbYankee.

The 'Coon Wrassler...

2009-05-18T14:02:00.002-05:00

Once upon a time, in a land, not so far away...

...sat our former house at the end of a cul-de-sac. Behind the house was a nasty retention pond, a woodsy-like area, and on either side lived our neighbors. This would not have been considered a country setting, by any means. In this same house, we had a glassed in sun porch, in which our two dogs, Rufus and Rorie dined. I spent a lot of time out there myself, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper and trying to hide from my kids and responsibilities.

One early morning, my husband came home from working a 12 hour shift as a sheriff's deputy. When he works nights, he usually crawls into the house, bleary-eyed, his clothes and gun belt are removed and he drops into the bed, fast asleep within 30...maybe 45 seconds. I am usually getting up just about that time. Afterwards, I go and pour my coffee and retreat to the back porch to wake up before I have to deal with getting the kids ready, fed and to their respective places. I *need* this time. I must have this time.

This particular morning, I let the dogs out, went to make my coffee and heard the most horrible growling sounds. Terrible fighting sounds, things getting knocked over, more growling and fighting and snarling.

OH NO!...what in the world is going on?? I ran back to the sliding glass doors that lead out to the porch and saw my dogs fighting with a couple of raccoons on the back porch. 'Coons...if they are big enough, will kill a dog. Their claws and teeth are razor sharp, and they are very strong. My little Napoleon dogs, not the avid Animal Planet watchers that I am, were unaware of that fact and were protecting their turf.

By this time, the girls had gotten up, and we somehow managed to get the dogs back into the house, but the two 'coons that we saw were trapped out on the back porch. Great.

[actual 'coon on our back porch, different day]

I gently walked into our bedroom, and very softly tapped my husband on the shoulder and said, "YOU HAVE TO GET UP! THERE ARE RACCOONS TRAPPED ON THE BACK PORCH AND THEY JUST TRIED TO KILL THE DOGS!"

My motivation was simple...one, I did need to be able to let the dogs out so they wouldn't poop on my floors. Two, I still hadn't had my coffee.

He jumps up, scared half to death, but still out of it. I repeat my dire message. Maybe with a little more intensity.

*sigh*..."%$#...FINE...I will go take care of the raccoons." With that, he stomps out of the bedroom.

He walked past the sliding glass doors and straight out to the garage. It is at this time, that I notice...he is only wearing underwear. Hmm...he seems kinda pissy, maybe I better leave this one alone. But, again..why is he going to deal with a potentially vicious animal wearing only underwear? I'm just sayin'.

He grabs the two dog crates that were being stored in the garage and proceeds to the back porch.

There were two small raccoons that had been "treed" on the wood post that separates the windows, and another one that had enclosed itself inside of the roll away plastic dog food bin. Three raccoons. Awesome.

He immediately went for one of the little raccoons that had treed itself on the window. It was a quick grab, he had it by its neck and it was in dog crate #1 before it even knew what happened.

It scratched him up a bit, so he asked for his rawhide gloves. I quickly found them, and opened the door a hair and threw them to him. I sat back down in one of the kitchen chairs that I had dragged in front of the glass doors to continue watching "the show", while I drank my coffee.

He decided to go for the raccoon in the dog food bin, as the other one on the post, seeing what had happened to his brother Ricky, went ballistic and began growling and hissing at him. He opened the dog food bin...and slammed it shut as fast as he could! I think he may have even said another bad word.

Meanwhile, the girls, who normally can't get themselves ready in under an hour on any other given school day, have miraculously gotten themselves dressed, ready and were seated beside me watching Lloyd wrassle the 'coons.

I yelled through the glass doors..."what's wrong??". I could see him taking deep breaths, he said that there were TWO raccoons in the bin and one was the size of Rufus, (the bigger of our two dogs). lol...that would be Momma 'coon. FOUR raccoons.

Now, keep in mind, he is only wearing a pair of underwear, and Rawhide gloves. He then yelled for me to bring him a pair of shorts. Maybe the beansNfrank needed some protection? I obliged and threw those out to him. He took another deep breath and threw the bin open, kicked it over, spilling out 40lbs of dog food, one juvenile 'coon and its' Momma.

She immediately went after him as he tried to capture her baby. There he was, hooping and hollering, knocking over end tables and chairs trying to chase this thing down. He did manage to get the second one, opened up the dog crate and tossed it in with its' brother Ricky.

At this time, I felt it might be beneficial to suggest some boots. I reminded him that raccoons are known rabies carries. Truthfully, I have no idea, but it seems logical. He asked me to get his work boots, and I threw those out the door as well. Still...he is not wearing a shirt. If it was me, I would want to be covered in chainmail. Actually, if it was me, I would have just opened the door to the backyard from the other side of the porch and let them leave at their leisure.

Momma has now treed herself next to her remaining baby. They were both growling and hissing at him and the sound was horrible. They were seriously pissed.

For whatever reason, he unwisely chose to grab Momma. She was no small raccoon like the others. She started lunging at him the second he came near her, teeth gnashing, snapping, howling, she was reaaaddyy to ruuummmbbbllee.

He grabbed her around her neck...she twisted and grabbed his wrists with her paws and hung on for dear life. Despite the fact that he was nearly choking her, she managed to growl, hiss, snarl, and spit at him. She thrashed her body from side to side; jerking herself up and down, twisting her head side to side, biting and chewing at his gloves. He may have "had" her...but she still had a great deal of control.

For 15 minutes, he danced around the porch with this large raccoon. He tripped over furniture, slid on dog food and finally, he managed to get her inside of Cage #2. The girls and I were laughing so hard at this sight, we nearly peed our pants. Just then I had a thought...

huh. this would probably be a bad time to tell him that *that* particular cage was broken. The bolt holding it down on one side is missing. Ah well, I am sure that she won't be able to...oh crap!!!

Just as he had grabbed 'coon #4...HULKASAURUS Momma coon stood up, breaking the remaining bolt, 'Roooooowwwwwwwwwwrrrrrrrrrrrrr', throwing the top half of the dog crate aside. She jumped nearly 3 feet in the air, and in a move I have only seen in the The Matrix, she suspended herself in midair before twisting her body sideways and lunging at my husband. My mouth...hung open...

My husband is a large man. I have never seen him cry, and although he can be a titty baby about being sick, I know that is all for show, he just wants the attention. In truth, you could probably stab him, shoot him, or otherwise maim him in some way and he will barely flinch. All in all, he's a pretty tough guy.

But I say this, and not necessarily for getting back at him because of the suppository thing....

...he screamed like a little girl when he saw that raccoon coming after him! Aaaaahhhhhhh!

He dropped the other baby and ran for his life around that porch. It was clear that it was her intention to inflict great bodily harm upon him. Around and around the porch they ran, I don't know how many times. (Look kids!...Big Ben, Parliament).

At some point, testosterone kicked in and he must have realized that he was a 250lb grown man being chased like a little girl by a 40lb raccoon. He then turned around and made another grab for her. The remaining baby decided piss on this! and also went after Lloyd, defending his momma.

I am sure that there was no way he heard our laughter over the sound of all that growling and snarling, but this "show" had been so much more entertaining than we ever expected. WHY OH WHY...do we not own a video camera?? He scared baby #4 back onto its post and once again, it was just him and momma.

Both, were breathing hard and each had a new found respect for the other.

Momma had finally started to wind down and he managed to grab her up, one last time and "helped" her out the door to the backyard. He knew there was no way that he would be able to get her crated again, (especially not in the BROKEN one!) and off into the woods she ran.

He grabbed up the final baby raccoon, who still had lots of fight left in him. By this time, my husband was exhausted, scratched up, still semi-naked and barely able to hang on to this small creature. He called out to me to help him open the cage so that he could put the remaining one in.

Are you talkin' to me? ...right now? Out there? No, no. I just want to watch, I don't want to be an active participant.

GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW AND OPEN UP THIS (insert bad word here) CAGE.

ok...ok...I'm coming. Jeez. You don't need to be so snitty...

To open the cage, you have to squeeze both the top and the bottom of the latch release simultaneously. I was scared to death the raccoons were going to leap out and rip my face off when I did manage to get it open. I sat there and tried to psyche myself up for at least a minute...forgetting that Lloyd was still holding a thrashing and pissed off raccoon. No worries...he reminded me.

However, my fears were unjustified, and I was able to open the crate without incident. He then tossed in the remaining raccoon, closed it up and carried it out to his truck. The little guys were enrolled in a "witness relocation program" not too far from our house. I am sure the doctors that live near this particularly woodsy area will be able to provide the raccoons with classier food than Purina Weight Management Dog Chow.

Later that night, when we were recounting the entire saga over dinner, he asked about the broken crate...

huh?...broken crate? what broken crate? OH...you mean Rorie's old crate. Yeah, that was weird...I had NO IDEA it was broken, or I would have told you, I'm sure.

riiiiiiiiiiiiight.

One more embarrassing story...

2009-05-17T16:07:00.001-05:00

I have told a couple of my own embarrassing stories recently; in some cases, enough time has passed that I no longer feel that burn of shame. Jay recently asked *how* these things happen to me...

Hmm...well, I can't say for sure. I have given a lot of thought to it, however, and conclude that everyone has to have done things that are just plain ol' dumb...most do not blog about it.

Here we go...

Before I got pregnant with Cole, I had a bout of intestinal issues. I don't handle this sort of situation well. The last time I confessed intestinal issues to anyone, I was 20, and my dad fearing that I was suffering the same serious issues that have afflicted him, scheduled me for an upper GI, lower GI, ultimately leading to a sigmoidoscopy. Only, he didn't tell me the details of any of the procedures until it was much too late. It was the roto-rooter that grabbed my attention the most, and since then, I have never told anyone that I have had a stomach problem in fear that I will get the garden hose treatment. The joke has always been, unless I see my colon hanging out of my butt, I see no reason for a medical intervention.

My husband too...is a funny guy. I mentioned to him one afternoon that I hadn't "gone" in a few days. He was horrified. He is one of those hated "regular" kind of people. I don't know what that means, my body doesn't work that way, and I am unwilling to eat enough fiber to find out. When it happens...it happens. And I am just grateful.

However, during this period of time, it hadn't happened in awhile, and it was starting to get uncomfortable. He suggested a suppository. I didn't even know what that was and had to google it. After 1 second of research, I came to the following conclusion: OH HELL NO...there is no way. None. Nope. I will not do that. Things will have to be MUCH MUCH worse before I consider it.

Two more days would pass, and the fact that I could only walk if I was stooped over like a 95 year old woman, before I decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. Off to Walmart we went.

Normally, I don't take my husband to Walmart. Sometimes he can be embarrassing (hey baby....did you need any of that PERSONAL LUBE? nope..I am good, thanks). Most of the time, though, his presence increases the bill by at least $200, and then he is shocked and indignant at the register when the cashier gives him the total. (um...we are pushing around *2* overflowing carts...the Duggars don't even get this much stuff...what did you expect?)

Because I can be an idiot...I took him with me. My plan was to wander near the section that held the suppositories and just swipe one of them into the basket, nonchalantly, and place a few other items on top to hide them.

He...had other ideas.

As soon as we got near the drugstore area, he made a beeline for the pharmacist. (where is he going?) I could hear him, over many other people on a crowded Saturday morning..."UM...YES....MY WIFE NEEDS SOME SUPPOSITORIES...SHE HASN'T POOPED IN A WEEK...WHAT AISLE IS THAT IN?"

(Holy crap, I know he didn't just do that!) I broke into a run with the cart to beat him there. These dayum old ladies better get out of my way!

I did make it to the aisle first, and to say that I was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of different types and sizes of suppositories was an understatement. Why are there so many different suppository makers? I have never bought them before...is there REALLY that large of a demand of suppositories? (no time to sit here and contemplate this, he is coming...you better hurry!)

So, I see him skate around the corner, and I gave him a look (one that said that I did overhear his little conversation with the pharmacist and would deal with him later), he smiled...as if to say..."let the games begin".

He bends down and starts reading off the bottles...as if he is talking to someone that is very hard of hearing"OK...WE CAN GET YOU THIS 500 COUNT BOTTLE OF SUPPOSITORIES HERE FOR $7.99. OR...WE HAVE THIS OTHER BOTTLE OVER HERE THAT HAS 200 SUPPOSITORIES FOR ONLY $4.99. WHICH ONE DO YOU THINK IS GOING TO WORK BETTER FOR YOU??"

I was stunned. I could NOT BELIEVE he was doing this. My eyes were nearly ready to pop out of my skull. A lady was pushing her cart down the aisle and burst out laughing, and another could overhear from the main aisle and stopped her cart to see what hubbub was in the laxative/suppository aisle. She too walked away laughing. I could feel my ears burn...I knew my face was probably beet red and I had to strongly resist the urge to kill him. (too many witnesses)

I swiped the 200 count bottle into my cart and tried to walk away as if I didn't know him. "NOW, IF YOU DON'T WANT A SUPPOSITORY, WE CAN TRY A DIFFERENT LAXATIVE." (grrr)

WHAT ABOUT GLOVES? DO YOU NEED SOME GLOVES? I have gloves, let's go. YOU SURE? yesssssssss....I'm sure.

I did try to bury the suppositories underneath some other items, and every time I looked away, he would place it back on top of my purse to ensure a more prominent display.

I didn't speak to him the remainder of the Walmart trip...my stomach was killing me and now everyone in aisles 13-27 knew that I hadn't pooped in a week, and was about to do something invasive to try to fix that. I just didn't feel that I could add to the conversation in a meaningful way.

He, of course, was very proud of himself. He doesn't get many opportunities to embarrass me, and he knew that he had done so with a zest never before seen. He was willing to take whatever silence or passive-aggressiveness came his way in retaliation and more importantly, he had caught me with my proverbial pants down. :)

Do squirrels have boogers?

2009-05-16T09:46:00.001-05:00

I was driving my 3 year old son, Cole, to daycare one morning last month. It was a quiet drive, neither of us saying much. Out of nowhere:

Cole: Momma, do squirrels have boogers?

I looked at him in the rear view mirror to determine the seriousness of his question. His eyebrows were furrowed as if he had been pondering this great mystery for some time. Maybe even a whole 3 minutes. Since I had never before given any thought to animal boogers, I took a minute or so myself.

Damyankee: Well, son, I will be honest, I have never seen a squirrel booger. But, if I had to guess, I would say....yes, they probably do have boogers. (that's my final answer...what do I win?)

He, too, was quiet for another minute or so. I figured he was probably thinking about how a squirrel would go about picking their nose. (I know I was)

Cole: Well, I have boogers. (he proudly held one up for me to see).

*sigh*...good thing I keep several boxes of Kleenex in the car.

Most children are very good at throwing parents for a loop when they least expect it. I am sure it's to keep us on our toes. While the squirrel booger was a new one for me, he is also very good at saying the wrong thing to other people at inappropriate times, much to my embarrassment.

For instance, we went out to dinner last night, taking Cole with us. Sometimes he can be very good in restaurants, sometimes we are better off getting our food to go as he has a hard time sitting still and hasn't discovered his "inside voice". Hindsight being what it is, I wish we would have just eaten takeout.

While we waited to be seated, the hostess, a very nice middle aged woman was chatting with Cole. She asked him how old he was, what his name was, did he like school, etc. Eventually, she told him that he was so cute that she wanted to pinch his fat cheeks.

Cole: (eyebrows furrowed) What'd you say?

Hostess: I said that your fat cheeks are so cute I just want to pinch them! (she demonstrates on herself).

Cole: Well, you gotta fat booty.

(Oh, please don't let him have said what I think he just said.)

Hostess: Pardon?

Cole: You gotta fat booty?

(Yep, that's what I thought he said.)

Damyankee: Cole, that was ugly, you don't say that.

Cole: Well, she does gotta fat booty! (pointing)...Look! See? It's fat.

*sigh*....we are never going to get seated now.

He was right and I was wrong...Part II

2009-05-14T22:45:00.001-05:00

I haven't been able to hear all week. That has worked out pretty well for me at work, as it mostly drowned out the sounds from my new jerk neighbor in the cube farm. (almost). It was just he and I around 5 this afternoon when he farted rather loudly. I left maybe 2 seconds later before the stank wafted over the wall. I may have to get passive-aggressive on him.

Anyway, I have had sinus issues and apparently they haven't been happy with just screwing up my breathing, they now have decided to settle in my ears. Not sure, medically, how that works...but it feels like I have been swimming for 10 straight hours underwater. yay.

I knew that we had some prescription ear drops in the cabinet. No sense in going to the dr when you can utilize others leftover medication. So, I glanced at the bottle, right size, right shape, said "otic" on it. I tilted my head, squeezed in an entire dropper full...

LORD HAVE MERCY...the burning. And stinging. My ear infection must be worse than I thought. To keep the drops from running down my neck, I stuck a cotton ball in it, and then did the other side. Crap...I do NOT remember these ear drops hurting like this...I am such a baby.

Later, I laid in bed...whining. Which my husband just loves, when he is trying to go to sleep. He feels like he has to do something, but he is too tired to do anything of any real value, and I know he just wants me to "man up". lol...which makes me even whinier.

So, after the 5th time of me complaining about my ears, (and not being able to hear his responses) he finally noticed the cotton balls. Of course, he had begun to enunciate his words as if I was stupid or something:

Him: What.....Can.....I.....Do......To.....Help.....You?? (more importantly, what can I do to get you to be quiet?) ....What's.....With.....The.....Balls??

Damyankee:It's to keep the ear drops in. I have been telling you about this for 30 minutes. You never listen to anything I say.

Him: *sigh*....What drops did you use? I know we don't have any ear drops.

Damyankee: YES...we do...I just put them in...(duh)...

Him: NO...we DON'T...I was looking for some last week and we.....don't....have....any.

Damyankee:[nostrils flare]

I get up to go to the cabinet so that I can pretty much bring the bottle back and shove it in his.... face...

I look more carefully at the bottle...reading the microscopically fine print... so that I will be able to quote song and verse the details regarding the *ear* drops.

huh! what do you know? there is only a "one" letter difference between "otic" and "oPtic".

[this is what I thought I was putting in my ear]

My brain processed this revelation like this:
Otic=ear
Optic=eye
Optic=pink eye drops

[would have been good to have the box...as there is a picture of an EYE on it!]

DAYUM...I just put pink eye drops in my ears! And then sealed it in. No wonder it burned. Awesome, I have probably just damaged my hearing even MORE. I already can't watch TV without closed captioning, this is just going to seal the deal. *sigh* Blind and Deaf on the backside of 30. Seeing eye dog and an ear horn. Just perfect.

[my next dog is very cute, no?]

[I want one of these just to have one now]

Side note: If I am going to lose a sense...why not the sense of smell? It would certainly help out when the new jerk next door decides to fart like he is in his own bathroom.

I can hear Lloyd (muffly) asking me to bring the bottle in for him to look at....(riiight...)

I hate being wrong. More importantly, I hate being wrong when I am being such an @ss about being right. Even more than that, I hate being wrong, when I am being such an @ss about being right, and it turns out that HE is right. Ah well, might as well get this over with...

Damyankee: ok...you were right and I was wrong. I just put pink eye drops in my ears. HAPPY? I am probably deaf now. So..go ahead and laugh.

He does...and loudly. What can I say?...his wife is an idiot. :)

At least the dr. said this morning that my ears showed no sign of pink eye. Always a plus.

Dear Jehovah's Witnesses...

2009-05-13T18:45:00.000-05:00

Dear Jehovah's Witnesses:

I want to tell you how much I enjoy our visits together every other Saturday around 9AM. You certainly are early risers. If somehow you could call first and let me know you were coming, I might be able to answer the door wearing a bra. I feel certain that the discomfort that both you and I feel, as I try to hide the fact that I am allowing the girls to hang free for a few hours a week, could be avoided.

I know I must be a sight to look at and have caught you trying to avert your eyes from my red and black leopard print jammie bottoms, lavender colored fuzzy house flops, and Swiss cheese-like Grateful Dead t-shirt that probably should have been thrown away 10 years ago. I also wish that I had not chosen those particular moments to deep condition my hair, as it is hard to hear you spread the word of God through the plastic bag on my head.

Usually, when I deep condition my hair, I also apply a mask to my face, which would explain why I look like Mrs. Hulk. Again, a phone call would save both of us a lot of embarrassment.

I do want to apologize for my dogs, Rufus and Rorie. Normally they are very nice dogs, and don't go around viciously chasing people in our front yard. However, you did ring the front door bell...9 times, and I think that may have agitated them. Along with copies of the Watchtower, maybe bringing them a biscuit or two would go a long way towards making friends.

Sincerely,
Damyankee

People Watching

2009-05-13T11:41:00.002-05:00

People watching...is one of my favorite past times. Sitting in a cube farm is not conducive to staring at folks, without being noticed.

After Lloyd made his automotive diagnosis...I optimistically showed up at the place I bought the tires. The guy at the desk, was in his early 20's and had a large brass fitting through a hole in his ear, and a bar pierced through his tongue. I am not judging, just giving you a description.

[not the same guy, but this is what the Tire guys ear looked like]

He was talking to me, but I haven't seen a tongue bar in a long time and I was fascinated and found it hard to pay attention to what he said with it clicking against his teeth.

[Tongue thing]

I told him that I needed my tires rotated and that I suspected that I had a hole in the right front side tire. Mr. Tongue Bar asked me a few questions that I knew the answer to, and I started feeling pretty confident that I wasn't going to screw this up. He then asked me if my tires had a wheel lock. (cue the grasshoppers)...blink blink...blink. A what? A wheel lock.

Sometimes it is better just to go ahead and tell people how ignorant you are and get it out of the way. I informed him that my automotive knowledge consisted of being able to put gas in my car, and drive it around. I have changed a tire once, but I had to google how to do it, and it took me two hours. I have never successfully opened the hood of my car, but I do know that the engine, oil stuff and windshield wiper fluid are in there...somewhere. Thus endeth my automotive knowledge.

This time...it was his turn to blink. He said never mind about the wheelock. Sounds good to me. And then told me it would be about 30 minutes. Since it was only 8:15, I felt confident that I would make it to work by 9. HA!

I selected a semi-clean chair in the waiting room, one that would give me a good view of the other tire patrons. There was one professional looking lady in there, dressed in a power suit (I caught her later flossing her teeth), a guy wearing a satellite company uniform, and another lady that was wearing a housecoat and house slippers. The only thing missing were the curlers.

[housecoat]

Around 9...and my car still not having been brought in, but most everyone standing around in the shop, I started eyeballing the "complimentary" coffee. Beggars can't be choosers, you know? I pumped the canister a few times and filled my cup, added some creamer, and it was *then* that I noticed...there's no sugar. No pink packets, no blue packets, no yellow packets, no nothing sugary. *sigh*. Well, I have already poured it, I might as well try to drink it.

This stuff was so vile, that I could hardly choke it down. Ms. Professional must have been watching me because she saw the face I made and actually cracked a smile. Yeah, I know...shoulda checked first.

Ms. Housecoat was pacing, her feet scuffing against the floor. My sister-in-law, Margaret, knows how I feel about this...and again, I am not judging...but how lazy do you have to be to leave your home wearing a housecoat and house slippers? How does that work? I know they are comfortable and all, but...dayum. She was there putting a new set of tires on her Yukon, so it wasn't like she was too poor to afford other clothes. Maybe she just got up late or something.

[house slippers]

So, I noticed her drinking some coffee...and asked her how hers tasted. She told me it was much better when she found some sugar to put in it. She didn't know it yet, but Ms. Housecoat was about to be my new best friend. I asked her where she found the sugar...(hoping she hadn't found some at the bottom of her purse). She said they had a huge thing of it in the shop by the coffeemaker back there. Hmmm....well, if you happen to go back there and check your tires, (wink wink), I noticed that your purse is much bigger than mine. I am sure they won't even notice. She laughed, and acted like she couldn't do something like that (for about three seconds).

It wasn't a minute later and she was back with the swiped sugar, pulling it out of her suitcase sized purse. She said that she got to thinking about it, and that sugar should be for the customers. (lol...that's riiiight). I told her thank you!thank you!, that she had just saved my morning. Is it bad to manipulate people into doing your dirty deeds? I think not.

With my coffee doctored, I started checking out Mr. Satellite guy. I thought maybe he was looking for some sugar too, as he was rifling through the cabinets below the tv, and below the coffee stuff. There was nothing there (I knew this due to my earlier pilfering). He walked out for a few minutes and the next thing I know, he was back with a remote in his hand, re-programming the tv. We all took notice then...as every channel had been blocked but the one the Today show comes on. Did you just go get that remote out of your truck? He said yeah...he couldn't stand Matt Lauer. lol...

So, he resets the receiver, types all these codes in, (all the while looking back at the counter to make sure no one is looking), and lo' and behold...the tire shop now had every channel known to man. I asked him if he had any extras of those, as I wanted to be able to change the channel when I went to the dentist. He just smiled and said that I had to know the codes. Be happy to provide pen and paper too. Just say the word.

Turns out...he did all that, just so he could watch Celebrity Jury. He said he just loved this show and hated to miss it. Apparently, if he happens to be somewhere in public and they have blocked all of the channels on their receiver and he is missing a show, he will just reprogram their TV. Says that he does it several times a day. That's just awesome.

Anyway, I don't ever watch daytime TV; I can see now that I am not missing much. Celebrity Jury is without a doubt, one of the DUMBEST shows I have ever seen. JJ Walker (dynooooomiiiite) was on there, and that little person Verne guy, and maybe Charro (coochiecoochiecoochie). DUMB. I lost IQ points that hour, I just know it. But it was a train wreck, and I couldn't help myself.

Finally, I picked up on the fact that if you went and stood up at near the desk staring at the counter guys...your car got worked on faster. It was my turn to pace and stare. Twenty minutes of pacing and staring...and a little glaring (just for good measure), and nearly 2 hours after he told me it would be ready, he said my car was done. I didn't owe anything, no idea why, so I went to leave. Some jerk had parked a rental car in NOT A PARKING SPOT, therefore blocking me in. No way to get around it, unless I wanted to back up 3,000 feet down a narrow strip of asphalt with a large drop off to one side and a metal building on the other.

I walked back inside to talk to the guy with the metal bone in his mouth, and waited. And waited. He refused to acknowledge that I was standing there. Eventually, and maybe it was because I had a sudden PHLEGM problem, he asked if he could help me. I pointed to the car blocking me in and he actually whined. "Roooogeerr, could you please move the Heeeertz caaar". He then tells me that I could just back around the building, if I wanted to. I asked him if he had recalled the conversation that we had when I came in? "You don't know much about a car", he said. That would be correct. I also suck at backing up, too. I drive forward pretty well; backwards...not so much.

The car gets moved, I say goodbye to my new friends, and make it to work...only 2.5 hours late. At least I got to people watch.

I think my tire has "issues"...

2009-05-12T11:13:00.001-05:00

For the last month, I have been driving around on a flat-ish tire.

I knew that it was low, and the light on my dashboard would blink, (obnoxiously), yet there wasn't much I could do about it as I know nada about cars. I also just switched to a new contract at work and have accrued exactly 27 seconds of leave, and really didn't have the time to be taking off to hang out somewhere half the day trying to get it fixed.

I talked to my husband about my tire problem a few times, even going so far as asking him to show me how to put air in my tire. We have a compressor that I have never used, but figured if I flicked enough switches, something would happen.

The problem was that I didn't know how much air to put in it. (technically speaking that would be pounds of pressure). How much is too much before it just blows up?

He went around each tire with a stick thingie (he told me it is a gauge, and not to call it a stick thingie) that pops out revealing how many pounds of air the tire had.

Three tires each measured 37lbs. He told me that was good. He also showed me (in our darkened garage), that if you got up close to the tire, real close, and ran your hands along the tire (uh..you go ahead...looks dirty) you could read how many pounds of pressure were factory recommended. Huh...no idea that was on there.

I pretended like I was looking down studiously, but...I am blind as a bat at night, and truthfully I didn't care. I had just pretended to want to use his compressor knowing that he would pretty much do anything to keep me from doing exactly that. We aren't right, I know.

He got to the 4th tire, and the stick thingie didn't pop out. Is that bad? He shot me a dirty look, and said..."yessss...NO air is bad." ok then, you don't need to be snippy about it. He turned on the compressor and filled my tire with air. Looks pretty easy, but he can still do it.

He said that he suspected I had a hole and that I needed to get it fixed. Really? I am shocked. I figured they just went flat for no good reason at all.

Knowing that he had already made plans to go fishing the next day, I decided to take it in myself. This never works out well, as I don't know much about repairs and stuff and then he gets mad when they charge me $425 for a bloweroilrotorsocketfilterpad, telling me I didn't *need* one of those.

Well, if YOU know what I need...maybe YOU should take it in? I'm just sayin'.

Mother's Day...

2009-05-09T09:57:00.000-05:00

So, it's Mother's Day. It's been two years since my mom passed away, and I have had a lot of time to reflect on that. There are so many things that I didn't understand about her when I was a child, that I now not only understand, I embrace.

As a kid growing up, I always wondered why mom slept late. She would stay up reading, and then sleep until at least 9 the next morning. My dad was always the one that got us up and ready for school. He liked (and still likes) to get up with the chickens. Later, as teenagers, it was our responsibility to get ourselves motivated, but he was always there to cattle prod us if necessary. It was rare to see her on a school day, unless my dad was out of town. And if we were foolish enough to wake her, well...let's just say it wasn't going to be a very good day for anyone.

As an adult, I *completely* understand. Having three children of my own, two of whom are older, and one very young, I really do comprehend how tired she must have been. While Dave and I were in school, she was home with my baby brother all day long. The only time she would have had for herself would have been if she were up late at night reading while we were sleeping. She wisely understood that having time for herself absolutely made her a better (and saner) mother.

We also understood that you didn't speak to her until after she had her first cup of coffee. Otherwise you risked tangling with "momma bear".

I, personally, didn't even start drinking coffee until after I had Kayla. Having a newborn, this very tiny dependent infant, changes everything. Sleep, and most everything else...became a luxury. It's been 14.5 years since I have had a decent night sleep. The only way to combat days and days (and sometimes MONTHS) of a lack of something so vital was caffeine. GREAT BIG POTS of go-go juice. Ultimately, you become dependent upon the caffeine, because you now have super-human-mom powers and caffeine is the only thing that keeps that going. You are able to prop your young child on your hip, while simultaneously paying bills, sorting and laundering clothes, getting yourself ready for work, vacuuming, mopping, sweeping, washing dishes, dusting, cleaning blinds, making breakfast, lunch & dinner, attending t-ball games, shopping for the family, weeding the flowerbeds, negotiating a truce between fighting siblings, and the list goes on. (and on and on and on)

I often wondered why we weren't allowed much in the way of candy or cokes as children. It seemed unfair, when we would see our friends with candy bars, chewing gum, tic-tacs, gob-stoppers and Dr. Pepper (in the house, no less). For Christmas, "Santa" would bring us a case of our favorite pop (Coke for you southerners) and a box of our favorite normally forbidden sugary cereal. And we were *very* happy to get it. You have no idea. It was almost better than getting the coveted Barbie, Star Wars action figure, or ridiculously expensive article of clothing we had to have.

[Best.Christmases.Ever]

The reason we didn't have much sugar...is that it made me and Dave *crazy*. Spinning around like the Tasmanian devil crazy.

She would watch her seemingly "normal" acting children turn into drooling, knuckle dragging, agitated, maniacally crazed creatures hell bent on destruction. The worst fights he and I ever got into, and the craziest, "nearly got ourselves killed but seemed like a good idea at the time" ideas we had, I have no doubt could be traced to the ingestion of great quantities of sugar. As my dad was working, and she was the one at home with us, I now clearly see her reasoning.

Recently, at Easter, Cole ate a fair amount of candy before I was able to take it away from him and get breakfast served. He was so out of control all day long, I wanted to put him in a cage...or find some way to medicate him. I am not even kidding. He took crayons and colored on the majority of the walls in the hallway (freshly painted...I might add), and colored on my new hardwood flooring. This was just the beginning of a very long day.

[The Easter bunny is *dumb* to have brought a 3 year old hopped up on candy a game that has mallets!]

Even my brother Nathan commented, after watching Cole spin around crazily for what seemed hours, that this was reason number 537 that he wasn't ready to have kids. I told him that it was different when they were your own. How I said that with a straight face, I have no idea. ;)

I remember a time when I was about 19, that I came home from school or work, started getting ready to go out and went to go look in the dryer for a favorite shirt to wear that night. Hmm...nothing in the dryer. I looked everywhere and couldn't find any of the clothes that I thought were left in there. She was always getting on to me about removing my things from the washer and dryer. Couldn't I hear the buzzer? She had been asking me, since the age of 11, to please, please handle my laundry. Other people needed to use the washer or dryer. yeah yeah. So, I went to ask her if she had seen my clothes. She told me that, indeed...she had. They were in the backyard. (My nostrils flared.)

It was March in Lindenhurst, Il, and they had recently built a new house. A deck had not yet been built off of the kitchen, and there was also no grass, sod, or even weeds. It was just a large mud pit with lots of potential. In this mud pit, lay all of the clothes that I had forgotten, not only in the dryer, but in the washer. I was furious. How could she do that???? WHY would she do that? Was she crazy?

She replied to me very calmly, (in a way that sort of scared me) that she had told me over and over and over again, to get my things out of the washer and dryer, that they weren't for my exclusive use. She was very sick and tired of asking, pleading and yelling at me to handle this. She felt that this might be the best way to get my attention. (oh, she had it alright). Maybe it was the smirk on her face that led me to believe this, but I think she felt good about what she had done. It was probably cathartic.

I can see her now, with my clothes in hand, standing at the sliding glass doors of the kitchen slinging each piece out into the rain and mud. I smile at this memory now, because I know (now) exactly how she must have felt then. I did learn my lesson, for what it's worth. Never again did I leave my laundry unattended in the washer or dryer. Sometimes I find myself, at my wits end, doing the same things with the girls shoes that I trip over constantly. Can't find them? You might want to look in the backyard. (smirk)

As children, you take your mom for granted. It really isn't until you have your own children that you realize out how much she loved you, how much she had sacrificed for you, how she must have worried about you, how much time and energy went into caring for you, and how fiercely protective she was of you and how much it must have hurt when you were awful to her, or treated her with indifference. Despite the things I didn't understand about her, there were some things that even as a child, I very much appreciated.

For one thing, she went to all of my games. Every single one. Whether it rained, was unbearably hot, bitterly cold or they were far away, she was there cheering me on. She went to all of my band concerts and told me how great I was through my many hours of those early years of practice, when listening to cats in heat would have been a better option. She was my girl scout leader, and helped us to obtain our badges by teaching us how to cook, camp, sew (lol), learn music, study citizenship, and perform numerous charitable acts. These things took up a lot of her time, and I imagine it had to have been sometimes exhausting dealing with a dozen hormonally challenged, dramatic young girls. To this day, I don't know how she did it. I know I couldn't have done it.

With the birth of each of my children, she dropped everything to come and stay with me to help take care of them. She gave me time to recover, and in the process (especially with Kayla) taught me what I needed to know in how to get a baby on a feeding schedule, how to change them, and bathe them, multiple burping techniques, and much more. Those things that you can read in a book, but are meaningless until experienced. Even after I had Cole, and she was already very sick and rarely drove anymore, she somehow managed to drive over to hold him for a few hours, so that I could nap. That's dedication right there.

[Mom with Kayla]

[Mom with Katie]

[Mom with Kayla, Katie & Cole]

Although she isn't physically here with us anymore, in so many ways she is. All that I have learned from her, and hand down to the grandchildren she so adored, is her legacy. I know that she is looking down upon us and smiling at all that she has accomplished.

Happy Mother's Day!

"M" is for Mom, not Maid...

2009-05-08T10:02:00.001-05:00

I saw a sign yesterday that said "M" is for Mom not Maid!...and it struck me as sort of funny. I believe in my heart that there isn't a mother alive that hasn't at some point gritted her teeth and thought the very same thing. I wish someone would buy me this sign, it would be the first thing people could see when they entered my kitchen.

I, for one, am pretty worn out right now. Sometimes I think I will positively go insane if I walk into the house *one more time* and see the sink filled with dirty dishes (although there were none when I left for work earlier that morning). I look at the counter tops covered with pitchers of tea, juice or milk that are now warm because they have been left out for hours. I notice the splotchy red Koolaid dust & water stains on nearly every surface. I glance at the mail that has been tossed into the decorative basket that is supposed to contain only fruit, along with some skittles that have spilled open, two paperclips, a half-licked dum-dum sucker, and 1 pair of mystery earrings. Oh, and the scissors that I was looking for yesterday that "nobody" knew anything about.

The bread that was used to make lunch is also on the counter, bag wide open and is now basically the equivalent of large croutons. (*sigh*...I just bought that...) The knife that was used to spread the peanut butter and jelly is stuck to the counter. It will take another knife to pry it off. Possibly some 409. The jelly...with the flip-top cap that won't flip down anymore because it is coated 4 inches thick with jelly goo sits next to the knife, which sits next to the twist tie for the bread, which is a few inches from some chip clips....

Heyyyyy look...some Cheetos, also left open for who knows how long, (mental note...avoid the cheetos) along with a bag of pretzels that have spilled onto the floor, some of which have rolled into some spilled Koolaid stickiness located in front of the refrigerator . I love nothing more than walking around listening to crunching beneath my feet. What did you say? Sorry, I can't hear you...my feet are making too much noise!

Near the sink, but not in the dishwasher, because that is full of clean dishes that I asked someone to unload, are 9 glasses that have been used in the course of one afternoon, two of which have NuttyBuddy wrappers stuffed inside them, one has some Goldfish crackers mixed with...what is that....dirt?...along with various other bowls, plates, used paper plates that should have already been thrown away, a protein drink shaker, and a cutting board that has that has a pungent fishy smell. (mmm...nothing makes a house smell more homey than recently gutted fish juice).

The newspaper, not yet read, has bonded to the kitchen counter from Koolaid being sloshed out; apparently whoever made it couldn't find the lid to the pitcher. (Lid? What lid? Are you sure it has one?) When I eventually scrape the paper off, it leaves the print, so if I want to read it, a trick mirror will be involved, somehow.

There are no less than 5 pairs of shoes scattered about, 2 underneath the kitchen table, 1 underneath the counter bar holding down two empty sliced cheese wrappers, 1 muddy pair (at least I hope it's mud, and not dog poo) that should have been left outside and 1 pair that I nearly break my neck on trying to make a run for the bedroom to hide.

I know somewhere in the vicinity, I have a *naked* 3 year old boy. His underwear and shorts are laying near the overflowing garbage can (guess that is why they didn't throw the paper plates or cheese wrappers away), next to two police cars, one boat (and trailer), a firetruck, a wiffle ball, and two pirate monsters.

I haven't even walked into the living room yet, and I am very nearly ready to bolt. But I don't. At least I haven't yet.

I have tried a myriad of approaches in gaining my families cooperation in picking up after themselves. Begging, pleading, bribing, threatening, nagging, asking, crying, color coded chore charts (with "attaboy! stickers"), and the best I will get is a couple of weeks compliance and then it is back to what I wish was an exaggeration above.

I really think it is time to get tough. Or creative. muwahahaha. Having put some thought to the situation...what about following?

Leave your shoes laying around all over the house? They will be tossed out of whichever door I am nearest to. I hope for your sake, it doesn't rain. Want to leave garbage on the counter because you are too lazy to take out the trash? If I have to remove it, I am putting it wherever you spend the most time. Don't want to put your dishes in the dishwasher, because you are too lazy to unload it? Cool...I am putting the dirty dishes, including peanut butter encrusted knives on your pillow. Think of it as a "sleepover". Want to leave articles of clothing strewn about the house, instead of placing them in the laundry room, or putting them away? No worries, I am going to use them to clean the stains off of my counters and floors. I hope they are bleach tolerant. Want to make Koolaid, spill it on every surface and leave it for me to clean up? Again, not a problem. I do the shopping and the only liquid substance you will find in the house for 6 months will be tap water. mmm...good tap water.

These are of course, extreme, and I really don't want to have to do any of it. But I will. If I am going to be treated as a maid, instead of a mom, then I will be a maid with a very bad attitude. :)

My killer black thumb....

2009-05-04T21:40:00.001-05:00

I have several friends that are gardeners and absolutely love to work in their yard. Certainly, their yard is a testament to that: Beautiful flowers, trees and bushes that aren't overgrown, hanging baskets with gorgeous ferns, and much more.

Then you look at my yard. The majority of the bushes in my front flower bed need to be trimmed and shaped. The monkey grass (which I thought was cool at first) is in dire need of thinning, so I have been told. I would do that...but ummm, I have no idea what that means. I know now that "thinning" doesn't mean that you weedwhack all of them down to nubbins; I tried that last year and they are twice as thick and out of control this year.

[monkey grass that I don't know how to "thin"]

At least the bushiness is hiding the majority of the weeds lurking behind them when you view my house from the street. It's only when you are half way up my driveway that you notice the overgrown jungle quality of landscape that I am cultivating.

As far as the bushes go, every time I trim them, the results are less than spectacular. Each year, I bring out the electric hedge clippers and within a minute, zzzzttttt....I slice right through the first extension cord. (I generally cut through 2 of them a year...it is a wonder that I have not electrocuted myself yet). After I cut through a cord, and then subsequently drop (or throw) the hedge trimmer to protect myself from the electrical arc, I look around to see which neighbors may have been watching. I try to ignore the guy across the street sitting in a lawn chair, drinking a beer, laughing. He seriously needs to get a life.

Sheepishly, I pick it up the remnants, remove all of the garbage bags from the outdoor can, place the cord in and throw it all back on top. I would rather my husband not know that I have killed another one. Although, he may be on to me; for every gift giving occasion, at least one of the gifts...is a new extension cord. (another one? I have like 50 of these.) Mmm...no you don't.

Sooooo.....after stealing another cord from his shop, I begin trimming again. This too, is not my forte. I think that the bushes (species unknown...they are greenish) are supposed to be "boxy" looking, and uniform in size, almost like a hedge. Not so much, when I get done with them. The ones near the front door start out 4ft high and develop a distinct downward slant as I head towards the garage ending with bushes only 2.5 ft tall when I am done. I tell myself they were uneven to begin with. Small tufts of uncut branches can be seen all along the top, and front. I have learned that going to back to "fix" those is much like cutting your own bangs. No good can come from it. I am a pro at skinning a bush back to nothing. No leafy greenery, just diseased looking bald spots. Eh...who cares? it will grow back. Maybe.

[These are much straighter than I normally cut, but the skinning is about right.]

The azalea, that I didn't know was an azalea, and thought was an overly grown weed (due to the lack of flowers at the time), was pruned back completely to the ground. Needless to say, it didn't bloom this year and looks sort of sad and pathetic. At least it is in the back, disguised by my uneven boxy-hedge bushes.

The crepe myrtles are also pruned, but...again, I have no idea what I am doing. I don't know how far down to prune them, so I figured that more is better and they become sticks when I am through.

[Crepe Myrtles when I am done.]

When I am finally finished and have everything cleaned up (the only part that I am truly good at) I walk out to the street to survey my progress. *sigh* It looks like something Edward Scissorhands would have created, if he was a crackhead. Southern Living will not be calling this year, either.

I have tried to google landscape maintenance; it tends to work better if you know the actual name of the plants that you are trying to maintain. "White fluffy thingie" produces results of everything from cotton plants to mold and nothing that seems to resemble anything in my yard. By sight, I can only name roses, dandelions, pine trees and magnolia trees. That's pretty much it. All other growing "thingies" remain a mystery to me.

[I know that *this* is a Magnolia Tree]

I really do wish that I had less of a black thumb, but after this many years of trying and failing, it was not meant to be. I would be satified with contained and not dead looking. My neighbors may not love my yard, but if any one of them wants to come over and take over my horticultural duties, OR submit my house to Desperate Landscaping, I promise they will get no argument from me.

AT&T...how can we help you?

2009-05-03T09:11:00.001-05:00

I had to call AT&T on Saturday. I knew it was going to be an ordeal, so I put it off as long as possible. I have been experiencing intermittent problems with my DSL service. I moved the modem from one computer to another, changed out all of the cables, performed all of the diagnostic tests, with no luck in fixing it. Several times, I attempted to go to the fast-access section on their website to obtain the phone number, but just as I was about to get the page to load, my DSL would fail. Coincidence? I think not. Somewhere around 1:00 AM the previous evening, I was able to sneak on; I figured that the sadistic operator monitoring my internet traffic to AT&T's website had either fallen asleep, or had gone to get something from the vending machine thereby allowing me just enough time to write down the phone number.

After stalling for two hours Saturday morning, psyching myself up to enter the gates of AT&T hell, I finally called and was greeted by the friendly AT&T automated representative (AR): Welcome to AT&T Technical Support. We are currently experiencing a high call volume. By choosing to wait, you will essentially be wasting your entire day on hold. Press 1 to waste your entire day on hold. Donde esta el bano cerveza fria por favor numero dos.

Damyankee:I pressed 1. Let the games begin.

AR, still friendly: Please enter in the number from which you have are experiencing difficulties.

Damyankee:6015555555.

Still friendly AR: 6 0 1 5 5 5 5 5. Is this correct? Press 1. Donde esta el bano cerveza fria por favor numero dos.

Damyankee:1.

Still friendly AR: Please describe the nature of your problem in as few words as possible.

Damyankee:My modem sucks.

AR: I am sorry, I did not understand. Would you repeat that please?

Damyankee:(Hmm...she must not be programmed to understand the word "sucks"). My modem has "issues".

Still friendly AR: I am sorry I still do not understand, would you be more specific?

Damyankee:DSL.not.working.

Still friendly AR: One moment, while I transfer your call.

Several minutes pass by while I listen to marketing ads encouraging me to visit the Fast Access website to troubleshoot my technical problem. If I wasn't getting so aggravated at the time, I would have found that amusing.

Not quite as perky AR: Please listen to your choices carefully and then make your selection. Press 1 if you are having problems with your email. Press 2 if you are experiencing problems with your modem. Press 3 if you are installing your DSL for the first time. Press 4 if you are just plain stupid and are unsure as to the nature of your problem. Donde esta el bano cerveza fria por favor numero cinco. Press 6 to repeat these choices.

Damyankee:I press 2, but was considering 4 to see if that got me anywhere faster.

Semi-Friendly AR: Thank you. Did you also know that you can troubleshoot your problem on our Fast-Access DSL website? Simply access the website and select technical problem. You may also reboot your modem by removing the power cord for 5 seconds and then restarting your computer. (a minute or so passes by with catchy latin music in the background) Does this resolve your problem? (wait...I was supposed to be doing something?)

Damyankee:No it does not. I cannot access the website as I do not have internet. My DSL is not working.

It may have been my imagination, but I felt as though the AR was losing patience with me. Her tone seemed a bit more antagonistic: One moment please. You may also chat with one of our technical representatives through our new and improved chat service located on our Fast-Access DSL website. Simply access our website and select the chat button on the right hand corner. Would you like to chat with a representative on our website?

Damyankee:No. I would not. I HAVE NO DSL. I want to talk to a human.

AR: I am sorry, I did not understand that.

Damyankee:Me. Talk. Human Being. DSL bad. (A new low for me: I have now resorted to caveman speak with the a computer generated voice, but in fairness, she started it.)

AR: I am sorry, I did not understand that either.

Damyankee:Hooomooooo Saaaaaapiiiieeeen.

AR, downright snotty now: One moment please while I transfer you to a Technical Service Representative. We anticipate that your hold time will be one minute.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. *27* minutes later, with my bladder about to explode, and my young son running around with a Sharpie, daring me to catch him, I am finally connected to Technical Representative Paul. (cue harp and Angel music).

He apologized for the wait time. I told him that I didn't mind waiting to speak to an actual human being, but I did mind having to deal with the automated representative with an attitude problem for 42 minutes before I was placed into the "privilege of speaking to a human being" queue. He said he understood. (riiiiiiiight). I would like to state for the record, that 99.9% I am very nice to technical support people on the phone. While I am sure they are glad to have a job, it still sucks. I know many of you will find this hard to believe, what with my sunny disposition and all, but I once worked as a tech rep. Good afternoon, this is Damyankee, how may I help you? Worst.Job.Ever.

They have to deal with people that have just waited in the bowels of phone queue hell just to get to get the privilege of speaking to them. Although these human representatives are the ultimate destination, they aren't the ones that designed the elaborate support system exclusively purposed to encourage the caller to give up long before actually speaking to a paid person that breathes air. It's a lose-lose situation.

More importantly, as to why I am nice to them, and this is key: They have the "power". If they sense that you have an attitude problem, you may experience an "unfortunate technical disconnection" [UTD], and you *will* start the process again. (muwahahaha). Or, if you are acting only semi-buttheadish, they will put you on hold (telling you they need to speak to their manager), take 5 other calls, or go to lunch while you wait. If, after 45 minutes, you are still "holding", and you seem repentant upon their return, they may work to resolve your problem. Of course, I was never like that.

As it turns out, my modem is defective and he is replacing it at no cost, for which I am grateful. He also encouraged me to call back when my modem arrives to receive instructions on installation. I laughed and told him that I would rather have a colonoscopy performed, without anesthesia, before I would call AT&T again. He also laughed and said that he understood. :)

I didn't know I was pregnant..

2009-04-29T20:57:00.000-05:00

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...

2009-04-24T11:24:00.001-05:00

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....

2009-04-23T13:21:00.000-05:00

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...

2009-04-22T19:10:00.001-05:00

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...

2009-04-22T09:50:00.002-05:00

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?

2009-04-20T21:07:00.002-05:00

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...

2009-04-20T15:17:00.001-05:00

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...

2009-04-20T15:14:00.000-05:00

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?

2009-04-20T15:13:00.001-05:00

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...

2009-04-20T15:12:00.003-05:00

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...

2009-04-20T15:12:00.001-05:00

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...

2009-04-20T15:06:00.001-05:00

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

2009-04-20T15:05:00.000-05:00

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

2009-04-20T15:04:00.000-05:00

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...

2009-04-20T15:03:00.002-05:00

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!

2009-04-20T15:02:00.000-05:00

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...

2009-04-20T14:59:00.001-05:00

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...

2009-04-20T14:27:00.001-05:00

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...

2009-04-20T14:25:00.001-05:00

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.

About Dr. visits...

2009-04-20T14:24:00.000-05:00

Now, if you have read any of my previous blogs, I am starting to make Woody Allen look like Mr. Calm Cool and Collected in comparison to MY level of anxiousness. I say this: I am justified. As I mentioned earlier, I went to the dentist this week for a routine filling that turned into a root canal and another filling.

I am not going to lie: I am a big baby when it comes to stuff like that. There is something about being stuck in a chair, with someone drilling inside of your mouth, bone flying out, spit dripping down your face, wearing a clown nose (because I HAVE to have the gas if you want my cooperation) that would make anyone anxious. I would *almost* be more inclined to give MYSELF a Brazilian wax than go to the dentist. *almost*.

I don't recall a lot of dr. issues until I moved down here, the veritable armpit of hell for healthcare. I am sure there's worse care in third world countries, but it can't be by much. My first visit to see the gynie was one that will never be forgotten.

I filled out all the necessary paperwork, and sat. And sat some more. Almost an hour went by before I was called in. At this particular office, there are no magazines to read as apparently the OTHER clientele steal them. I don't know about you, but the ONLY good thing about going to the dr. is the chance that I will get to read a newer issue of People. Not so much here.

I was maybe sitting for 15 minutes before this VERY NASTY lady came in and sat down right next to me. There were at least 58 other available chairs that were NOT right next to me, but she decided that the chair next to mine was the perfect one. To say that she stunk …would be an insult to the word "stunk". At the petting zoo in Chicago, they have this pig "farm". I swear to you, THAT smelled better than she did.

I didn't want to rude by just getting up and moving, I decided the best course of action would be to just ignore her as best I could, and possibly spray some perfume in the air to knock down the rankness if I could get away with it. Ignoring her became impossible 5 minutes later when she fell asleep on my shoulder. I thought I was going to die.

Her nasty hair was touching my face. So, I did the forceful shoulder shrug and nudged her back into her own "area". I considered moving, but stayed put. What can I say?…I am dumb sometimes.

It was the second time that she laid her head down on my shoulder that I ended up shoving her back into her area, and then got up and went up to the "registering station" to ask where the bathroom was so that I could wash my hands, my face…and anything else that she might have come in contact with.

When I came back, I did find another place far away from her, and she was still leaned over towards my former chair…now, drooling.

Finally, when I was called in…the nurse instructed me to get on the scales. Hahahaha…riiiiight.

I don't get on the scales for anyone.

I told her it was going to take a lot bigger nurse than she was to make me do it. She didn't quite get that I was already fairly pissed off at this point for having to wait so long, and having had Homeless Hattie trying to take a nap on me that I was in NO mood to deal with scales. I told her what my weight was (minus 25lbs of course) and said that would have to be my "official weight".

I must have looked a little "crazy" because she went along with it, and instructed me to put on the gown made of toilet paper.

Now, up north…we were given cotton gowns, not ones made of Charmin. I was a little put off, but I figured I had won the scales battle, I didn't see winning this one.

So, there I sat…in my roll of Charmin…for ANOTHER HOUR…waiting for the dr. Again…nothing to read, except the wall-size pictorial of the anatomy of a womb.

By the time he came in, I felt fairly confident that I could play pin the tail on the vulva blindfolded…if I had to. The dr. introduced himself, extended his hand…and I noticed that he was missing a finger, and that he was a Sasquatch of a man, with 9 HUGE fingers. I thought, "Mother of God…I know where he is going with those fingers"…no good can come from this. So, I got my feet in the stirrups and was tried to hide the fact that I was so nervous.

Unfortunately, when I am really nervous…DUMB things pop RIGHT out of my mouth at the worst time. Case in point, I am at the most vulnerable point of the exam in which he is about to use a medieval looking torture device on me, the dreaded speculum, and this pops out: "So, uhhh...how'd you lose that finger???" See…I was THINKING IT…but totally did not mean to say it.

I saw the nurses eyeballs pop out, but the dr. didn't even miss a beat and told me what happened. In retrospect, I am sure that sort of thing happens all the time.

That turned out to be my one and only visit to see this particular dr, and I decided that driving 50 miles to Jackson really wasn't that bad of an option. You see (and this might sound ugly), I have broken a finger before and could barely wipe my own butt properly. While I am sure he has compensated the loss of that finger, it is a personal choice that I believe that my doctor, in this case who is a surgeon as well, and potentially having to operate on delicate areas of my body, should have all of his digits. I'm just sayin'.

Mother in Laws...

2009-04-20T14:21:00.000-05:00

Originally posted April 4, 2007

Sorry about the long time between blogs…it has been a rough last few weeks. Cole has had rotavirus pretty much the entire time and is just now getting over it, poor thing. Our house has been lysoled, cloroxed and disinfected to the point that I would feel quite comfortable eating off of the toilet seat. Not that I would actually do that of course, just sayin'. I have also been working very long hours, 7 days a week for so long now, that I no longer recall exactly how many weeks, really months…it has been. Ah well…I am sure this project I am on will end…SOME DAY.

So, I was thinking about how much I needed a break, a vacation of some kind, but I don't see that happening any time soon. A very good friend of mine has been trying to take a vacation with her husband for a good long while now, and it hasn't happened for her either. You see, I am not the only one that lives in perpetual Jerry Springerdom, she seems to have just about as much luck as I do in that regard. Since she doesn't read my blogs…I think we should talk about her. (muwahaha)

So my good friend is a really nice person. FAR FAR nicer than I am. FAR nicer on her worst days, than I will ever be on my best. Her favorite expression is, "well…I really don't mind". But I think I am starting to rub off on her in a not so good way. She seems to be less willing to take the crap than she ever did before. I haven't decided whether that is a good thing, or a bad thing. She was ugly to her mother recently, and actually said a bad word in front of her (justifiably), something she had NEVER done before. Of course, she was punished with the silent treatment for several months. I know you are supposed to show respect to your elders, particularly your parents…but at some point, you get to be 30+ years old, and you get a little sick of shoveling crap. Anyway, this story isn't even about her mother, something I could go on for days about. This story is about her mother-in-law. Insert Evil laughter here…

My friends MIL (mother in law) is a very nice woman. Much nicer than my friends own mother, but for some reason…her MIL insists on going everywhere with her son and my friend. If they go out to dinner, MIL goes. If they try to go shopping in a nearby city, MIL goes. If they go on a long weekend vacation, MIL goes, and sleeps in the other bed in the same hotel room. And each time my friend says…"Well, I really don't mind". To which I say…bullsh!t. Now, I don't know my MIL all that well, she lives a state away, and relations are somewhat distant between my husband and his parents (again, another story in which I could go on for days), but even if I did see her often…she would not be going on a romantic vacation with us. End of story. Not happening. Nope.

So, I can kind of tell that my friend is starting to lose a little patience with the situation because she is now gritting her teeth, when she says the immortal words, "well…I really don't mind". I just chuckle, because I know one day she is going to blow. So, who does the fault lie with? Her…her husband?.. her MIL? I am no psychologist, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express one time, so I feel qualified to answer this question. The fault lies with her husband. This problem pertains to HIS family…and he should handle it. But, he hasn't. Or maybe he has tried, but he can't tell his momma "no". She can be quite persuasive as I understand it. So what do you do?

Well, if my husband didn't handle it, then I would feel compelled to do so. However, I am not always a nice person and I have no problem "breaking things down" for people when pushed to do so. And seeing as how I can be direct, it would probably be in my husbands best interest to handle the problem himself, as I am sure he would soft pedal it in a way that he knows I won't. Anyway, when the time comes, and her back has been against the wall long enough, or she gets tired of sleeping with her MIL while on vacation with her husband…she will say or do something, and knowing her, she will handle it with a fair amount of grace. Like I said…she is a better person than me. Maybe she will start rubbing off on me in a good way.

Easter...

2009-04-20T14:19:00.000-05:00

...orginally posted April 7, 2007

I do have one Easter story to tell you from back when me and my little brother were very small children. This particular Easter we lived down here in Mississippi, up in the Delta as a matter of fact. That year, we each received cute, colored baby chicks. LIVE baby chicks. Mine was pink and my brothers was Purple. Unfortunately for my brothers baby chick (we shall call him George), David may or may not have "loved" on him too much, as he lasted all of two minutes in his care. Services were held for George shortly after we had our fill of jellie beans. Anyway, my chicken, although dyed pink, turned out to be a large rooster. A large MEAN rooster, that terrorized me and my brother and our miniature schnauzer.

We had Rooster living in the house with us, and it would run amok freely (a free-range rooster, if you will) until it started trying to peck our feet apart, and rip out the dogs eyeballs. So, Rooster went to live in our fenced in back yard, however we could no longer go out and play and the dog now had to be walked on a leash in the front yard. One afternoon, my grandparents came to visit and were commenting about the large rooster in the yard, and my grandfather said he would "take care of the problem". All I knew back then was that Rooster had gone to live on a big rooster farm somewhere where it could be happy, frolicking with other roosters. It wasn't until just a few years ago, that I found out the my grandfather, who grew up on a farm, actually went into our backyard, grabbed up the rooster and gave it, more specifically its neck a quick twirl. He then took the rooster home, and I am thinking that he and my grandmother may have eaten it. Needless to say, my brother and I never received any more "live" animals as Easter gifts…pity. I always wanted a bunny.

Frank N Beans...

2009-04-20T14:17:00.001-05:00

A few years ago, we went camping with the girls, before we ever had Cole, and decided to take Rufus our miniature schnauzer. Let me tell you what, he really isn't a camping kind of dog. I guess you could say he is spoiled, he likes sleeping on our leather couches, or on the girls beds, or anything else soft, furry and fluffy. Even if he is left outside, he curls up on our padded outdoor chairs on the sun porch. So, WHY we would think he would enjoy camping, I have no idea.

Lloyd had taken him to the groomers that day before we left , as he looked a little like a wooly mammoth, only not as big and without tusks. Well, she cut ALL of his hair off...usually schnauzers have skirts around them...he had absolutely nothing but his beard and eyebrows. She even shaved his balls, which let me tell you...he wasn't too happy about having the "beans" mowed down to that level and he pouted throughout the whole drive to get there.

So, we get out to this beautiful campground and Rufus is just beside himself. He can't find any leather couches to lay upon, and wasn't too fond of the pvc fold up chairs, as his legs kept going through the holes. He stayed busy for several hours trying to find himself a comfortable spot on the fairly rocky ground, or in a bed of pine needles, mixed with pine cones; which evidently only proceeded to agitate the "beans" to a now raw and very red shade of color.

We stayed up fairly late that night, looking at the half-million dollar camper trailers on either side of us. I can't say that we felt all that inferior in our $89 Walmart tent...as not one of our neighbors could get a fire going, or had the foresight to bring DRY WOOD; the commoner wins again. Git 'er done!

Anyway, we went to bed...and the wonderful night sounds of crickets and other woodland creatures were drowned out by the sound of my dog licking his man-parts.

Slurp, slurp, lick, lick, slurp, slurp, lick. It was enough to just make you throw up. After listening to that for roughly 45 minutes, I told my husband that he was going to *have* to put some benedryl cream on the dog's nuts.

Not only did he say, "No"....he said "HELL NO", he wasn't going to rub cream on the dogs balls!

OH, but he was.

So, we got the medical kit out, went and put the dog on the picnic bench and he proceeded to try to give the dog some relief. The whole time he kept grumbling about how much he loved me, or how much he MUST love me or some other crap, but I was having none of it. All I know was, *I* wasn't going to be rubbing cream on the dog, and that was all there was to it. So, we get back into the tent and...

...slurp, slurp, lick, slurp, lick...you guessed it. He was now *licking* the benedryl cream off of his nuts. So, back out of the tent we go...with the medical kit. This calls for some serious action. I saw that we had Benedryl caplets. The box doesn't include instructions for dogs, so hopefully this won't kill him...

We found a hotdog, shoved 1/2 of one those caplets in there and fed it to him, and back to the tent we went. It didn't take long...and he passed out mid-lick.

Thank the Lord.

When we got back home several days later, he immediately jumped on the couch to lay down...as if he had just met up with a long lost friend. He has been camping several times since, and we always remember to bring the Benedryl. And Lloyd has never forgiven me for making him do all that. I wonder how he will feel if he finds out I blogged about this to everyone I know?

Men are From Mars Women are from Venus Part II

2009-04-20T14:16:00.000-05:00

Originally posted April 11, 2007

I want to preface this blog by stating how much I DO love my husband even if he is NUMERO UNO at the top of my proverbial sh!t list at the moment. My husband, God love him…SUCKS at doing the laundry. I haven't determined if it is some "passive-aggressive" ploy on his part to try to get out of doing laundry…or if he is genuinely laundry-challenged.

Laundry is something that we have argued about since the dawn of time. I say there is one way to do it…the RIGHT WAY, and he says that not everything has to be done my way, and my way isn't always the RIGHT WAY.

Well, let me say this: yes…my WAY is the right way, because *I* read the back of the detergent box. They have the whole damn thing color coded to ensure that even the largest of idiots can clearly read that the laundry should be separated according to TYPE: warm for colors, hot for whites or heavily soiled items and cold for permanent press. (not that I am implying that he is large…or an idiot, just sayin').

Now, if that isn't clear enough, 99.999% of clothing comes with some kind of tag that specifically gives you the washing instructions. So, what I am saying is that there are MULTIPLE venues in which to clearly discern the washing mode for each article of clothing.

I don't want to point fingers or anything (he did it)…but I have caught him washing my underwear (which are NOT sold in a 6-pack at Walmart) along with the towels that he uses to clean the road grit from his tires.

I have also caught him washing towels that were used to clean bio-hazards (ie…yak, poo, etc) along with the general population of towels in which I dry off after a shower. Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

So, then I go to dry off…and oddly, everything smells like yak, or poo…and I am standing there fuming. On other occasions, he has washed regular colors with our dusting rags. It's nice when people comment that they can always smell Pledge when you are around. So, I have taken to sniffing everything prior to use. Sad, but true.

So, today he says that he did a load of whites. I personally was thrilled until I opened up the dryer and discovered one of my $60 bras in there. (grrr) Now, I don't want to hear anything about WHY do I need a $60 bra, except to say…I have big boobs. Cheap bra's will not/do not/won't ever support the girls properly.

So, now my bra…will fit my pre-teen daughter, as it was washed in hot water and dried on EXTRA CRISPY. To say that I am irritated is an understatement, and I feeling a little vengeful. If this were the first time this had happened, I might be feeling more generous, but he has ruined every decent pair of underwear I own, a fair amount of my shirts, and now one of two bra's that actually fit.

So, should the solution be that he is "no longer allowed to do laundry"..? HELL NO…that would be giving him what he wants. I know how much it sucks to do laundry, I do it EVERY SINGLE DAY OF MY LIFE. And if I skip a day…you can't even get into our laundry room as the clothes are waist deep.

Should he be responsible for doing laundry on occasion? I think so. He wears several outfits a day, uses several towels, and contributes the overall laundry problem. Now, his argument is that he shouldn't have to do it…as he has to do yard work, and it's not like doing the laundry is hard like it was back in the day when women had to beat it up against rocks.

BWAHAHAHAHAHA…excuse me while I get myself together.

First of all…yard work = seasonal work, at best. He doesn't fertilize the grass, because he doesn't want it to grow. He mows…ONLY when we can no longer see dogs or kids clearly. We have no flowers, unless they came on the bushes that came with the house, and he doesn't weed anything, as some of those weeds produce flowers, and I wanted flowers…RIGHT?

And if he had to mow everyday, I could see his point…and yeah, that might equal out all the number of hours I spend weekly doing laundry. Second of all, don't even bring up the fact that laundry isn't hard because I am not standing out in the middle of some nasty river beating our clothes up against some rocks. It's not exactly hard to get out on your RIDING lawnmower, with built-in BEVERAGE (beer) holder and cut the grass. Hell, I would LOVE it if I could ride on something for one of my chores. Bring on the riding floor mopper, I would be on that like white on rice. Better yet, give me a riding vacuum, one that has a 360 degree turning radius. I would vacuum every single day! But I digress…

So, what is the solution? I don't know. He says that I need to look more at the things he DOES do, rather than concentrating on the things he doesn't do. Maybe so. He is great with the kids, and straightens the house, vacuums from time to time, makes bottles, kills spiders and other bugs on command, can grill with the best of them, does dishes at least as much as I do, and today he even made the bed. So, maybe I should just let this slide. However, never has a bigger witch been born than a woman trying to stuff herself into a pair of pantyhose on a hot humid day, or trying to stuff big boobs into a bra that is now two sizes too small. No good can come from that.

This could only happen to me...

2009-04-20T14:15:00.000-05:00

I was getting ready for work last week, rushing around…loading things up in my car, which usually takes a few trips.

I must have inadvertently left the kitchen door to the garage open. As I came back by through the den, I saw this small grey dog curled up on the couch, up on one of the pillows.

Huh, I don't remember letting the dogs back in. I glanced over to the sun porch…and sure enough BOTH dogs were laying out on the chairs out there. My eyes got very wide...

…when I realized that some foreign dog (not even a neighborhood one) was taking a siesta on my good pillows!

So, I chased it out…and it looked at me like I was just a big @ss. I didn't feel bad.

To have the privilege of laying on my good pillows, I had to have either given birth to you, married you…or at least feed you on a regular basis. I'm just sayin'.