High Fly

I sat at the kitchen table tonight, with son. We both looked at the pancake mix on the counter that should have long ago been put away - by whoever had used it, I might add. He was insightful enough to catch my vibe ~~~ and lobbed it, from a sitting position, straight into the pantry cupboard (that yes, was left unattractively open all day.)

My point, you ask? In a boy home like this?


Everything Must Be Thrown In Our House.

It is not my rule -- I assure you. Still it has sunk in like a molasses I can't dissolve.
Around here "please pass the---- (. . . whatever it is)" really means please pass the -- whatever it is!


If God had wanted me to catch, He would have sent me here as a baseball mitt. I've had a heck of a time learning how to catch keys, the salt & pepper, presents, laundry, milk jugs, remotes, and scissors successfully. And yes, I use the term 'successfully' very loosely.




Not many people know I was the star player of kickball in my elementary school days. Well, the star girl player anyway, after all the boys were picked for sides.
Still - I could kick, yell, and run like nobody's business ( . . all talents that would come in handy in my future career as mother and wife).
But also -- back then -- I could catch!

Something happened in those years of giving birth. My shoe size grew with each pregnancy (not so pleasant), and my catching reflexes morphed into slow motion, before disintegrating entirely.
I've got hearing like Superwoman - (should you decide to complain or moan at me from two bedrooms, one hallway, and a bathroom away - beware) ~~~ but catching? That's gone to pot.


But men throw, toss, or chuck all the time.

I'm unable to catch anything anymore.
I can't tell you how many times I've been hit in the face with pencils, a ketchup bottle, and gardening tools. I have literally become a spectacle, as my loved ones (male family, that is) laugh, gawk, and guffaw til their eyes water.

Great. I've got the kind of sensitive men who don't cry at movies or weddings -- but when mom tries to catch.



It doesn't matter to them if I have my palm open for the hand-off -- it automatically looks like an invitation to throw something at me.
It's also not a blast being constantly inferior when I'm just trying to blend-in.

Case in point. Sitting car to car at Sonic, I tried to toss Hubby a jalapeno-popper through the window from two feet away and beaned his car door so hard it left a dent.



I still know how to throw-up or throw a fit. But so do toddlers . . . so that doesn't exactly make me feel like a genius.
So I can't catch? Do I care? No!

I'm just going to have to concentrate on what I know. I can pick things up with my feet and put mascara on while I drive.
If that doesn't make you want to pick me for your team . .
. . . well it's your loss.

Every Day's Halloween

October, and it's very scary around here.

I got a good look at how many cobwebs are everywhere in the house. It's all coming back to me that I don't think I've dusted since 2004. And the 'sponged' paint job in the upstairs hall--that I thought was to die for seven years ago--really is to die for in 2009. I must repaint before the end of this year. Something soothing, happy, spa-like, and California cool.

Yesterday on the Sabbath, I looked truly ghoulish. But it would have been better if I'd meant to look that way. Or if I'd discovered it before leaving the house for church.

unclasped, half zippered skirt.
paint in hair
lipstick on teeth
deodorant on blouse


I'm happy nobody screamed when they saw me coming down the hall. --Pretty sure I should'a been given a heads-up by a loved one, on my appearance.
Let the masses know, --that when a person has spinach in their teeth or toilet paper on their heel . . you should tell them. The same goes for dresses unlatched and zippers down, k?  If I'm missing a shoe, have my shirt on inside-out, or gum on my lapel, --please, be kind enough to take me aside and enlighten. Is that too much to ask?

(I hear Hubby snicker as I write these instructions, because for him corrections to my person are a no-win.)
(Point taken. So I suppose the men should all stay out of this. Unless there's roast beef or nooky involved, you're not really paying that much attention anyhow, right?)

Scary that all my blogs have some sad, pathetic, or embarrassing story to tell, and every other American homemaker's blog belongs in Country Living magazine for it's adorableness, or on Good Morning America for it's flawless family'ness.   Perfect blogs make coveting shivers run up and down my spine.

Doggy fur is everywhere. She is brushed and brushed and still she sheds. Part Werewolf, do you suppose? The air has become so thick with pet fuzz, I don't know whether to rake autumn leaves, or my family room couch.

I'm old. I'm an old, old fart. And like a witch.
Something was plucked, from some where on my body, at some length, that I can't even share with you -- or you would have nightmares through to next October.

I'm taking a Modern Art course.   I recognize my butt looks like a Picasso. Trick? Or Treat?
Neither.

Wicked. My tub is wicked. If I don't clean it tomorrow - I will ship it to LAPD Forensics for lab-work studies. A gift from me to them. You know, like how people donate cadavers for greater learning?  For all their skill, I will still have to attach a little note that reads, "Yes, this is a tub."

The best I can hope for is that maybe by Christmas, at least some of the scare here will be covered by pine needles, candle wax, or goodwill.  Because what I'll do to a kitchen at Thanksgiving, will be nothing short of horrifying.

Dirty Laundry

Ahh, if only for the days of yesteryear . . . when it didn't matter if you were clean or not, if your clothes hadn't been washed since winter, or if the berry picking and fox hunt of spring still lingered on your pantaloons.

Remember how Buttonman . . or any Buttonman, was supposed to fix my washing machine? Well it's still not fixed . . . and we've been waiting for parts for close to three weeks now. Oh how, oh, I wish they'd never invented clothes (--well, except for a good muumuu).


Something learned on this dirty adventure is that I seem to have become an Elitist, --because I'd rather wear something wrong sized, wrong seasoned, or just plain soiled, than go to use a public laundromat. I'm sorry you have to read of such snobbery, but it's true.

Have you seen the inside of a laundromat lately ?? Well I haven't either . . but I'm sure every Tom, Dick, and Harriot hillbilly is washing tennis shoes, fishing vests, and wrestling leotards in those machines -- not to mention cloth diapers! (thanks, Obama.)

And we (I) have sunk to new depths around the homestead, just to keep me from having to go to one such place.
Where the boys have thought me a fairly whippet clean freak . . they now hear things like 'if it ain't standing on it's own --wear it again!!' and 'clean hands warm heart, dirty shirt looks smart', and 'yeah, well, no one ever said it'd be easy . . --you just assumed it'd be washed.'


Trying to stay above the influx of fouled apparel, I have traveled hither and yon borrowing any machine besides a public one. I'm like that annoying bachelor who rotates around his friends' apartment couches instead of getting one of his own.

Other people's washing machines are my heroin.




Worse yet, I think I may have accidentally left my backup-granny-panties in some dear friend's machine . . but I can't remember who's! So it's been like tracking down a crime (--cause those granny's really are a crime . . . )
And if my friend's hubbytype I sit next to in Sunday School finds them first, I will never be able to live with myself, or speak of the gospel in front of him again. How can I read scripture out loud when I know my super knickers are hanging in his laundry room ?? Somehow I must get his wife to explain they're a fancy shower cap . . and leave it at that.



Last week I had my teen bring and do two loads at his buddies house while he hung out. (Of course I asked the mom first . . )
Later Teen'son told me . . and get this . . .

' . . I don't want to do laundry all the time!' (two loads)


. . . Well, I guess you won't want to grow up to become your wife then, --because . . . HELLO!





Today I at long last concluded being a washing machine elitist wasn't so easy on gas and friendships, --and I finally hit the public domain.
Once I got my clothes past the clientele's cigarette smoke it was rather smooth going. The machines were tiny and only offered twenty-eight minute cycles (is that enough to clean 'smells-like-teen-spirit' ?) . . but in no time it was over and I was home, -having successfully made a small 3-load dent in my 50-load-mother-of-a-habit.



I can feel it in my psyche --my machine's parts are going to come tomorrow.

And yeah, so what. It's official. --I enjoy homemaking best with all the in-home modern day conveniences.
You can sue me.
Just don't make me do dishes at the dish-o-mat.

Button Envy

By now you can tell Hubby's and my relationship is a little different than most. But in one aspect I suspect it is similar to most every other male-female relationship in the world. That is, --the button is his first love. I sometimes think my male even loves buttons more than he loves me.

Of course I don't mean the sew-on kind, --but the round pushable things that often accompany electronics, power, or heavy equipment.
. . . in fact, I've actually heard him mumble in his sleep --not "Bliss, Oh Bliss" . . but "button . . button, who has my button? . . ."


On a recent car ride with the Hubs, I attempted to poke at the temperature controls protruding from my side of the dash--otherwise known as His territory. I was quickly chastised as Hubby decreed all knobs impeccably positioned, and our environment unalterably the "perfect temperature."
And then he uttered the words I will forever mock him for "you will never win an argument about temperature with me, so don't even try!"


First of all, that's just plain funny.
You have to admit, --you can so hear random hubby's of all-walks, throwing out a sentence like that.
It's like, okay dude, okay. You be in charge of 'temperatures'. That'll be yooouuur little baby.

Second of all . . .

Really?

What about when it comes to sticking thermometers into baby's butts . . or . . say . . at what temperature the hard-ball-stage in candy making is determined? Or maybe, I dare say, at what future menopausal temperatural-state my hot flashes will deem I smack to smithereens anyone who offends me over how cold, or warm I am?
Will I ever become adept at those such things??


And, um, kind sir, -- even now, I may just know the teensiest bit more about what air temps I like blowing on my face and legs, than someone, say . . who is not in my skin!
That's like suggesting I will never win an argument about what flavor ice cream I like best.


So, buttons (and obviously, temperatures), are big in my home, let me tell you. It's like world powers go straight from heaven, to buttons -- and All Rule Who Rule The Button.

(It's a little known fact, by the way, that the caveman made the wheel because it greatly resembled a large pushable button. The whole 'able to travel' or 'introduction of the cart and wagon' --- was just a lucky by-product.)



I have a hard enough time just getting to touch a button past all the testosterone flailing around here. ~~But forget if I even go so far as to verbalize a button question out loud! I mean those controls are swiped so fast from my hands, the breeze tugs at my jowls.

I need only ask for the slightest usage explanation on something like keyboards, ipods, automatic openers, media, cameras, or remotes, --and they are ripped from my grasp. How it is I am to learn anything about pushing buttons, I don't know, when every explanation involves secret codes being entered above my eyesight, and at lightening speeds the likes of which only NASA engineers can interpret.



On the upside, our washing machine control board is broken . . and at this very moment one of the household button Masters (the cute one, that I sleep with), has it taken apart and cleared for re-booting. I gotta admit, not having to call in an Outside-Button-Pusher for a thing like this is nice. --Plus it wouldn't likely go well anyways . . --like inviting a cock-fight of the button-know-it-alls right into my own laundry room.


Anywhooooo.
I'm a simple woman.
If I can still be in charge of colors and feelings, I won't rock the button boat.

The Help

The Help is getting reeaally weak, let me tell you.

It's not the world my grandparents grew up in, that's for sure. I feel like they had nothing but Jimmy Stewarts' helping them buy suits, Donna Reeds' at the makeup counter, and Gomer Pyles' filling their cars with gas.

I just came home from a trip (twenty miles, that is) to Old Navy, only to find a hearty plastic security tag still screwed tightly to my son's jeans. Why it didn't beep when we left the store, I don't know. But the bigger question is why the little girl ringing us up didn't remove it! To my understanding, she has two jobs. One, 'remove security tags' and Two, 'take our money.' (Lord knows saying thank you, smiling, or being helpful --- have long since been dropped from the common employees to-do list.)
Yes - I usually recheck my purchases for mischarges or stuck tags, because this ain't my first time at the rodeo. But gimme a break.


At the slight chance this may have truly only been a simple case of retail-clerk human error, please allow me to be unforgiving for at least the length of this blog. I've done my time being patient in malls and stores. Believe me. And fyi -- I am under strict orders not to get sassy to deserving store employees while my children are still standing next to me. I am supposed to give them some hand-signal-of-evacuation that affords them the opportunity to run like a Marine when I feel the urge to start any necessary 'talks' with The Help.




At home I fantasize how when I call Old Navy  (as my teen cries 'It's fine! It's fine! It doesn't matter! Don't call!' from behind me)  ( . . right . . I can't even look at you cross-eyed -- you're going to wear a 3-inch metal dinghy stuck to your hip all school year?) ---they will surely apologize, or share a way for me to remove the device by myself, or offer some sort of discount if I drive all the way back. I know Old Navy school must have taught The Help that much about customer service, during their half day of sorta-corporate training? ~~Or, maybe they really do only teach them how to hold a twenty to the light.


Soooo -- yup.

'Just bring it here and we'll take it off,' I hear during my phone call to them.

'Um, I figured as much. My problem, you see, is the opportune time to have taken it off would have been when I was at your store. It's a real pain to drive all the way back now-from half an hour away. '

'What do you want me to say?'


(--I am now envisioning passionate plans to headbutt Brittany when I get there. --Straightaway look for Britt, and headbutt her--)


'Well, for instances, I was hoping you could tell me of something I might do at home to clip it off.'

'No'

'Is there anything else we can do about this?--'

'Uh, I'm busy with a customer right now'  (I guess I am a has-been customer?) . . can you hold--' (attitude, attitude)


No! I don't want to hold!  And so, in her monumental effort to make me either be quiet, or hang-up, Brittany succeeds---

There was no 'I'm sorry' or 'I understand' or 'What can we do to make this right, as your business and happiness mean everything to us here at your semi-local Old Navy.'


Now I fully realize real Christians don't let this kind of stuff get under their skin. They're all patient, and whatnot. But there are certain things about society that are really starting to get on my religious, and non-religious nerves.
Things like this . . and I would have to be like Super Dooper Born-Again to not act at least a little non Born-Again about it. It's not the accidentally left on device (if indeed, it was accidental and not just lazy) that gets me most, --but the whole 'who-cares' that goes with it, and woeful work ethic.



So why is it, you ask, --did I even bother with the phone call and not just clip it off myself?

First because, like I said, I fantasized that the call might have been of some help, somehow . . . but even more, --do you remember the buzz about these little babies being full of ink? Am I the only one that thinks that anymore?
All I had needed was for Navy Brittany to confirm it was no biggy to clip it off -- but she wouldn't fess up.
So I'm upset nuts-with-the-world, . . and meanwhile Hubby has slipped out back with son's new jeans, son's friends, and is about to go MythBusters on said-security-tag.
All fine and dandy til someone loses an eye, --or worse yet is sprayed with pink-bankrobber-dye, for their first day of school.

I bellow - and the mob at least consent to holding a sandwich baggy around the device before the clipping commences.


Sure enough in no time all jeans are freed, the men feel like studs, --and I'm not traipsing back to Old Navy --which was of course my original goal. But now, frankly, I am feeling more than a little peeved over the spoiled Brittany-Headbutting plans.




More Bliss complaining:

At the Cloth World counter yesterday, two young adults came up to where I was making a return. I assumed they were there to get thread for the grunge holes in their shirts, or some craft tool to retrieve the rings from their noses, but no, --they were job searching.

"Can I get an application?" asks the boy to the clerk. She hands him one and then, "oh, I guess, me too," adds the girl who's with him . . . like it's a total afterthought. Then the boy asks the clerk, "and do you have a pen or pencil I could use?"



I mean, how can I not be excited, right? The future Help right before my eyes! From what I can tell--and I don't want to judge--but I think they'll do wonderfully. Really on their game. Go that extra mile for a customer. Say 'thank you' when you've spent bucks. And dig deep for hidden or not-so-hidden security devices.



My shopping life blows.
Either that, or what can I say? I'm old, and I'm cranky.
You do the math.

Quality Time

You can learn a lot from an episode of Cops. Had I only known, I wouldn't have avoided it all this time. Just yesterday the boys and I got to catch a show after crashing together in the family room.

And for once, I had the remote. After finally, finally, getting a healthy lesson on TV remote control usage (hey - the men were leaving for Scout camp . . I had to give in or it could have been a long week of something awful, like no HGTV!) --I finally know my way a bit more around the television.

Well needless to say, I am all fingers now. If I'm not mistaken, --I even recorded something using the cable dvr, while they were gone at camp.
And I meant to do that!



Anywhooo, the poor bad guys, of Tacoma, Washington. I mean, that place is crawlin' with cops . . from what I could see. And surprisingly I found it not as hard as you'd think to find comparisons in those reality scenes, to one's own life.



Example.

First thing we see is four cops runnin' their you-know-what's off, to catch some Superbad. I mean there was panting, sweating, and bumbling like you wouldn't believe. I thought to myself, 'Man! That bad guy must be able to run!"

Turns out, all of the cop'rs suddenly turn a corner and bam! There he is, the bad guy, --sleeping under a blanket, by a chainlink fence, the whole time!

Uh?

Yeah, --everyone's going full steam, like crazy, and all they needed is to pull this dude out of bed! Well, the cops start yelling at him, banging at him, pullin' the blanket off, threatening taser action . . their dog is yelping and barking and yelping, --pulling at the dude's ankle with his teeth . . and I turn to my 18 year old and remark, "hey, --that's just like when we're trying to get you out of bed at eleven o'clock in the morning!"

For some reason, he totally didn't get it, I guess, --and takes off in a huff. Why?



Next scene, some criminal is dashing from his car, and making a break for it to the nearest concrete runoff tunnel, by the freeway. Well, I can certainly see why he is in such a dang hurry . . because his pants are about to completely fall off! And then, in no time at all, he can't even move, 'cause those jeans were so low on his hip - his belt was screamin' for mercy. Next thing you know, bam! The pants are at his ankle, and he isn't going anywhere. How humiliating!
"Wow!" I motion to another son, "that goes to show what a pickle you'd be in should your legs ever have to actually travel at any real speed, wearing what you wear. ---And there'll certainly be no escaping the police with your pants like that!"

He leaves the room too. Another one bites the dust? What for? This show is just getting good.


Next we see three cops banging and banging on someones door. "Open up . . Open up!" they yell. "Is anyone there? Is anyone home? Answer the door!"
Well of course, we, the audience, know someone has gotta be in there . . but they are not responding in a timely manner, at all! What's their problem? --you have to ask yourself. Don't they know they are only going to get in more trouble?? Then, just as you think one of those good officers is about to bust the door down, --some nut cracks it open and says, "Huh? What? . . Um, didn't hear you officer . . . Sorry."

"Would you look at that?" I say to one dear son left in the room. "That reminds me of when the phone is ringing, or the doorbell is going - and you guys don't lift a finger because, as you say, it's 'probably not even for you.' Look what could happen next time you blow off the phone or the door just because you don't feel like getting up -- You might be going down for the count, man! . . Would you look at that!"

For some reason my boy shoots me the stink eye, and goes to find something else to do.


Can't a girl have any fun around here??


Now it's just Hubby and I. I pat his leg and purr, "I wonder what they're going to enlighten us with next, Hon, don't you? . . This is like a party game, or something!" He mumbles about liking me better before I knew how to find all the channels, and leaves to find his compadres.


Well then, it only took fifteen minutes of MommyTime for me to clear the room. Doesn't exactly make me feel loved, now does it!
I guess next time I'll just have to keep all my helpful commentary to myself. No Big'ee. But I gotta tell you - I don't know what good that's going to do anyone~~

Whippersnappers

It wasn't that long ago we were teens ourselves, the Hubby and I, ---and so believe me when I tell you, we know how to roll.


I know, I know . . most parents think they 'still got it.'
And parents before us, thought they 'still had it.'

But believe me when I tell you, we 'still got it' . . even if we are the only ones who know it.



Our boys didn't write the book on having lame parents (like that would happen--)
--It's been written before. Like a billion quadrillion times. And sometimes--I might add--by kids who actually read!

I mean come on! Who do they think we are? Now that Hubby and I have lived on both sides of the fence. We're experts. We can get inside a kid's head like nobody's business. In fact as the latest generation of parent-types, we should be the Darwin theory-like most adapted and functioning of our time! Double-in-fact, --so adapted are we in our position as head of the pack, we're downright . . freakish!




Do I remember my teen years? Like they were yesterday! And don't forget, --Hubby and I are from the eighties! (for heaven's sake) --and who knew cool better than the 80's (and a bit of 70's), I ask you?


We may not have stuff like Flock of Seagulls, un-airconditioned cars, and Tab soda anymore, but . . .
(---well, maybe aged Flock still plays at county fairs . . . and Hubby is driving ala'-unairconditioned because all fix-it money went to the kid's car, and Red Bull's like, twenty-six Tabs in-one . . . so sure - some similarities within the decades still exists.)


All the more to prove we totally understand this younger generation! Right? Ultimately - the Hubs and I generally know what's up, and deserve much more uber-respect.


"You can't talk that way to me, child!"

I saw ELO laserium at the LA Griffith Observatory! (and not a one of us wore seat belts all the way there!) I watched Three's Company when my parents weren't looking! A girl in my high school English class drove a Pinto!

I danced to Jefferson Starship and Spandau Ballet, feathered my hair, and wore the original hip-huggers! Eric Estrada filmed an episode of Chips down the street from me! We drank Coke from a glass bottle! Listened to music on a transistor! We ran out of TV shows at nightfall, liked polyester, and rode in a station wagon with backward facing seats. Don't mess with us!

Keep on Truckin'
Have a Nice Day
I'm a Pepper
Who ya gonna call?
Hang Ten
I'm what Willis was talkin' about!

The Other Side of the Mountain . . . . pal!




Parents before us lived through the depression and fought in the war, yes.
--Apples and oranges.
Hubby and I experienced all the heck we needed-soup to nuts-to relate perfectly to these little buggers.


So why is it then our sons' think we don't know our backside from our front??
I've know my backside from my front since before they were a twinkle in their father's eye! And they look nothing alike!



We're cool. We're hip. We're wise.

We're tired. We're poor. We're throwing darts in the dark.



Either way ( . . the Manual says . . ) something will stick.

( . . . that, or somebody's going to lose an eye.)

P.S. --t.p.

In Target yesterday I passed by the paper towels and tp in full panic, realizing I had left all my coupons for them at home. And they were on sale too!

I was just sick at passing up a golden paper products purchase opportunity. ('Must-buy-toilet-paper . . . Always!!') ---But just couldn't bring myself to buy, without my dang coupons.



A friend of mine likes to blog about her family's emergency Preparedness-Palooza activities, wherein they spend quality family time preparing for an emergency.
I know, that sounds like a downer, planning for natural disasters -- but it's not.

Anywhoooo . . in all her wise talk and pics, I dare say --- I have not noted a rousing supply of toilet paper, in order. Maybe she just hasn't mentioned it, --but still, --it concerns me.

Believe you me -- one emergency-full of no toilet paper -- and they'd be singing the Preparedness-Palooza blues!

Imagine, if you will, a citywide disaster . . and you and yours are out of soup.
Fine.
No harm done.

Now imagine you and yours are out of toilet paper?? Get my drift?



I don't know. That scenario always gets to me. Hence, if there is toilet paper to be bought -- I'm there buying.
(And yes batteries too . . and water jugs, and first aid paraphernalia, and dry milk, and beef jerky. But, please. Let's keep it real, shall we?)



I suppose my mother and I both spell disaster 'w-e A-R-E o-u-t O-F t-0-i-l-e-t P-A-P-E-R', because once when I was growing up, my brother made a tower of toilet paper in our living room out of her supply, that was ceiling high and eight feet in diameter. Yes, he was making fun -- but what does he really know, about bathroom pinches, right??!! The imperative word being 'he'.

For at least 80% of his bathroom sojourns . . he could just as easily use a bush as a toilet. And there isn't a single bush in time of emergency or peace, that wouldn't do the job just fine for him.

We ladies, on the other hand, like our paper. Need our paper. Want our paper.
And that's all there is to it.


A girlfriend ( . . don't worry - you're name shall go unmentioned here) once used her kid's diaper at midnight, while in a tent, on a family campout. (I've got a memory like an elephant. Don't tell me anything you don't want me to remember . . . ) ~~ And frankly I don't blame her! And who are we to pass judgment??


At our house we don't have diapers around anymore, --but it's got me to thinking, emergency preparedness-wise. You know?
I'm just sayin'.



I guess everyone prepares for the future differently. Did you hear recently about the granny in Italy (or France?) who kept like, a million dollars, in her mattress . . . and her daughter took the mattress to the dump?
Tell me my kid would be able to mistakenly toss a mega load of toilet paper. Never! I don't stuff my mattress with it, and it's perfectly labeled. So obviously what I am saying here, is I'm not as dumb as a look.

Yes, we should all know how to climb out our windows, and run to a neighbors during a fire drill. But - if there isn't any toilet paper waiting for us when we get there - what's it all for???



Fine then. I'll play the roll (ha-ha. i said 'roll') of Preparedness Police. I don't care. Heck, consider it a friendly reminder.
And one handy decorator's tip for you? Throw a table cloth over two packages of Giant 24's --- and you have a sweet side table.
(--word to the wise though, --doesn't hold wine glasses and cups of juice reliably  . . . )

Pride Full

You may or may not know, --but my surgery 'hole' kept leaking for quite awhile. And probably because it remained so moist - it was also having a hard time closing up.

Kinda gross. Yeah.

Anyhow, next thing I knew this like, protrusion-type thing, fleshy, nickle-sized, comes poking out, and sits right along my surgical slice line.
Things are getting weirder . . . and there was no way any healing and closing up was going to happen with that baby there.
I go to see Doc.


In two seconds he says, "Oh! Yeah, --you have a Proud Flesh. No biggy." A Proud Flesh?

And he sets about to slicing it off and digging it out (and no - that did not feel good) (and thank goodness I could not see, because it did not feel pretty either) (and I hate it when someone keeps asking you "are you alright?" when you are not alright) (What? I should say - "Oh yes, fine. I've seen more slicing at a deli-convention" ???) ~~Finished, he tells me the draining will stop soon . . and the site will finally start sealing-up as well. (Yippee!)



First thing I do when I get home is Google 'proud flesh' -- and guess what?? Every veterinary medicine site in the World Wide Web comes up! I kid you not -- there is not a human in the whole of cyberspace--I guess--that has ever developed a 'proud flesh'. Yup. It's just me and the animals. Me and the swine. Me and the cattle. Me and the stallions.

How's that supposed to make a girl feel, huh???!!!

Google examples.   From Horse Rider, and Amp magazines:

"Your horse has a wound that just won't heal. What proud flesh is and how to prevent it."

"This proud flesh is a disfiguring protrusion from the limb of the horse and is accompanied by inflammation and can significantly lower the abilities and aesthetics, as well as the value of the horse."

" . . 'Proud Flesh' is a German rock band from the early Krautrock era."

". . . 'proud flesh' is a disfiguring protrusion from the limb of the horse and ... an unsightly accumulation of granulation tissue resulting from poor wound healing, is commonly removed surgically (which produces additional scarring) or through various caustic solution treatments (which can eat into the skin and surrounding area, also leaving scarring). Typically, the hair that re-grows over the wound looses its pigment and the hair that grows back is white in color."



Great -- And now I gotta have a hairy back too?!   (ya, alright - hairier than already???)

And of course I don't even get my proud flesh on a limb, like a normal horse would. No. Mine has to grow out of my back. Like a mutant.

(PS - I threw in the rock band definition just to make me feel better. It was the only one that didn't make me feel like a cow.)


Ah geez.
Anyhow. Now this last week, proud flesh free and proud of it, I've got this lump under my skin that won't go away. I saw it before - but I was still swollen. Now I'm way less swollen - but it's still there.

I ask Hubby after I come out of the shower, "see this lump here?"   (What lump? Where? Which one? The poor man is looking at my hiny and just above it . . and let me tell you - that's a lumpy area altogether. What the heck is he going to say that doesn't get him in trouble? I can't see his face, --but I imagine little beads of sweat are breaking out on his forehead.) So I point it out impatiently, "right here! --at the scar . . ."

And sure enough - I have this crazy like, folded over muscle, or tissue, or who knows what - sitting just under the skin. It's like a two inch area, and I don't like it! It's not right! And clearly not as proud, or brave, or whatever the heck you want to call it as my other thingy was, that came right out and showed itself.

Now I don't know what Doc is going to do about this new, less-prideful, but still like, in-your-face thingy. But I'm praying he won't just tell me it's fine, or it's nothing because it feels way weird, and 'cause it's going to totally blow my bikini line if it stays through the summer.

Like they always say, --if you have your health (and your bikini line) --you have everything.


One thing for sure I can tell you, this new thingy -- I refuse to Google it.
And if muscle lumps under the flesh, by scar tissue, only happen to monkeys and giant moths? ---so be it.

I will just have to chalk it up to experience.
Well -
Experience,
. . . and nuclear spills.

The Secret

Oh good.
Oh thank goodness.
Oh there is a heaven-on-earth.


My catalog (including a coupon for free undies)--finally
came in the mail
. . . from Victoria's Secret.

I nearly choked on my Twinkie!
When I say I have nooo idea how I got on their mailing list . .
I mean to tell you I have no idea!


They could not have gotten their demographics more wrong including me in their follies, than if I'd gotten a surprise mag subscription from Hairless Cat monthly.

That's not to say I don't wish Victoria and I were a perfect fit. Believe me, I do! ( . . and possibly Hubby too?) ---- but what can I say? Victoria and I go together like pickles and chocolate bars. Like Michael Jackson and grown men. Like mirrors and New Year's morning.

Someone in their office heard I was ready for my close-up (I guess), but they couldn't be further from the truth. This morning I exercised for the first time since my surgeries . . and all I did was stretch my back over a rolled-up towel while I took deep breathes. Not exactly Buns-of-Steel level.

I did order something from Victoria once, years ago.
It was an over-sized FlashDance style, sweatshirt. Super mod, yes, --but also super roomy.
(It was immediately discontinued.)


Maybe, maybe, I've lost 10 pounds since my notorious diet-start date (see blog 1/6/09) ---but that ain't saying much. And don't forget that gruesome cellulite tattoo so recently spoken of? How would that look poking out under a puny Victoria Secret strip of fabric?
----Wait,
--I take that question back (--because I don't need anybody trying to conjure up a mental picture of me in said strip . . . )


Let's just say . . . when the models in Victoria's catalog turn sideways, they disappear (well, all except for their yoo-hoos) . . . and there is no way I can compete.
When I turn sideways, I resemble a tank ---with yoo-hoos, woo-hoos, and boo-hoos galore.




Years ago, I used to get JC Penny's catalog regularly.
Once, I threw the mail in the car with my kids, and we hit the road on errands. My oldest son, maybe 4 or 5 at the time, picked up the catalog and started flipping through it--I'm sure looking for Power Ranger undaroos or Matchbox cars--
---Instead, through the rear view mirror, I noticed him silently thumbing through the pages of woman's undergarments. I wondered when to step-in, or what to say --- But he said it all when he finished, passed the catalog onto the younger bro sitting next to him, and informed him this page-turner, "wasn't that bad, --once you got used to it."


What the heck could a mother add to that??
Ah. My little men.


Maybe I'd do good to take the same advice when unsolicited top-heavy anorexic undie reading comes my way -- and tell myself it's not that bad, once used to it.


Nah. It's bad.
At least for anyone with eternally developing self-esteem, like me.

And if Hubby can wear "comfortable" high school era t-shirts every date night for the rest of our existence (which seems to be his plan) . . . I don't have to feel self-pressure to squeeze into Victoria Secret's demanding sizes. How the heck do you squeeze a normal number into a zero anyway??


From now on I'll just go eco on Victoria's butt immediately, and recycle her.
If our friendship ever changes - you'll be the first to know.
---Right after I've shouted it off of rooftops.

The Flip Side

So, a little second surgery story for you.

I ended up running in kind of hurriedly for it, to fix a spinal fluid leak. I couldn't do much to prepare my sorry body for the procedure (--not that anyone can likely tell a difference when I do 'prepare' my body for naked procedures . . but I try).

Normally I like to pluck, perfume, shave, pray, bathe, dye, exfoliate, massage, and pedi for surgeries ( . . and formal readings and baby showers.) -- but all I could do this time, was slap some tanning lotion on my legs and call it a day. --and Thank Goodness I did because when I lifted up my leg, I found a clear circle 'x-lrg' stickertag stuck to the bottom of my foot!
I don't know whose shirt purchase it was from, or what it fell off of -- but Lord knows I didn't need an informational toe-tag of the Extra Large kind, hanging off my foot when I was being moved, flipped, and pushed into an unconscious-rump-high-surgery position!


And once in surgery, finally, and laying in the cold metal surgical room, on my wee, pre-flip-me-over gurney, waiting patiently for my nighty-night medicine, --I got to thinking.

There was turning out to be an awful lot of people in the surgery room.

And while I'm no professor, I could easily do the math.
--I bet flippin' a body (dead weight, especially) ain't like flippin' an egg-whites omelet, you know? And I bet these people were being called in (from every nook and cranny of the hospital) . . . to flip ME!

And those two guys over there? The ones that look like janitors or Wrestling Federation members? --They've got those big belts on, -- you know -- the kind of flat, wide, back-support thingys dudes wear at Costco for lifting pallets of televisions or stacks of tires. hummmm.    And still, more and more hospital workers streaming in.  What the?   --finally, the ugly truth sinks in.

I hate my life.
Someone quit picking up the emergency batphone and calling more heavy-lifters in here!  Enough is enough!!
(Man, I've got issues.)

The anesthesiologist says he is about to give me some medicine, that might make me see double - but not to let it bother me.
I tell the Russian-Olympic-gymnast-looking woman next to me doing her pre-lifting squats, "great . . so now I'll think there's twenty of you in here instead of ten, waiting to give me the heave-ho." She smiles, and I nod off. Or was she laughing at me?


Well, the last laugh will have been on them, my blog friends, when those Heave'rs will have gotten a good long look at my flip side.  I have some very tricky to deceiver artwork there.

At my last MRI - to find the spinal fluid leak - I took some Valium in an effort to ease the claustrophobia.
My girlfriend drove me there, and helped me fill out the paperwork.  She asked the questions, -- and I drugged, as it were, through the answers.   Turns out that Valium is like truth serum! -- and everything just came spilling out.

No doubt it would have shocked my friend when she asked if I had a tattoo, to hear that in fact I did.   Yup, I went ahead and spilled the beans to her tender little ears.

"I was young . . . I was stupid . . . I don't know what I was thinking ----
--- years ago I got a big tattoo of cellulite plastered across my whole bum.  It's true.
. . I know, I know -- it was a crazy thing to do.   It was immature.  I was a kid, you know?
Do I regret it now? Of course I do. But what's done is done . . .--and, now, well . . that's what's doin' back there, --should you ever get an eyeful.   Frankly? -- I'm glad to finally have it off my chest."

And so to all those Hospital Heave-Ho'ers -- Hope you got the memo! 

It's aaaalll a tattoo, bru'ther' ---
Pretty crazy, eh?   Looked real, right??  One day I may have stretchmarks tattoo'd onto my belly, too!  Just to be silly!!   Ha, ha.   But ya, who knows.  


Good news is ultimately, the day all worked out. I was flipped, sewn, scarred, re-flipped, and no doubt --- entertained the hospital peeps with my intricate tat'art in the process.  But I'm nothing, you should know, . . if not a crowd pleaser.

Star Spotting

I'm so sorry ~~ I just haven't been able to sit and write a piece. Even though the stories are racing through my head, --my temporary surgery woes have mounted to the point of really keeping me in bed, pained and whiny.

One day soon ~~ I promise ~~ I will be back, and with a vengeance!

'Til then, I do have this one little tidbit for you:



As a big favor to Hubby--who has taken wonderful care of me--I told him, 'yes, we could go to see Star Trek.' I didn't know what would hurt more . . 1) watching the movie, or 2) sitting in the seat for two hours, ----But it was my best day in quite awhile . . and I was all hopped up on my pain killers, --so we went for it. For some of the movie, I did indeed end up having to stand in the hall 'cause it was too painful to sit . . . but ultimately pulled it off, and we had a good time.

Anyhoooo --
Here is the tidbit . . (and it's really awful) (are you ready??) (ah! I can't say it. I can't say it . . here goes--)


On they way out of the theater, a lady came running breathlessly up, followed us close behind, and asked, ~~

"Are you guys Trekkies?"


AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Please!! Please!! What part of me or Hubby mistakes us for a Trekkie?? ~~~ And when did this happen? And how can we reverse it immediately??!!


I guess the lady had huge movie plot conflicts and Star Trek history questions ~ and it was us she had scoped out for her Star Trek conferencing. Blaaaaaaaaaaa!!! Auuggggggghhhhh!


How's that for my first day back in society!
I've been home again ever since, shaking it off, and crying it out.
Next I'll be mistaken for an Obama Mama!


Indoors I'll stay, for more slow healing.
You'll be the first to know when I'm semi-recovered ~~

And yes, that'be both physically . . . and emotionally.

Table in the waaaay back for Two

Last weekend Hubby and I enjoyed our annual anniversary getaway to Santa Barbara . . and which goes without saying, has left me with gobs and gobs of foolishness to write about. It could be a ten part'er, but we'll start slow.

Hubby does not like to go to his restaurants uninformed. Any beach juvie or upper-crust wine aficionado host is not going to push Hubby around to take a seat, place his order, or pay the bill, --until he's good and ready. This leaves in its wake many a humiliating scenario through the years - some of which have even sent Bliss to tears - but let's go over the lighthearted parts instead.


We eat at a lot of the same restaurants each year, but also enjoy trying a new one. This time we looked into a place called Lucky's.

Oprah has a house in Montecito (next to Santa Barbara), and Lucky's is a steakhouse there (just to give you an idea of the neighborhood).
'Steakhouses' in Montecito don't charge the same, or act the same as, say, Burger Kings in North Hollywood.

It was clear to Hubby he would have to place a phone call ahead of time, and even before the usual hour spent circling the joint repeatedly to avoid valet parking, or picking apart a menu at the entrance until I want to scream.

When I think about it, I guess I do prefer his harassment be performed over the phone than in person, --but at the same time, the phone calls usually leave us starving before any real headway is even made . . and still a half hour away from the place.

This interrogation, I tried to disappear into the hotel bed sheets, while the echos of Hubby's tenth-degree, micro-restaurant-managing, bounced around the room like on megaphone, and shamed me into even further isolation. (Well, not complete isolation. I was crowded in bed with the four crescents and six jelly packets Hubby contraband'd from the hotel's continental breakfast bar.)

I can only hear his side of the conversation, - but it can't be good what's being said on the other half of the line -


"Hi - What time is your Early Bird Special?"
"Oh. Then what about a Senior Citizens discount - if we aren't quite seniors yet? I do look very old for my age---"
"But we're just visiting for the weekend, --so it shouldn't be that big of a deal--""I see -"
"Any coupons then?"
"I don't know why - the Montecito household income per-capita may be in the seven figures, but I'm sure they still like a good bargain . ."
"Alright, tell me this . . --About your children's menu--?"
"Yes, --just the two of us."
"No. Of course my wife's not sixteen years old---"
"But what if we cut it into baby pieces---"
"No?" Hubby mumbles under his breath and rolls his eyes at me ~~~
"Okay. But if we 'decide' to eat at your restaurant - I can tell you this about my wife . . she eats like a bird. ---You do offer those cracker packets at the buffet salad bar?"
"No buffet?--"
"I'll be darned. . . . I guess once we enjoy a couple of your complimentary bread baskets---"
". . . . What? You don't have bread baskets??---"
"Fine. --Then, if we could just bring in our own little bag of tortilla chips to snack on, --and use one of your bowls---"
"Oh. Well, it's not like we wouldn't order dinner . ."
"Alright."
"Nope."
"Okay."
"Now, --the steak salad. If she orders that, with extra steak on the side, --how much would, say, your baked potato be, a la carte, for me?"
"Uh? --"
" . . At your prices? Two dinners??""Yes, I understand. Okay. You gotta make a living too . . . "
"And so we're clear, while I hoof it in from the free parking at Shop'n'Go, --can my wife enjoy one dinner (since she will--theoretically--be dining alone until I get there) . . --and I'll just request a second plate for---""Hello? --Hello?"

"Can you believe that? --They hung up," Hubby calls out. He hasn't even broken a sweat.
" --You got any other picks, Hon?" He dares to ask . . while now I wouldn't want to touch a restaurant he's called with a ten-foot-pole----


Once, we studied a menu in front of a maitre'd' so long - the guy ripped it from Hubby's hands, and whacked him over the head with it. He told Hubby he'd had a fly on his head, but the maitre'd' and I exchanged a knowing look -- so I knew better.



Listen, loves a funny thing.
If this is only one of the thirty-two annoying bits
about my husband, that I have to put up with, -- I can
try and be a good sport.  Call me the the patron-saint-of-unromantic-dinners.

As long as I get my veggies steamed, and a chocolate
after dinner mint - I will try and be happy.

Disc Go

It's been over a week and a half since my emergency, emergency-room trip. (Which of course alerted my primary care provider to the immediate and direct putting of me, straight away, first on the list of people who need prompt attention.) (Yeah, right.)
(Hence the recent obligatory days and days and days of referral system and appointment making negotiations.)


Yesterday I finally saw my spinal pain management doctor (a week after the MRI, in turn about four days after the notorious brush-in with Wretched Room Clearer-Outer at my emergency room dismissal).


First, --regarding the MRI, I absolutely have not perfected the art of Valium taking.

The last two times I've gone for a MRI with Valium pills a go-go, but I can't seem to time the taking of them correctly -- somehow only getting loopy, high, and sleepy when trying to eat in public, post-procedure, during what I like to call my 'Whoopee-My-MRI-Is-Done' celebration.
I try shoving restaurant burgers through the pores on my chin, sit next to strange men instead of Hubby, and pour salad dressing in my purse. Being high is not all it's cracked up to be if you can't even time the mental escape of one, thirty minute "slip-into-this-metal-sock-coffin" nightmare.

And you know, maybe I would give up dieting - if by some heavenly blessing it would mean being informed, 'I'm sorry, fatso . . I mean Ma'am! --we can't possibly stuff you into our MRI contraption without the snug fit of the machine ripping the skin from your body, like the scaling of a fish. We'll have to artist sketch what we think your discs are doing instead, by your imaginative description.'

As it is now, I have, oh, I'd say, --an entire 1/8 of an inch full-breathing room space around me during imaging. "Um yes, Ma'am? --Please try to hold still!"

'Oh, ya-think, Einstein?? Are the microscopic hair follicles on my forehead banging too heavily against the metal-hell surrounding me? 


~~~~~~
Anyhoooo. Forget that horror.

Spinal pain management Dr. V., I like alright. He's never been able to help me too much, but seems to want to try.

He changed offices since last I saw him, and while I lingered in the waiting room yesterday, I searched for a magazine to keep my mind off the pain.
Apparently spinal injury at the new office is very manly business, because there was not a single sheet of fem-verse'd magazines to be found! Examples forthcoming:

Men and Beer
Men and Caves
Men and Couches
All Men, All the Time
Remote Control Weekly
Spine Pain Is For Wusses
Shopping is For Wusses
Everything But What Men Like is For Wusses
Tools, Machines, and Lakes
Ice Cream for Big Boys
What Happens in Best Buy, Stays in Best Buy
All Pictures, No Words
Rockets, Trucks, Boats, Cars, Lawn Mowers, Doorbells, and Can Openers


I don't know if Dr. V. just went through a bad divorce, --or if the guy's got mommie-issues picking up speed . . but I was called back to his office just in the nick-of-time, before my brain started spilling out of my body faster than my discs were.

Since all x-ray and MRI film looks the same to me--like I'm about to have another baby, or am the proud owner of super big cavities--it was good to have Doc point out the details on the film to me.

The first thing I learned--that I never knew before--was that I have small pedicles.

Those, you may be interested to learn, are a little part of the vertebra. Bone that extends from the vertebral body.
It'd be better if mine weren't so small, because they'd help to keep all that tender disc-mush from wanting to pop out of place so ~~ but there's nothing I can do about that. It's genetic.
(Yeah, thanks Mom and Dad. First hairy knuckles and saddlebags, --and now this?!)


"Small, huh?" I asked.

"Yes," answered Dr. V.

"Would you mind then, if we called them 'petite'? Petite pedicles?" I petitioned. "I've . . it's just. . . . There's never, really, been anything 'petite,' on my body before. So I'm just kind of pleased about that."

"Uh, okay," he agreed. "Petite, then." Which of course made me blush. (No ones ever said that to me before.)


The second thing I learned, is it looks like surgery for me.
Which, surprisingly, wasn't such a bad thing to hear, --the way Doc put it. I mean, I know surgery isn't great . . plus it means of course, I've got that whole upside-down, while unconscious, buck-naked, spread-eagle, and people looking and poking at me kind of thing to not look forward to . . . but whatever.   He does think I will be relieved of my pain.



Heck.
Let's talk about something more pleasant.
One good thing I suppose, about this whole hoopla, is that I have for once and for all,
finally learned how to spell 'vertebra' correctly. I've always wanted to spell it v-e-r-t-e-b-r-a, but second guess myself because of the whole 'bra' bit.
Why bra?
And why is it pronounced 'bray' in verte-'bra' - when it clearly spells 'bra'? And than, why not vertebrassiere, if it's no matter, you know?

I tell you, those ancient Indo-European family languages, crack me up.  Probably, that's why priests during Mass don't like to read out loud the Latin stuff as much as they used to. It's hard for them to keep from giggling at the silly words.
Ah, forget it.
Forget I brought the priests into this.

Let's just stick with the part that ~~'I have Petite Pedicles,' okay?

Man how I wish they made jeans for pedicles.

Back Words

Good things come to those that wait.
Sorry about the long pause between blogs. It would appear that when unable to talk about f**d -- I am at a total loss for words. Not true!
I am here. I am back.


. . . And speaking of backs ~~ mine is killing me. I'd rather be in a good old fashioned fetal position, right now, than at the computer. But it's no use because even the ever trusty fetal position has failed my aches and pains. About the only position I've found some relieve in, is standing, butt against the wall, and one foot off the ground. Don't ask me how that helps - but it somehow does, just a little. Could it be, being off-balance keeps me in-balance?

(um. yeah. that sounds about right.)



Anyhoows . . . about a week or so ago I woke in so much pain, I mimed "emergency room - please" to nobody, rolled over to the speaker phone, and called Hubby who was already gone to work. (Well first, I accidentally pressed my speed-dialed QVC, (who by the way are not open 24 hours, like they sooo brag about - or maybe it's just the Suzanne Summers items that are closed certain hours ~ 'cause it crossed my mind, otherwise, I could have ordered a Suzanne Summers Kegel Exerciser while I had them on the line.  Then, to go with my dieting, I'd be able to claim workout time, while still in bed recovering from my back pain?) (How many calories burned per Kegel, is it? Anybody know?) . . . ~~Anyways, I got Hubby on my second try.)

Apparently meetings at Anheuser-Busch, trump wife-in-pain emergency-room calls. Who knew? He assured me however, though, that had I had a baby in my canal - it would have been a different story, and he'd'a totally come home. (~and I guess I will choose to believe that. Because the alternative would have to mean he enjoys talking to men about beer, and what temperature makes a beermaking room perfect-o, --more than he does running home to lift me into a car because of a sore back, and pay co-pays at the hospital.)


Thankfully one son was still home. He was sick, and I had planned on bringing him to the doctors later in the morning. Instead I decided we'd do the early morning emergency room buddy-system route. They could call me Hop-a-long, and him Phlegm.

Yup. We know how to have a good time.


I happen to have a girlfriend that is a nurse in the emergency room, and it was nice to see her there. She hustled us through triage, and a different lady brought us back to our separate rooms.
Though my emergency room doctor's accent was so thick you could spread it on a bagel - I was pretty sure he told me there was nothing they could do for me - basically because I could still lift my toes. (note to self - next time in an emergency room for any reason, do not lift toes.) Had I carried my spine in on a clothes hanger, or pulled it in a wagon, or been chewing my dislodged disc like a stick of bubble gum, it would not have mattered to anybody there, -as my toes could still move.
I couldn't feel my calf, my thigh was in a permanent charlie-horse, toes and foot were numb, couldn't stand up straight, yodel, or get mascara on, ~~but none of that slowed anyone down one wit. Or in the international language of 'emergency-room- talk' ~~ 'next, please'.

At least my nurse felt sorry for me. Already hopped-up on other pills from home, she went to find me an Advil. I was waiting for something from the Doc, and also paperwork and my debit card from another worker. So I practiced my least painful contortionist twist, and waited for further directions. (Probably something like, 'Before you go miss, would you like to sign this card? It's for the poor lass down the hall. She can't lift her toes.')
As I lay writhing in pain - an obvious Nurse Nightingale popped her head in (I couldn't see the rest of her body, but she likely had a tail, warts, and a horn) and (honest truth), --barked, "leave, I need this room."
I'm not sure if she learned that at compassion school, or bible study, --but it was pretty lacking. I would have given her a piece of my mind - if I wasn't out of my mind in pain - and she hadn't taken off so fast. Of course I hadn't planned 'lounging' (if that's what you want to call it) there all day. And I was going to go join my son (who could move his toes too, but apparently was still going to get more attention than I did--), as soon as I was officially cleared.  Nurse BarksALot made me so upset!  Like I was in trouble, -or a bother, or something. Maybe I'll never get my fifteen minutes of fame, but at least give me my fifteen minutes of emergency room gurney!!

While I am so going to tattle on the wretched room clearer-outer, as soon as I find the energy, the moral of this story, or rather, what I'm really trying to say is, that for all that, basically, what did I get? . . . . the gift of paying 50 bucks to tell my girlfriend how much I weigh.

Good times.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'll tell you about my MRI in the next blog. But you better hold on to your seats, --it's going to be a bumpy claustrophobic ride.

Ms. Karma

Me thinks I am obsessed? Or what the heck is it? Everywhere I turn, ---forces greater than I - have me thinking, touching, asking, or playing with food. Is it bad Karma, that constantly has me placed with food?
Really? --That's all karma can come up with? -- All I've earned is food purgatory?

Mzss. Karma -- if you're out there -- I want you to know I scrubbed all the toilets in our house today. And to a spit shine, at that. ( . . And did I mention, Karma, --that I live in a house of all boys ~ using those toilets?!) If that can't buy me a little karma-relieve, I don't know what can.

Last night at a dinner party we played a game where the prize was candy.

First thing to do when I got up this morning? Eat. A few hours after that? A belated birthday present . . of lunch.

Read about an author today, who's new book sounds good. I check out her blogsite . . . and the blogsite name? Orangette! Blog's topic? Recipes.

Bags of fermenting future loaves of Friendship Bread piling up on my kitchen counter? Four. I don't even like Friendship Bread (but Hubby does) . . . . And I don't like pushing fermenting bags of cake batter on my friends (but Hubby does).

Tonight for date night, we are off to the high school snack bar . . I mean volleyball game.

I have the sniffles . . so I'm checking calorie content in a pouch of Emergen-C and tablet of Airborne.
Someone's dinner plate from last night sits in front of me, waiting for dishes to be done. I go outside and our fruit trees are dripping, heavy with calories.


Remember now, -all I have to do is quit thinking about food.

As room mom, when youngens' were still in elementary school, --a teacher informed me there'd be no more cupcakes and food treats for birthdays or class parties. My first impulse was to pull her hair, put tacks on her chair, and call her UnAmerican. But wisdom prevailed, and I lasted a whole year planning celebrations and holiday activities without introducing hoards of edible treats.
I know I can accomplish the same now if I really put my heart into it.

So, ~~in honor of my attempt at tricking Karma into liking me, I hereby vow the next two blogs will have nothing to do with food. Count'em . . . next two whole blogs! (Be patient with me if all I can come up with for topics is, like, cuticles or putty-colored shades.)


So -
Take that Karma-Warma! . . .

"And look! Karma! What's there behind you??!!!"
(Ha! Food, food, food, food, food.)
(Okay . . . needed that one last release. Now I'm ready.)


Here's to other interests :)

If You're Thinking What I'm Thinking . . .

I'm not so sure my new book The Complete Beck Diet for Life is going to work out. Even without finishing it, I've decided it sounds like a bunch of poppycock - best I can tell.

Basically the premise is that I need to get better at telling the voice in my head how to behave, and then practice listening to it, --the voice in my head. Fancy pants Dr. Beck call this Diet Cognitive Therapy.

Now the voices ~~
(yeah, 'voices.' --figures my voice would have to be a schizo')~
are not that easy to control, first let me just say. I mean they've had the run of things for a very long time and I doubt they are going to want to give that up now --even if I do try talking nice to them.


'Please, please little voices in my head. Can't we stop all this talk of food, and eating too much. Can't we all just get along? Me, you, and Dr. Beck?'
No. And if you keep talking to us like we're a little baby, we're leaving.
'You can't leave.'
Oh yeah? - Watch us.
'Okay, okay. --I'm sorry. Please don't go. I need you in my head. If you leave the only voices left will be Oprah's, Hubby's, Dr. Laura's, and Obama's. --Please, I'm sorry, don't leave.'
Okay than. But don't try anything fancy . . .
and we were wondering, -are we going to visit our new friends soon?

Oh, I should know better than to talk to myself - I'm not reasonable.

And b'sides, --I have bigger problems. The Wednesday morning servers at McDonalds have started thinking that they are my buddies. I don't want to be friends with the employees at McDonalds. I don't want them to recognize me, I don't want to hangout with them, and I don't want to share stories. I just want my hotcakes and diet coke!

Basically, those friends are like my pusher and I'm the junkie! There's no reason to be 'friendly' about it. If the drive-through girl really was a 'friend' - she would slap my hand when I reach out for cholesterol and carbs, --and tell me to go away.

But no. She's a total enabler - and with friends like that . . . well, you know . . .

My 'diet' book promises:
"If you've struggled with dieting in the past, it's only because you never acquired these essential cognitive skills . . . and learned to think differently."
I might as well just cut me off-at-the-pass (cognitively speaking) and tell my brain, "don't start with me!" --Because now I'm noticing Dr. Beck's suggestion would never work anyhow. ---'Cause I'm not someone who's 'struggled' with dieting, 'in the past'; there's nothing 'past' about my struggle at all. My struggle is on a continuous loop . . . like a laughtrack that never ends. The voices in my head have no intention of telling the voices in my head to stop acting like they want to eat.

If reincarnation does exist --in my previous life I was a cow ('cause do they look like they give a heck that all they do is eat and sometimes make milk?) ~~and in the life after this one, I bet I'll be a HomeTown Buffet. It's just my luck. I know it. (And then some bratty girls from my old high school will come in, and one of them will say to me "OmG!! Didn't you use to be Bliss, from our high school?!!)

Ick!!

Okay, okay. I'm not saying I've given up already. I can't. I smell summer, --and some dang pool party hostess is going to demand I get in a bathing suit. (My friend at McDonalds would never demand I do such a thing. She'd just, "There, there now," to me. "Have another quarter-pounder, and don't worry that other people can't look away when they see you in a bathing suit. It's all the more to love, you know? Who wouldn't love you? Huh?? Look at those cheeks!" --Yes. She means those cheeks.


Oh, it's all a mess, I tell you.
My life as a dieter.
I need a good dose of Dieter's Zen.
You know - my happy meal . . . I mean Happy Place!!
Happy place. Happy place. Happy place.

Le Langue De Amour

Compared to my husband I feel like a potty'ing machine. I'm always goin' - and he's
always waitin'.
Last weekend during date night at the movies, I learned a new word. While using the potty at the theater, a gaggle of girls came in. One went into a stall and I heard her shout to her friend, "Don't you want to go pepe' too? Before the movie starts?"
Well, imagine my delight, first, -at hearing a word come out of a random teen's mouth that I didn't have to cover my ears for, and second, that was spoken instead of text'ed, and third, that was as fantastic a word as pepe' is!
How cute is pepe' ?
Say it after me, "pep-e' " ~ Rhymes with kep - a ~~


I raced back to share with Hubby the happy news -- my New Word. (Granted while it might not have been as exciting to him as me - I still felt sure pepe' was going to make me sound way darlin'er and less bladder-worn than the usual I have to go to the bathroom again, wait here.)


"Guess what word I just learned?" She asks.

"What?" He answers.

"Pepe'." She says-
"Pepe'?" He asks -
"Yup. In the bathroom, a bunch of girls came in, and
they used the word pepe' for going potty." She answers.
"Umm," He grunts.
"What was the name of that french-lover-skunk guy in the old cartoons? --The one that was always trying to get the girl cat to love him?" She asks.
"Pepe' Le Pew," He answers.
"Yes, that's it!" She exclaims.
"Oh yeah," He -
"Pepe' is my new word," She -
"Okay," He -


How does one partake in a conversation about "pepe' " - and not hear it?


I would so remember a conversation with someone that included the word pepe' in the place of going to the bathroom.
I would so remember a conversation with someone about the word pepe'.
I would so remember a conversation with someone.
I would so remember conversation.
I would so.
I would.
I.Pepe'.



After the movie I see the group of girls, my new compatres, leaving the theater.

"There they go," she says.
"Who?" he asks.
"That group of kids from the bathroom," she answers.
"What group of kids?" he asks.
"The ones we talked about," She -
"Who?" He -
"The 'Pep-A' girls," She -
"What??" He -

I don't want you to think I'm a total potty mouth, so here's another example:


"I have got some mammoth splinters in my hand from that plywood!" He -

"Geez, wow . . yeah," She -

"There's no way around it, --I'm going to have to dig them out," He -

"Ouch. Okay. Say, - we have a billion tweezers around here . . . there's one in the kitchen, boy's bath, and our drawer. Just don't use the metal ones in the medicine cabinet, k?" She -

"Mm." He -

(The medicine cabinet ones being the 'special' ones she uses to pull and pluck things from her body. And by 'special' - she means expensive. And by 'things from her body,' she means tiny unladylike hairy grotesque imperfections.)


One hour later she stumbles upon the surgery counter - and the 'special' metal tweezers with zero fine tip left. He must have scraped roof tar with them after splinter-to-the-bone digging.


She - "Hey - remember when I said any tweezers but these?" (Holding up the 'these.')
He - "No?"


~~~~

One time out of the clear blue we got a coupon-flier in the mail, good for One Free Hearing Test.
("Hot dog!" She says. "Whatever," He says.)
She makes him go.
He would fake offense, --except that it was free.
He'd go to a leg-breaking, if it was free.

True Story:"Hello sir," woman at hearing test office says.
"I'm here for my free hearing test," He informs.
"Have you been having problems?"
"No."
"Did your doctor send you?"
"No."
"Why are you here?"
" --My wife made me come."
bored pause - "We get that a lot. --line forms to the left."

and his test results? ~~ " . . . with flying colors!"



I've decided free hearing tests are bogus.
Like swampland in Arizona.

And that there is a conspiracy I will never get to the bottom of.
And even if I did get to the bottom of it, --only girls would listen to me.

So okay fellas, here it is,
--I give up.


(Ah, and if only you had heard me . . .victory would have been sweet . . . )