aprettyfunnybliss

High Fly

2009-11-18T23:15:00.000-08:00

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 use 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 BoyHome 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 bucket. 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 anyways, 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

2009-10-12T22:35:00.000-07:00

October.
And it 's very scary around here.

Not necessarily different than any other month.

I got a good look at how many cob webs 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, family friendly, and California cool.

Yesterday on the Sabbath, I looked truly ghoulish. 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
glitzy flip flops, but still flip-flops

I'm happy nobody screamed when they saw me coming down the hall. --Pretty sure I should'a been given a heads-up.

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 homemaker's blog in America 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 attache a little note that reads, "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 good will. Because what I do to a kitchen at Thanksgiving, will be nothing short of horrifying.

Dirty Laundry

2009-09-28T19:54:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-10T17:28:00.001-07:00

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. ( . . or what shoes go with what purse~~)

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 up side, 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

2009-08-22T22:17:00.000-07:00

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-d0 list.)
Yes - I usually do 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 fantasized how when I called 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 would surely apologize, or share a way for me to remove the device by myself, or offer some sort of discount if I had to drive all the way back. I know(?) Old Navy school must have taught the Help that much during their half day of sorta-corporate training. ~~Or, maybe? Maybe they only taught them how to hold a twenty to the light and define Lycra.

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' (again in my poor life (reader sympathy, please), I am dimensioned to purely chopped-liver) ' . . can you hold--' (attitude, attitude)

No, I don't want to hold.
---In 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, -your business and happiness mean everything to us here at your (semi)local Old Navy.'

Now I 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, 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

2009-08-07T00:09:00.000-07:00

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 can 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

2009-07-20T22:26:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-06-27T23:06:00.001-07:00

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.

Anyhoooo . . 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.

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 camp out. (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. What I'm saying 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 they isn't any toilet paper waiting for us when we get there - what's it all for???

Fine then. This once I'll play the roll (hehe) 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. Doesn't hold wine and cups of juice reliably though . . . )

Pride Full

2009-06-19T00:07:00.001-07:00

You may or may not know, --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) (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 cyperspace--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 suppposed to make a girl feel, uh???!!!

Google Examples:

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

"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 the grows back is white in color."

Great -- And now I gotta have a hairy back too! (Alright . . Hairier??)

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 defination 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 swolen. Now I'm way less swolen - 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 hinny 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 you want to call it as my other thingy --that came right out and showed itself.
Now I don't know what Doc is going to do about this guy. 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 time 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

2009-06-15T20:57:00.001-07:00

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 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 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

2009-06-08T19:49:00.000-07:00

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 surgery ( . . and formal readings and baby showers.) But all I could do, was slap some tanning lotion on my legs and back side. --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 unconscious rump high position!

And once there, finally, and laying in the cold metal surgical room, on my wee pre-flip 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, right? 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 or Walmart for lifting pallets of tuna or stacks of tires.
Ummm.
And still, more and more workers streaming in . . .

Hey!
(--and the ugly truth sinks in. Yeah. Happy Surgery, Bliss!)

I hate my life.
Someone quit picking up the emergency batphone and calling more heavy-lifters in here. Enough is enough!
(I know. 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, "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 Heavers will have gotten a good long look at the flip side.
Let me explain:

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 afraid I wouldn't be able to see straight - helped me fill out the paperwork.
She asked the questions, --
and I drugged, as it were, through the answers.

Turns out Valium is like truth serum! -- and everything just came spilling out.

Fresh as the driven-snow, it may have come as quite a shock to my friend--after asking if I had a tattoo--to hear that in fact I did.

. . . I went ahead and spilled the beans.

"I was young . . . I was stupid . . . I don't know what I was thinking ----
--- and years ago I got a big tattoo of cellulite plastered across my whole bum.
. . 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 you know . . that's what's doin' back there, --should you ever get an eyeful.

. . Frankly? -- I'm glad I got it off my chest."

~~~~~~~

And so to all those Hospital Heavers -- Hope you got the memo!
It's aaaalll a tattoo, bru'ther' ---
Pretty wicked, eh?
(One day I may have stretch marks tattoo'd onto my belly. Just to be silly.
But who knows.)

Gratefully, and ultimately, the day all worked out. I was flipped, sewn, scarred, reflipped, and surely --- entertained the masses in the process.

(I'm nothing, you should know, . . if not a crowd pleaser.)

; )

Star Spotting

2009-05-26T21:46:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-21T12:36:00.000-07:00

Forget about me.

Last weekend Hubby and I enjoyed our annual anniversary weekend 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 new ones. This time we looked into a place called Lucky's.

Oprah has a house in Montecito (right 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 Burger Kings in North Hollywood.

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

I guess I do prefer his harassments be performed over the phone than in person, --but at the same time, with phone calls we are usually starving before any real headway is made . . and still a half an hour away from the location.

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 morning breakfast bar.)

I can only hear Hubby's 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 potatoe be, ala 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.
Lots of women suffer through much worse.

Call me the the patron-saint-of-unromantic-dinners.

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

Disc Go

2009-04-14T16:26:00.000-07:00

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 while trying to eat in public, post-procedure. ~~ During what I like to call the 'Whoopee-My-MRI-Is-Done' celebration.
I try shoving restaurant fish 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 meta-physically time the escape of one, single, 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!"

'Ya' think, Einstein??? Are the microscopic hair follicles on my forehead banging too heavily against the metal-hell surrounding me? Why whatever am I thinking??!!'

~~~~~~
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 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 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, --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, ever 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 . . and 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.

At this point, it's surgery that isn't as bad as some I've heard about - and he does thinks the disc pain, at least, will leave right away.
Man, yicks - though.

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 consistently 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 other silly talk, or the all else Latin, that is spelled sexual innuendo-like.

Ah, forget it.
Forget I brought the priests into this.

Let's just stick with the part that ~~'I have Petite Pedicles.'

Man.

Man, --I wish they made jeans for pedicles.

Back Words

2009-04-06T23:10:00.001-07:00

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 still claim workouts, while 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 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. Plus 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 - a mysterious 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. She made me so upset. Like I was in trouble, -or a bother, or something. So I'll never get my fifteen minutes of fame. 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 after all that, basically, what I got for my time . . . . was to pay $50 to tell my girlfriend how much I weigh.
(That -- or the chance to think about the one day soon I might be in back surgery, knocked-out, buck-naked, hinny in the air, spread upside-down eagle, for the surgery world to see. And interns.)
(Thinking of that does somehow make getting up early in the morning, receiving no help, paying fifty dollars, and telling my friend how much I weigh, sound better.)
(No, you're right, --maybe not. It was pretty bad.)

("You've just won Wimbledon, been to Disneyland, and visited the Queen! What are you going to do next???"
"Give the emergency room fifty bucks, and tell my girlfriend how much I weigh! Yip. Ee.")

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

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

2009-03-12T21:13:00.000-07:00

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 this 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 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 . . .

2009-03-09T21:59:00.000-07:00

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 did 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, 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?!!)

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," 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

2009-03-02T16:55:00.000-08:00

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 (you knew I was going to say that) 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 it might not have been as exciting to him.) (~~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 -
"Umm," He -
"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 . . . )

You're Reading Too Much Into This

2009-02-26T16:28:00.000-08:00

I am a lesson in complexities. Or contradictions.
Pick your diagnosis.

Surprised? Don't be. Do the math.

I went in a bookstore today to look for a specific book. I left with two.
The Complete Beck Diet For Life
and
I Was Told There'd Be Cake

I avoid bookstores, actually. I don't feel well-read enough on what my top dozen scholarly reads should be - and therefore ill-equipped to choose. At the same time, there is always something I'd like to read, -- but it shouldn't be higher on my to-do list than what's already waiting for me to do at home.
So, my solution is to limit my bookstore visits or book borrows.

Hubby is not a reader, and in life, circles me constantly at a breakneck pace of 'doing.' I (self-inflict) the motto that if I am going to be sitting around - I shan't be just reading - but best be hand-tailoring suits, spinning yarn, or re-soling worn clogs. But who's the wiser? The tortoise or the hare?

After long hours of school work yesterday, I felt free today to get some ordinary this & that done at my desk and around the house. The exact reasoning, in fact, that made me want to go outside.

I don't do staying in, very well. Well at least not for hours on end, and when it is beautiful outdoors. One reason I went out today was to get some of that sunshine. But than, the only reason I needed sunshine, was because I had decided I wanted to stay indoors.
Did you get that?
It used to drive Hubby crazy when I would look out the window and exclaim, "Oh what a be-yooo-tiful day! Let's go to the mall!"
At least I've improved on those particular neurotransmitters . . . so that a beautiful day outside, does not necessarily an indoor mall trip, make.

Now if Shakespeare, Pluto, or Hemingway had written something, say, like, He's Not'th That Into'th You'th it would be a good balance for me, --attractive to the both sides of my brain.
Yes I realize Pluto is just a planet and Disney pup . . and if I were better-read I never would have used 'Pluto' as an example in my previous sentence. But like I said - I'm complex.

Books I'd read:
Pluto Six Degrees of Separation (from Mickey)
Plato Chicken Soup for the Western Philosopher
Aristotle Math for Dummies
Hemingway For Whom the Bell, Toll-house Chocolate Chip Cookies

Yeah.

If I sound like a reading snob, -I'm not. I'm practical.
I rarely clean my house as well as I should, finish on time - projects I should start, make dinners anymore from utter scratch, or stay ahead of instead of behind-on my studies.
Somehow I feel less self-imposed guilt doing nothing - than I do reading a book. Which I can see, --now that I've written it--doesn't make sense. Well if it's a school book, -I don't feel guilty . . . but I do feel sleepy. If it's a pop-book, I do feel guilty, but I don't feel sleepy. If it's an intellects' book, I feel low-IQ'y . . . and sleepy.

So I don't necessarily 'free-choice' read during the day. It seems unproductive to me. I read at night though, right before I go to bed. And at this rate I can usually finish maybe, two books a year?
I'm not good book club material.

I will buy a book before a vacation - and when the fantasy is that I will actually be on vacation, while on vacation. Sometimes the vacation part of a vacation gets a little mucky with all the action, cleaning up, or cooking. I've never vacationed in the lap-of-luxury, as it were.
I bring magazines on vacation - without fail. I pour over everything in a magazine. There are too many pictures and too many words to just skip through it. My camping buddy thinks it's very Dustin Hoffman/Rainman of me, because of my then ability to store and recall much ado (in magazines) about nothing.

I will give you an example.
Do you know what Lee's Art Shop is?

Because of my one day, today, of Rainman'ing -- I came across Lee's several times. I can now tell you in regular conversation (where it would so likely not come up), Lee's Art Shop is located in New York City, actually it's on 57th Street. Angelina Jolie was there recently with two of her litter. They left with white empty Easter baskets. (I bet the clerk just gave them to the girls.) I also know through my random-trivia-cataloging of the day, that the author of I Was Told There'd Be Cake (the book by the way, I ultimately decided not to get, and left behind), went there for stuff to use in her plexiglas dioramas. A diorama (in case you don't remember) (I got to see a picture, so that refreshed my memory) is a three-dimensional model, like what you might see a grade-school'er do for a science project.

Now look at all that I've learned -just by being aware of my environment and sticking my nose into bits and pieces of reading material, here and there. What is the likelihood I would have learned so much about Lee's, if I had been off reading some self-important book somewhere?
Is it all that more valuable than what Shakespeare would have me know? Or my Psych Professor? Maybe - maybe not. Wouldn't I be better off just sucking it up and reading a classic, - so that's what's stuck in my head?
Well than I wouldn't be me.
And we wouldn't want that, now would we.

Besides, there have been some little jewels of books I've read - that I never would have even known about had I not peeked in newspapers or magazines. It's like I'm on a treasure hunt all day, but only strike gold occasionally. So what I'm really doing, is totally living life on the edge (--in case you hadn't given me credit for that).
And I take it back - I am a reading snob. I'm very selective, and I don't need to read a book just for the sake of reading. At the same time, if I learn one more tidbit in news or magazine passing, about the Acai berry, Dr. Phil, Big Love, or U2, I may slit my wrists.

My intellect marches to the beat of its own drum. What can I say. I have been known to yell out 'No Soup For You!' without provocation or even feeling an explanation of context, necessary.
How do you reason with a person like me?

Who knows. But I can tell you this -
Why don't you read up on it -
And get back to me.

There's Only One Teeny Little Problem

2009-02-20T10:22:00.000-08:00

Imagine in your worst dream your man wears a babyGap beanie while on snow trips with the family. Even with a head chuck-full of brains, it's a tiny babyGap beanie he puts on it. Now imagine from the large piles of ever present laundry in your home, you pull from the dryer his tiny cotton beanie that should never have even gone in the dryer - but been cold-washed and stretched over a tire rim to dry . . . all to prevent even a quarter inch of shrinkage from attacking it . . . as you knew no matter how shrunken the beanie got, your man would still be wearing it . . . and in fact demanding it's whereabouts . . . every snow or ski trip for the rest of his (and your) life. (That there being the run-on sentence of all sentences, but then again, being the subject matter of all subject matters.)

Now imagine it wasn't a dream - but reality!

I so bawled when I pulled that petite thing out of the dryer. The beanie--now smaller than ever--begged to be tossed. Yet I knew at that same moment ~ in a small work office over 20 miles away, Hubby's SpideyHubby senses were tingling at the inkling of my hurling it - or giving it to poor babies in Gap-poor third world countries.

And alright, maybe it is actually a GapKids beanie --instead of a babies beanie - but then let me inform you it also has bouncy bubbly little pom-poms on top as well. I'm just sayin'.

And as I am a positive kind of person, --I'm always going to look for the positive.
So, --while on our same recent snow/ski weekend, --it was discovered that Hubby's stuffed-animal-reindeer-head, groin-attachment-thingy's, elastic, was all stretched out --and thereby rendered unusable.

Uh?
Oh no, yeah, --you heard me right.
Stuffed animal-type, bouncy-reindeer-head, thingy.
It's about the size of a smallish pillow, goes on similar to a low slung belt, and is presented for All on the slopes to enjoy. Hubby first used it when he was a single, strapping young skier, and usually around the holidays. It always got a flirty giggle from the snow bunnies.
But need we remind him - those days are long over - and though his sons' thought it would be awesome for him to wear (why?) -- Hubby was unable to accommodate. (Oh thank goodness nobody mentioned duct tape.)

Yes, it's true a grown man should not need answer to anyone about his clothing choices, reindeer packages, or pom-pom beanies. Sure. However, in extreme cases --that's a bunch of who-eee. And this is one of those cases.

Yes, some outfits you might look at in a picture-and realize, 'well, that was just a sign of the times. Everyone was wearing dolphin shorts in the seventies.' But the problem for us is we don't have any old pictures like that. All are crisply current. I don't know what for sure Hubby was wearing in the seventies (since he saved his short-shorts for now) --but it was probably something akin to knickers or English royalty wigs. You know - just to keep it fresh, --show he was certainly no slave to fashion, no sirree, Bob.

Yeah, yeah. I'm being a little rough. We all have our warts . . . and it was just Valentines Day.
Tell you what - let's you and I make believe Hubby looks like a total hunk in his beanie, and this whole story is super sweet. . . . Oh - and that everyone loves a good reindeer-gag.

Hug-hug, Kiss-kiss, Hubby.
You're the man!

You're One Sick Puppy

2009-02-18T22:00:00.001-08:00

. . . I don't like to say that to myself. But sometimes I have to. Like today.

Today was my birthday. Fun, right? One of the first things I like to Not do on my birthday, is weigh-in at Weight Watchers.
It just feels like such a bummer. Such an injustice from the Birthday Gods.

But I psyched myself up for it anyway, --and was even driving there in my slip and stockings (remember, I can't wear much), when I decided ~ Forget it! It's my Birthday and I'm taking the day off!

My decision came, coincidentally, right about the time I was in front of McDonalds. (And herein comes the sick puppy part--)

Well first let me tell you (actually they would call this 'confession' in some religions) --
--I've been a very bad girl.

So the deal is, in my weigh-in for the last few months, I don't have breakfast before I go. I'm just too distraught to put any ounces in--before they have the chance to get back out--ahead of my weigh-ins.
What that has done, is make me soo starving by the time I get weighed. And since everyone knows the hour after a weigh-in is like, total party time - and since there is a McDonalds on the way home from my weigh-ins - I have taken to stopping there for a large diet coke and cinnamelts.

I know!!

It's awful, isn't it?!
It's like, something I never in my life would do. You know, get a coke first thing in the morning, or have cinnamelts instead of six Kashi almonds and a slice of cheese (or something).
It's insane! It's madness! It's craziness!

It's Heaven.

And then, one morning in drive-through-- . . . ('cause I never go inside) (I have like, nothing on, --remember?) (and heaven help me if I ever get in an accident in front of the Mcdonalds. They are Not getting me out of that car. I don't care if they use the jaws of life on me) . . . --they accidentally gave me hot cakes as well!
Oh my heck! Oh my gosh!
Yummo times four!
It's a breakfast Carb'avors like me can only dream of! And is it such a sin now, really, to order diet coke, cinnamelts, and hot cakes . . . and just like, white flour and refined sugar PigOut? They're not, super sized or anything.

Oh yeah. It's unhealthy.

And anyways you're not the Boss of me.
Heck, at home I even cut my fat-free milk with water! Blaaaa! I deserve a cinnamelt a week.
Besides, I'm not a machine, --I'm a real person, --with real feelings . . . and it's my birthday.

Leave me alone.

Shopping Frenzy

2009-02-13T15:41:00.000-08:00

Well that was fun.

I ran to Costco (where I rarely go) to use up a gift card (I have had for far too long) on milk and such (massage tables, plasma tv, Jack LaLanne juicer . . .). Come to find out I did not have the card with me as I had supposed, and could not bring myself to shop without it. By the time I had turned around, grabbed coupons at home, and headed over to Vons - the clock was seriously ticking. There is nothing like picking up deliciously unspoiled (yeah, right) teenagers fifteen minutes later than when they wanted to be picked up. (Sometimes I truly cannot remember who has who jumping through hoops.)

Occasionally I like to leave my purse in the car when I go grocery shopping, stick my debit card in my jeans, and just hold my coupons. I did that this time.

Now I should have you know here, the Coupon Ladies of yesteryear have evolved. We are not nearly as insane and homeless looking as we used to be. (For example, now I methodically run a comb through my hair and chew mint gum, every time I'm about to go in a grocery store.) And because the stores have taken all the fun out of coupon shopping (i.e., limiting use, not taking other store's coupons, etc.), we hardly even argue anymore with the cashiers.

Today I had a long line of rained on soaking wet carts to choose from, --and I hate that. (Yes, that's right. I would not have made a good pioneer.) I pick one only to see it doesn't have the undercarriage part - which I way use - so I try another, and it will hardly budge. My third choice is so wet it has puddles in it. (By now there is a small crew of shopping peers stranded between my cart carnage and the other grocery carts.) I pick again, and this cart is absolutely repulsive! 'There should be a law against doing what I believe somebody did in here,' I think to myself (-or did I say it out loud?). Finally I find one I can stand (I believe I heard applause), and mosey on inside.

My OCD doesn't stop at the carts alone. How I wish I could just give up on coupons! Their very nature breeds OCD. But in my head every 50 cents I save -is another 50 cents toward something special like Easter bonnets, or sculptures. I keep my grocery list in one pocket, coupons I won't be using this time (I only coupon if the product is on sale) in another pocket, coupons I decide to save for Target in a third, and the coupons I will be using this trip in any remaining available orifice. (And see? Why burden myself with a purse?)

I worked at a grocery store a hundred years ago (that's right, --one hundred years ago. And we didn't call them grocery stores then either, --we called them village vendors) --and I was taught by my superiors to never take the first thing on the shelf. Always go back several items and you will find the fresher dated milks, breads, whatever. That was fine then, but now I am a freakish circus act as I stretch, dig, and mutilate to get to the furthest-away product. The little ones enjoy watching me - but the adults mostly look away in disgust.

Lastly, the guy who checked me out (kinda like the sound of that--), kept asking questions but couldn't seem to look me in the eyes. Therefore, Did you find everything you need? sounded like Coffee, tea, or me? and Would you like help out? sounded like Do you really need to pout? --Both of which made just as much sense to me as what he was really trying to saying. I stopped short (thankfully) of answering 'Sorry pal, I'm married . . . plus what can I say? -I'm a pouter.'

(It's done. There is a long line of nutty bars - and I'm right in the middle with the best of them.)

Physician heal thyself, comes to mind.

The Anti-Polka Dot Her

2009-02-09T13:49:00.000-08:00

Well--
--obviously a work in progress . . .

~~The site, I mean - Not me.
(Heck, me? - I am this close to being done!)

Anyhow, I have fantastic ideas in my head for my blog decor, --but somehow I am not able to have them manifested.

The first problem --
Wouldn't you think it'd be easy to pick a background for the site, out of, like, over 400 choices?
I mean, is it me?
(rhetorical question!)

And it's no help that I got sucked into a sparkling Webfetti download that left me with gadget choices such as these, to add to my page:

Bagel in Love
Zombie Head Bounce
Chopsticks Chasing a Fly
Toilet Drinking Dog ~and~
Old Woman Stuck Under a Shoe

While that last one did remind me a little of myself . . . the rest, --no way!

My second problem arose right after I downloaded Webfetti, --because it was then that I remembered Bliss isn't allowed to download anything.

Um, yea. 'Allowed' seems like a pretty severe word to use in a marriage of equal partnership and intelligence, such as Hubby's and mine is -- nevertheless. Even a monkey is allowed to download more stuff than I am. ~~But I'm waaay better at letting go of treats when my closed fist is stuck in a jar, -than monkeys are.

Anyhow, all this means is that soon Hubby was thickly involved with my site styling, as I didn't know how the heck to get rid of the cheesy download that was now sticking to everything on my screen like cheap polyester.
Then, the next thing I knew, each time I turned around he had another wilderness shot as my header or mountain'scape all up in my widgets. And if I needed a wilderness in my widgets, don't you think I'd tell him?!

It's just that I'm particular about this sort of stuff - And I can't just have any old' design representin'.

For instance, I don't need bows, yellow smiley faces, and talk of 'Love is like Flannel Jammies in Winter' or 'Family Makes Me Giddy,' or 'Happiness is Twilight and Grandchildren'. Even my temporary 'Welcome Friends' is giving me the willies. It smacks of sugar on top of syrup.
I don't know.
Obviously I'm just a fussy, cold-hearted blogger, with no soul.

And I don't mind being a cold-hearted unfeeling blogger, with no soul -- as long as my site looks pretty in the meanwhile.

And the Bliss in red you see below? --It's all wrong.
I'm just saying -- what the heck kind of color is that? And why all the curlies in my 'B' ?
And, am I mistaken, or does that 'B' make me look fat?

Aauuugggh!
I'm just going to give it a rest.
I'll find something I like tomorrow.
'Tomorrow's a new day' --
. . . and all that other hogwash.

Or to put it another way --
too much 'cute' thinkin -
makes me feel like punkin'.

: ) (Smiley Face)

Hot Off The Press

2009-02-06T13:35:00.001-08:00

Alright. I haven't got a lot of time, --so I'm going to have to make this fast . . . But, I read a headline today that made me crazy! Why crazy? Well, --first, --the headline . . and see for yourself.

'Women step up their walking when it's warm outside' ~~Oops, wait. That's not quite right . . . it's~~

'Study-Women step up their walking when it's warm outside'

Oh my gosh. Study? ~~What is going on America?? I mean if the newsworld is so dang interested in the mysteries that make us (women, in this case) tick - here's some more for ya ~~ 'Studies' show most women get haircuts several times a year, enjoy breakfast in bed, and have been known to make phone calls.

I mean, that is literally how lame this sounds to me.
The only thing worse than reading a news quote that lame, --is knowing that someone was using time to sit around and think about something that lame before they wrote it. Let alone 'Headline' it!

And I'll go one further (or two or three--) ~ Since this was a 'study,' someone else, or ones'else, had to have drafted the study and then used money on it! Huh?!

Marbles are literally falling out of peoples heads.

Oh man oh man, if only I were in charge.

Listen, I could save these groups, or research teams, a ton of money, if they'd just come to me, ~and ask! I could tell them anything they wanted to know . . . and in fact, I want to tell somebody everything they need to know!
And heck, I took statistics. When it's all said and done, anything I say has got at least a 50% chance of being accurate. And they can do better? I doubt it.
Believe me, if this is the kind of stuff The Man is wondering about? --I could be of some definite help. ---And I take grants, checks, gift cards, nickles, and stamps.
How much easier could it be??

Okay. So I did go a little nuts over this.
And maybe what they really were researching was a cure for cancer - and they just stumbled across this 'walking outside is nicer when the weather isn't 10 below,' break-through stuff.

~~~

Scientist: "Hey Betty - It's not as cold outside as it was yesterday. You wanna walk over to Subway for lunch?"

Betty: "Um . . . I don't know . . . Do you think I'll need a sweater?"

(Scientist busily scribbles away insights into his notebook . . .)

~~~

Well I jest. But do we need a news headline to speak to us like we're bored dimwits? I for one say, no!
It's like the news plug that comes on during a sitcom . . . the one they save for those emergency days where there really isn't anything else news worthy to drum up ---
'Obama - Boxers or Briefs? News at Eleven'

I gotta run . . . or I'd rant some more.
Sorry!

But - I will part with this final brainchild, --that was at the end of the article (And yes, yes. I did go ahead and read the whole article. But I only did it for you! My audience of seven!)

'In his research, Church has found that men are also more active in the summer than winter.'

Oh thank goodness. Research complete. Need I say more?

Super Chaos Saturday

2009-02-04T00:16:00.000-08:00

Well certainly there is nothing like getting new carpet one day before a SuperBowl party, to test a New Sheriff's heart! --But you know what? Sheriff Hubby did good! He did real good. The guests behaved, the game was played, and the Sheriff enjoyed himself.

(I, on the other hand, did, --almost wet my pants when, while sneaking a bite of cupcake (yes, the 'none-diet' kind of cupcake) --over a dozen people screamed "No -- !!" ) (~~How relieved was I, right? --to see they were only barking at a Steeler, and not the poor-wretched-starving, hostess.)

Pre-Superbowl, on Saturday, --I came home from a lovely afternoon. I'd gone to a fantastic church meeting with the ladies, followed by dinner and lots of bonding. So inspiring!

The flip side of me being gone the entire Saturday afternoon, was that that put the men in charge of house organizing. (Remember now, we'd just gotten carpet, --so everything we owned had been pulled out of rooms, spaces, and closets.) (--And for future reference, --in such a case? --I would not recommend leaving the guys solely in charge of the pre-party housework.)

You see when men (well, at least my men) have mounds of stuff in front them, and are under directions to clean, some part of their brain has them extend their arms, and in wide swooshing movements, push and pile until there appears a space, and everything thing else has landed to one side or the other. The actual putting away of something -- doesn't seem to quite compute. This technique is what I like to call, -- The Perimeter Push.

Say you have a kitchen table full of things that belong somewhere else - like, a school book, bbgun, ketchup, welders mask, and flip-flops . . . What would you do? Would you ---

a) - For pete's sake, don't touch anything! (the 'put-it-away fairy' is sure to come soon . . and besides, you wouldn't want to unintentionally throw her off her game.)
b) - Work around it! --It ain't so bad. In fact, --it's rather handy should you find yourself in need of studying for a test, hunting, eatin'tots, welding, and ready'ing for the beach, --all at the same time.
c) - Pretend you don't see it. (This can get tricky for periods longer than two months, but the more you practice, the easier it will become.)
d) - In one fell swoop, push everything you see to the edge of the table. This way you have cleaned up and still kept everything handy.

If you guessed any of the above -- you have both failed miserably and ~~if you are a man~~ should feel ashamed of yourself for believing in fairies.

Well. You can imagine what the Perimeter Push done to our mess of a just carpeted house looked like. I gasped a little, coming through the front door. Yet Hubby was feeling so proud. Every speck of furniture in the living room--and more found throughout the house--had been plastered side by side against all the walls, in one large continuous square. In fact, to even get to a chair you would have to be hurled into the empty center, and then scramble to the perimeter seating. All seats faced a tightly wedged in mammoth television that had been hauled in from the garage. Otherwise, the room was barren. The space looked cold, heartless . . . the opposite of all my years of hard work toward a homey feeling, --a woman's touch.
It kind of looked like, well . . I couldn't really put my finger on it until Hubby told me. The living room had been decorated in "arena style," he happily explained.

Well of course! That was it! Apparently, I don't recognize a football or Twisted Sister venue, even when it's staring me in the face! I supposed if we wanted to, we could hold up lighters or cell phones in unison, and wave them back and forth during the game, --groupie'esc like.

As I continued through the house, it was easy to see very little had actually been put in it's proper place. Even on the back patio, --food storage, clothes, Christmas wrapping, shoe racks, toys, --had all been pushed up against one long wall. And oh how fooled I was! I could hardly spot it!

~~Well my goodness boys, if you hadn't shown me there was a 12 feet high precariously balanced tower of food storage potatoes, bedroom night stand, Sponge-Bob Christmas wrapping paper, Great Grandmother's china, Tiffany lamp, and three bags of Legos, I never would have noticed! Gee, how hard you have worked!~~

Certainly having nothing in it's place, didn't faze these guys a single bit. Me? A fantastic shrill was developing from deep within --

After passing the family room couches--still in the hall--with sons hanging from them seeing who could last the longest with blood racing to his face ---
I went upstairs to the second floor Perimeter Push. It was worse than the downstairs, --and since even a healthy pushing couldn't clear a path, it appeared they had given up altogether. (Maybe in hopes that the 'put-it-away fairy' would again materialize and save them the trouble?)

Well no fairies showed up, --but a Drill Sargent did (-- And they are much moodier than fairies. Plus they've been know to stare you down, blow whistles, and smack heads).

Listen -
I learned a great lesson Saturday, and for that I am grateful. --It is that there are no happy endings, --just because you get new carpet.
Life still throws you curve balls (--and then for no reason, leaves them in a pile on your bedroom floor . . . next to a spaghetti pot and bicycle shorts.)

Check.
Lesson Learned.

There's a New Sheriff in Town

2009-01-27T21:19:00.000-08:00

. . And, --We're gettin' New Carpet!

How do these two sentences relate? Well, just wait a minute, and I'll tell you.

First of all --
Can we afford it, you ask?
Define afford.

Listen --
everybody else in America has spent money they don't have! --- Why can't we be American too?!

And besides - we didn't actually have to pay for the carpet,
---we charged it.

One thing that did help in the money department was our smart pursuit of a little store credit.
We went back to Lowes because they have an installation price going on now that is $60 less than what we recently paid. When Hubby and I asked the clerk to credit the difference -- TeenClerk said to Hubby, 'Are you sure you want me to write up the whole order again, just for sixty bucks?'
(Ahhh! Run little boy, run!!)
I was afraid Hubby would grab those below the buttcrack hip-hop jeans and pull them straight over TeenClerk's head until SWAT arrived! --Instead (and I was so proud of Hubby!) --all he said was, 'Yes, --I'm sure.' (Though he did sound a bit like The Terminator.)

Of course you know the real question isn't can we 'afford' new carpet -
but rather, ---can we afford not to get new carpet.

The stuff we have now is so worn out I prefer to call it carpet powder. If we had differently colored carpet throughout the house, I could sweep-up and make some of those pretty sand art bottles as mementos. As it is the powder just gets in our lungs, cereal, and underpants. It's kind of like a day at the beach, except there is no fun or sun involved.

The getting of new carpet of course meant, we needed to have 'the talk' with the children. You know, --the one that suggests the civilized new lifestyle we would be embarking on . . . now that we were going to have real carpet, --like what real people have. Or to put it in words they could understand, 'like what you see on MTV cribs.'

I cannot tell you how big of a surprise this new lifestyle talk was to the boys! I guess it's because they've been living in a bubble I like to call 'Our-Home-Is-Our-Castle-and-We-Can-Eat-Burp-Fart-Spill-and-Bleed' wherever we want.

And interestingly, that's been Hubby's philosophy up to now, as well.

Two weeks ago he'd a'just assumed drag a bobcat carcass across the living room floor, and tell me it was fine because he'd 'drained it outside first.' ---And last Friday he crawled out of some sewer or grease tank repair job somewhere, took the jeans he'd had on outside to the hose, and then laid them carefully across our family room floor to dry.

(Right? I mean where else would you put soiled-wet jeans to dry?)

One year for my birthday everyone got to eat banana splits, chocolate cake, and root beer floats cuddled on the floor in the TV room. I wasn't home or anything, --but still it was a birthday to remember.

Now back to that 'There's A New Sheriff In Town' business. --Well, that new Sheriff is going to be Hubby!

Sooo many days, so many hours, so many sleepless nights, --have I worried and talked and pleaded about not eating upstairs, not bringing muddy shoes into the house, or not playing with the Slip'n'Slide in the living room. And now, finally, finally, my dreams are all going to come true! And I will never have to utter another word!

~'Cause when Hubby coughs up something as big as new carpet money, nobody, and I mean NOBODY dares to spill again~

In fact I guarantee a new era has begun.
I dare the kids, --or anyone, --to lay their baseball bat down, shake out their shoes, or carry markers around our house now.

When I was in charge of scrubbing spots or directing soda traffic, did anybody care? No. No one heard a word I said.

But now with Hubby in charge of his 'precious'? --Well, let's just say they're going to miss me.

And so it is with pearly smile and happy giggles that I pass the baton. It was a long haul - but somebody had to do it.
Now that my services will not be needed anymore, what will I do with the spare time? Oh, let's just say I'll think of something, somehow.

And when I think of it?
I promise not to make a mess while I do it.

Camp Eureka (!)

2009-01-21T21:40:00.000-08:00

Camping!

I've finally figured out what I've been doing wrong all this time.
The secret to camping is staying in civilization -- not away from it!
What have I been thinking??

It's like now that I've tasted Belgian, I can't go back to Hersheys!

We did Carpinteria last weekend, --where usually you have to fight like immigrant gold miners for land --

But this time we did it different. We took our time, settled for leftovers, and planted ourselves way out of the inner circle . . setting up camp in a remote patch of parking lot grass - facing railroad tracks, an AmPm, and a podiatrist's office.

Sounds sad, right?
But no, it wasn't! Not at all!

Every time my girlfriend and I had seen enough blue darts, or smelled enough teen spirit, --we'd just up and walk across the lawn, right to downtown Carpinteria! Heck she even considered getting a pedi while we were there, --but I stopped her. 'You can't get a pedi, when you're camping, silly!' I reminded her. So we settled for facials and antique shopping.

Once (because of our dirty hair I'm sure), someone pushed a twenty dollar bill into my pocket. But really, what was so bad about that?

And after the boys did the morning camp dishes Saturday, I moseyed over to the vegan bakery and grabbed myself a cookie and juice. The daily paper was in, --so I sat for a spell. It's funny 'cause ( . . and this makes me laugh), ---the kids were like 'how come Mommy gets a vegan cookie, and we don't?! ' and Hubby's like, ' . . and if Mommy had a creme brulee, would you want that, too?! --now go fetch water from the well!' Sheesh. Kids, uh? They're always afraid they might get gyp'ed out of some sort of treat, you know?

At night the Singles Bar near our bumper did get a little routy. But all we had to do was holler--

---Hey! Keep it down over there! --We're trying to camp here!---

--and they'd pipe right down.

Oh, and was our campfire glorious! We used crates from behind the Vons on the other side of Pep Boys. They lit up like dynamite! The heat was great, --but really, we didn't need all the extra light, --what with the store signs, and traffic, and all.

Extra bonus! -- the kids slept outside this weekend! And you know what that meant for Hubby and me! I mean, we found ourselves aaalooonne in the motorhome for like, the first time ever!
--So Yup. . . I was free to decide what bed he would sleep in after I choose the full.

All in all we just had a great time. And I didn't experience any of those pesky problems like I usually do.
Well, that's not completely true. We did have a heck of a time squeezing the 18th century armoire I picked up, --in with the sleeping bags.

But hey, you know? They wouldn't call it 'camping' if it was all just a walk in the park, --right?!

The Skinny

2009-01-20T20:59:00.001-08:00

How I know I'm On A Diet:

Vultures follow me.

Hubby goes from four nightly scoops of ice cream to three, out of courtesy.

Kid lunches are sent with bites in their sandwich.

I wear strawberry chapstick just so I can nibble on my lips for nourishment.

In and Out continues to unkindly ask if I want fries with my lettuce burger.

The children are looking tasty.

Cleaning the kitchen counter at night, I pop loose a dry sticky Fruity Pepple from the male-morning-breakfast-feasts, and put it in my mouth instead of the trash.

Bursts of speech to hide stomach growls, are mistaken for turrets.

Circulation has come back to my legs, when wearing jeans.

White flour is my friend, white flour is not my friend, white flour is my friend, white flour is not my friend . . . .

I have one honkin' smore camping, instead of five.

I squeeze through doorways with no lubrication.

My two least favorite words are "south" and "beach"

I pose for family photos instead of hiring stand-ins.

I pee a nutritious, fruit red and vegetable green.

People mistake me for someone who cares.

and finally

When the dog barks, I long to hunt with her in a pack.

A Dog's Life

2009-01-12T15:54:00.000-08:00

Well now I've seen it all.

Today in the news I saw pictures of poodles made over (at great expense to their poodle pride, I'm sure) for a Groom Expo contest. There was a 'Panda' poodle, 'Buffalo' poodle, 'Camel', 'Rooster', and 'Peacock' poodle.

Naturally, the Peacock poodle was the winner. Her groomers secret? Scissors, food dye, and Elmer's glue . . (--plus I imagine, not a single date in three years).

Though the 'Camel' groomed poodle's owner, enthusiastically belly danced through the entire Expo -- it still only earned him second place. (Well my belly dances too -- but I wouldn't have the audacity to seek a doggy reward for it!)

Now.
Yes it is true, that when our youngest came along--the fourth of four boys--I choose to keep him long haired well-into the seventh grade.
And well yes, this may have given him a small identity complex -- I never, never, shaved girl'y designs into his head of hair or made him wear peacock feathers in front of judges.

And so, as not to be confused --These poodles have it much worse than any of my children, --and I really mean that. No matter what they say.

Our dog? --well, we should have named her Lucky, with the life she's had.
For starters, she was a pound rescue. So that was the first thing that went well for her. And from there it's been a straight line to living high on the hog. ( ~ High on the Hog? Sounds politically incorrect in petspeak, no?---)

In fact, --I recently found out the first thing Dog and Hubby did last summer when the kids and I were gone for a night, -- was make a beeline for the master bedroom bed! Now of course the rules are no animals on the bed. But there they sat, --eating, watching movies, and catching a good nights sleep.
I can only imagine the grins they had on their little rule-breakin' mugs that night.

Though I've never let the dog on the bed with me, --I still take good care of her.

A certain full-blown doggy bladder infection, comes to mind.
I don't remember exactly how it was we suspected an infection. . . But it was the vet who eventually clued us in completely.
Either way, it became my job to get a urine specimen. I don't even like collecting my own urine specimens. Worse yet is carrying it around til someone takes it off your hands. And why must it feel warm? Do I really have to know that about my urine?
Anyhow. I started where anyone would start. I had a good heart to heart with Dog. I told her I knew how she must be feeling, heck we were both women, --and that I wouldn't wish a bladder infection on my worst enemy . . . and that we were going to get help for her. Her only job would be to just let me know when she needed to go potty, and I would lay a pie tin down for her, ---and, if she wouldn't mind, -- just leave her little sample right in it. I would take it all from there.

The only time I recognized the vaguest resemblance of comprehension cross her doggy face was when I finished with the words, 'Alright, --let's go!'
She was all about the 'let's go!' . . . but I felt like the rest had gone in one ear and out the other.

And so began the strange dance of Dog, and pie tin laying Doggy Mommy.

The vet told me the secret was to--when I saw the dog go outside--nonchalantly follow her around with my pie tin hidden. When I saw her begin a squat, I was to speedy, like a ball-a-fire, slip that cold tin, right under her business.

Well, you can imagine what a shock that was to her! (~~ 'What the . . ?')
In fact, Dog became rather antsy about my whole need to follow her every time she wanted to take a backyard stroll. Plus, she had never seen her mild-mannered master jump into such a devilishly fast-paced-dash, whenever she meant to leave a deposit.
Eventually Dog would try to lose me, --similar to if she were the FBI, and I the KGB. And when I'd catch up she'd act like, 'Um, nope! Just smellin' the roses here, sister. No call for your squirrel'y behavior and frosty disc!'

Oy, did we have a time of it.

And I know I hurt our relationship. She may never understand why I needed to push cold foil against her privates every time she tried to 'unwind'.
And you know with a bladder infection, she was trying to ~unwind~ like, every ten minutes!
-- and sure enough, every ten minutes there I was standing right beside her, whistling dixie, and avoiding eye contact.
I became so fast on the draw, it's a wonder I didn't dislocate a shoulder!

Eventually I confiscated the smallest dropper full of doggy pee, known to man. Somehow, miraculously, it was enough. Though it seems to me I would have gotten the same amount of tinkle if I'd just let her do her thing, sponged the area dry, and wrung it out in my tin.

I wouldn't even want to think about bladder infections in a pet hamster or parakeet. I mean really, shoot me now.

Stalking aside, I'm still confident I remain a more humane dog owner than those thick-headed poodle whittlers.
I gotta say, if the TV executives are that hard up for material -- I've got a fantastic idea for a Realty TV Show.

Think celebrities, pets, and pie tins.

what's the BIG deal --

2009-01-06T13:41:00.000-08:00

Aaaaa.

Today is Epiphany Day.
Did you know that?
Today the Catholics celebrate the Wise Men coming to see the Baby Jesus.
That's cool.

Actually for us in our home, every day is an epiphany day. Just - over smaller stuff.

"I really do have to drive slow or I'll get a ticket!" (son)
"I guess I really didn't hear, again, what you said!" (hubby)
"I really can't take a piece of roast beef off the dinner table!" (dog)

Well I bet you didn't know this, but Hubby isn't the only man I'm close to. There's another man, and I see him every week without fail. He even knows how much I weigh! Hubby doesn't even know that. (And if Hubby knows what's good for him, he will never take a stab at it when I'm in earshot.)

My other manpal is Sal. He runs the front desk at the local Weight Watchers. Sal's my buddy, my confidant, my inspiration.
Though I haven't been inspired to do anything for the last year, except stay away from his wife. She runs the meetings and you don't want to weigh-in when she's doin' the weighing. I'd rather stick needles in my eyes. She's tough. Tough, tough, tough.

Soooo, I wait 'til a stroke past meeting time beginnings, before I saunter in. Well, it's more of a slither really. I guess a secret spy kind of pathway dash, hide behind columns, anonymous entry.
Why, you ask?
Oh believe me sister, no one is going to see me in public on weigh-in mornings.

Not that you'd recognize me anyhow.
I'm a shadow of myself. A mere sunglassed impostor of Bliss.
By that I mean I have taken off, or unloaded, every single thing from my person that can possibly be unloaded. You wouldn't know me if you saw me.
And each week I go a step further.

In my first weigh-ins I had on jeans, sweaters, jewelry . . .
. . . and it's all gone slowly down-weight-from-there.

Not the flesh though. The flesh hasn't gone anywhere. Just the decorations.

But now I can't find a bloody thing more to get off of my body before I weigh-in! I mean, the last 10 weeks I haven't even worn underwear! There's nothing left, unless I want to get arrested. (~Hey, there's Bliss. Why isn't she wearing any clothes?~)

I leave home my hairclips, earrings, wedding rings, retainer. I don't swallow after brushing my teeth. I don't wear mascara. I stop to use a public restroom on the way there. I have bridge work, but I can't figure how to get it out of my mouth. I exhale before stepping on the scale, I blow my nose, I check for ticks. I don't even use big words.
There is nothing left.
Not a single thing left of Bliss.

Hence the epiphany!
The only thing Bliss has left, is Bliss. In abundance.

I have to lose weight.

Though it's true I've had this epiphany a few hundred times before. When you Epiphanate on Epiphany Day -- there's no fighting it. The Epiphany wins.

So tomorrow is D-Day. Dart Day.
(You know, from my car to the door . . from the door to my car.)

But every week will get better, I'm sure.
I've just gotta face the music (--before I decide to lose my hearing too. How much does hearing weigh, anyhow?).

Never mind that.

I'm giving it the old effort again, and gonna drop a few. I'm not making any huge promises, but I know at least Sal is gonna be happy for me. He's really run out of niceties to say, --since I don't know, --last June?

And I don't need any smart remarks from the peanut gallery the next couple of weeks. Rome wasn't built in one day, you know.

And it wasn't lost in one either.

Computer Genius

2009-01-01T22:17:00.000-08:00

The kids are playing computer and video games for far too many hours.
So what else is new? The sun rose this morning as well.

Oh Man.
These habits always get whipped up again after Christmas and birthdays. Somebody acquires a new game--and wham! The eye-stinging marathons begin. Really, I don't know how their brains don't just fall out of their heads.

Here's my biggest problem though. Upon again entering a room bursting with male zombie'd game players in full blown fixation, I notice this one, bigger, older guy sitting in the middle of them all and playing as passionately as anyone.

Yup.
Oh, no.
It's Hubby.

He has joined the enemy.

Worse yet, when I was looking the other way those sneaky teens got him his own account and character in the gangs latest poison, --World of Warcraft. ~(to a woman's mind they might as well call it 'I Love to Fight and Hurt Others Boy What A Good Time'). (Listen, I'm glad men have the guts to put up arms when we, the softer-gender need protection. But really? World of Warcraft?!)

And, (I almost cry as I tell you this) the character my StudMuffin chooses to be, in some sort of disastrous twist of sick, is a kind of busty looking cavewoman girl, with super attack prowess's. Even Hubby's sons were a little grossed out by this. But at the risk of being grossed out by their dad, or accepting him fully into the fold so as to gain extended playing rights--they choose acceptance.

Double worse yet, --say Hubby's real name is 'Bert' . . well his W.O.W. name is 'Bertina'.
Way bad for my (humble, mild, saintly) sex-drive.

If I hear one more reference or call-out to 'Bertina!' -- 'Come quick!' --I think I might puke.
How am I supposed to have romantic feelings for a man I hear shout back to that 'Yup, I'm right behind you!'

My only hope now is to get Hubby pit-bull-jaw locked onto some other distraction before he 'levels' (or in other words makes an even more indispensable Bertina).

No little fancy pants fur-girdled 'Bertina', or way-leveled teenager son is going to get between me and my Hubby's rational thinking.

Let me assure World of Warcraft, ---Momma don't play small.

In a succession of three notes, lowered on string, attached to a pole, --from a distant vantage point so as to not raise any suspicions, I slowly lower directly into Hubby's line-of-sight note #1.

'Bertina, by the way, Is Now On 'Her' Third Hour of Screen Time!'
then
'Wife'amoma Is About To Kill 'Bertina' '
and finally
'I Think I saw Your New Wrench Laying in the Front Yard Grass.'

(Clearly vague language chosen for the first two notes, was too cryptic. But number three, that was speakin' Bertina's language.)

To the boys surprise the masterful Bertina is suddenly sent directly to 'sleep mode,' as Hubby stretches his arms and announces --

'Okay guys, lets get outside for a bit. Do some yard work or something.'

You'da thought he'd asked them to line up for a masculine group bubble bath followed by mall hopping, --the whining and thrashing was so loud and high pitched. Even the dog pawed at her ears and joined in the howling.

Fifteen minutes later sunk into a big easy chair, sipping tea, and looking out the front window while watching the family scour the yard for trinkets, I smile easily to myself.
Genius, thy name is woman.
And woman, thou art genius.

The Eve of all Eves

2008-12-27T22:42:00.000-08:00

I don't know how your Christmas Eve went, but mine was exhausting.
It's no surprise.
I did what I do every year. Which is to say, everything.
(Except shave my legs. Merry Christmas Hubby!)

Christmas downsizing is not my specialty.

I'm not complaining though (well, maybe I am a little). I love Christmas. Really, I do. And part of my problem is at the same time I don't downsize - I don't want to downsize.

I'm considering starting a clinic, you know, like Betty Ford did, except this one would be for excessive Christmastime addictions. We would have individual class, therapy-dog visits, yoga, and group sessions . . . . . .

" I have a hard time saying this out loud,---" (Bliss)

"---Go right ahead, no one is going to judge you." (psychologist, group leader)

"Well, I . . I, I can't give someone a gift with curly ribbon on it. I've tried. So many times, oh how I've tried. But . . . like once I made hubby drive 3 miles out of our way, just to pick up the right kind of wired-edged, 2" wide, ruby red ribbon. ---I know it's wrong. I know it's wrong. I just . . I just can't change . . ." (Bliss)

" . . all the cookie baking was done, but I ate so many I had to start all over, one day before the neighborhood Christmas Cookie Exchange."
(anonymous sufferer #2).

"---I get sick just thinking my girls might grow-up and struggle with the same Kohls Early-Bird dependency I have. It's no way to live. . . ."
(anonymous sufferer #3) (whole group nods)

"Now, now ladies--and gentleman, --sorry Joe---
---remember we're amongst friends here. There's no reason to be so hard on yourselves."
(psychologist)

" . . . I've never found a Christmas magazine I didn't like.' (anonymous sufferer #2) 'They're stuffed in the pantry, under beds, behind the water heater. One day my husband is going to find them -- and I don't know what I'll do! He thinks I'm saving Ensigns and Better Wife magazine!
---Sometimes, when it's late at night, I sneak out of bed and lock myself in the downstairs bathroom to read them over again in secret. I memorize mincemeat pie recipes and cut-out ornament stencils.
I feel like such a failure!" (tears)

" . . . my calligraphy blows!" (anonymous sufferer #4)

"---Okay, okay. That's enough, everyone. Let's move on to something else, shall we?"
(psychologist)

~~~~~~~~~

My day starts out pleasant enough.

I sleep in a wee bit, then the kids and I head out to Hubby's work party. His employer always throws a Christmas-Eve-day family lunch, barbecue.

You ain't seen blue collar 'til you've had a tri-tip with these Real Men.

Every other guy has on a truckers hat with sayings like 'Girls are Wussys' or 'I had Bear for Lunch' or 'Am I Talkin' to You?'

Most have just crawled out of an air intake or motor of some kind, and haven't washed their hands since last nights shower. And the language!!

When the kids were little, I use to cover their ears, or whisper to them 'he said 'fudge,' 'fudge~ !'

Now with the kids older and mingling themselves, I'm stuck alone trying to hang with PottyMouthMike.

I have no choice but to throw out Utahisms like 'oh my heck,' or 'for sleeping in a bucket!' just to keep up. I start lookin' like a country bumpkin real soon (no disrespect intended, Utah).

(I get in the same pickle at boutiques and craft fairs--except those Utahisms are a lot cleaner.)
---'Jezebel, that's cute!'
---'I spy, --that's darlin', darlin', darlin'!'
---'Zip me up and send me to the Celestial kingdom! That's homemade??'

After the work party we go on a round of visits with the relatives, stop for last minute errands, and make a couple of gift drop-offs.

Already dark, and once home--I begin the 400 cinnamon-rolls ritual for Christmas morning breakfast, plus the recently added apple pie self-made assignment after hearing Hubby sigh,

'It'd be great to have fresh apple pie for Christmas eve, wouldn't it?'

Soon he's on the couch unwinding, and in his fourth hour of The Christmas Story or Elve reruns.
He'd help if I asked him to. But -- I don't. I'm in such a zombie frenzied state -- I can't let anyone in -- even Hubby.

It's my own fault. I leave way too much to do in one night.

At midnight I finally finish wrapping the last kid gifts with whatever is close by.
Strangers and extended family--they got the pretty stuff.

Plastic the newspaper came in? That's fine. I throw a cd in it and wrap a yard of tape around and around the ink stained bag.
Empty Kleenex box? Good. I drop a pair of socks inside, stuff with tissue, and fat-marker a name on one edge.

"Hey! Don't chuck that empty toilet paper roll, Hubby." ----

I slip a gift card in it and tape over the ends. ---To You Son, With Love---

Ahh.
Just once instead of all that work, I'd like to cuddle the whole evening away with Hubby, by the fire.

Did I say cuddle the evening away with Hubby, by the fire?
---I meant be in bed by 10:00, and sleep slobber'ing on my pillow.

The Ice Man Cometh

2008-12-22T00:11:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in the mid-eighties (known to veterans as the Decade-Of-All-Trends-Wrong), popular house decor colors where deemed to be mauve, powder blue, and beige. Although no longer the right colors now (newsflash half of America!) -- back then I purchased a budget friendly cheap plastic beige bowl representative of the period.

However impressive the vaguely southwestern-slash-dawn-of-MTV decorating savvy I possessed then was---
little could I have imagined that same bowl would yet be with me today.

Worse still, could I have possibly imagined it would become Hubby's All-Time, Number One, Hands-Down, --- Favorite Forever Bowl.
Well, favorite ice bowl, that is.

What is an ice bowl you ask?

Funny you would inquire because it's true, ---no such dining or kitchen apparatus as an 'ice bowl' exists in the books. But because of my first hand experience, I am able to take a stab at explaining to you just exactly what an ice bowl is. ------

An 'ice bowl' is a bowl that keeps ice cubes out where guests can look at them.

'Oh!' you exclaim. 'You mean an ice bucket?' you ask. 'Like what Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, or Bing Crosby use to use!'

Well, no. No, an ice bowl is different.

An 'ice bowl', is an unsightly, unnecessary, unused contraption, the same beige color of dried desert camel dung.
( . . . and has unsightly brown spots from the heating element of a dishwasher, as well as is accompanied by a just as unsightly slotted plastic oversized spoon.)

An ice bowl can appear at anytime, and at any function (--solely held at Bliss and Hubby's home).

You may find it at barbecues, family gatherings, Superbowl parties, rehearsal dinners, neighborhood socials, family home evenings, Columbus Day soirees, funerals, political events, barn-raising feasts, in-law entertaining, graduation festivities, and retirement bashes.

No occasion is too big or too small for an ice bowl.
If ice exists, it should be melting and center stage in a dumb bowl.

Okay. I sound like a brat. I know.
It's just, I have never had people ask, "excuse me, where do you keep your ice?"

I mean, we could have the fanciest of affairs, and there appears out of nowhere--between the Baked Alaska and crystal stemware -- a sloppy dollar store cracked shallow beige bowl of off-tasting ice cubes.

Anyhow, the problem is not only in the bowl.

Never has a man been more in love with his ice, than hubby is.

The very refrigerator we have exists not because the housewife of the home picked it out after bellowing the merits of its spaciousness and fresh-crisp drawers, or reading 4-star'isms in Consumer Reports, ---
but because Hubby found it deserted outside a welfare home, hosed it off, and gleefully declared (while haulin' it through the front door on a two-wheeled dolly) ---

"They don't make ice makers like this anymore!"

The Man Is All About His Ice.

I know if the house were on fire, he'd tell me to save the ice.
When we had our first child, I brought an overnight bag to the hospital -- Hubby brought his ice chest.
Unless Hubby has his mug of crushed ice and Kool-Aid to go with a meal, our dinners are as wrong as Maroon 5. (catch that? perfect maroon 5 reference!) (they're awful! enough with Maroon 5!)

To this day, no sound pierces my heart deeper than the dreaded words,

"Hon - where's our ice-bowl?"

Oh Well.
Maybe time will prove me wrong. Someday we may see pictures of the President in the Oval Office with a plastic bowl of ice next to him -- just-in-case . . . . --- we'll see . . . though time as of yet, has not been a friend to most of my hair-brained theories.

The Nose Always Knows

2008-12-16T15:27:00.000-08:00

I have to laugh.

A good friend brought me by a goodie bag today. I wasn't home -- but when I did get home from errands, parking lots, crowds, and other such headaches -- an agreeable gift of Christmas cookies and bubble bath gel awaited me.

So here's the thing - one whiff of yummy cookies and I'm off to the races. ---I need you to know I didn't eat them all then and there---
But just in the case I might have eaten them all, and more -- the lovely people at Vanilla Rose Bubble Bath went to the trouble of putting on their label -

"This is not food. Do not eat."

Sadly, I feel quite sure it is for guys and gals exactly like myself, that such labels were created.

So is it just me?
Or do our noses do most of the thinking?

Like for instances,

Hubby put some pine needles from our Christmas tree on the dash of my car. You, know just a little Christmas-scent-fun, for while I'm driving around.

Little does he know (until now) ---that putting a bough of pine tree in my car has me reacting like dogs in Pavlov's famous experiment. ---They heard the bell and went for food.

I smell Christmas pine needles --- and head straight to the mall.

It doesn't matter that I was expecting to pick up kids, have a doctors appointment, or am needed in a charity soup line ---- I'm going Christmas shopping.

Then, once I've stepped out of my car at the mall . . ---I look like a chick just snapped out of a hypnotic trance.

Where am I? Why am I here?

Luckily before I can gain my senses completely, the aroma of mall Cinnabons, Starbucks hot chocolate, or expensive leather purses flows through the air, and I don't need a reason to be at the mall---
-- I just am.

Pine needles have cost my husband many a paycheck.

And speaking of hubby -- my husband smells his food before he eats it. It sounds harmless, I know.

But really it's not.

We could be in the finest restaurants ( um, yeah. okay. So? -- so just use your imagination, alright?!)

. . like I said, --- We could be in the finest restaurant, and Hubby still has to stick his face and nose into a fancy china plate of escargot, filet mignon, or truffle-sauced halibut before he can decide if the food is palatable or not. He looks like a nose-miner.

Now when he does this at home - I just try to ignore it, --you know, look the other way. I mean what can I do? He's an animal.

But with us at fancy restaurants (like, I said -- use your imagination!) ----it's embarrassing. Waiters look at me, -- like I can explain it. Heck!

I tell them he used to be blind, "before miraculous blind-correcting surgery . . . but he's still use to smelling everything before he eats it." (At this point in the story I pat his little hunched-over-smelling-head. He's so busy and so excited, he can't hear a word I'm saying . . )

"It used to be the only way he could tell a meal, from the dirty laundry," I say.

And then I smile politely.

And speaking of the dirty laundry.

A few years back I got what every woman wants. --- (No . . not a pair of these. No, not a day like that. . And no . . not a surgery like those!)

. . .---I got a front-loading washer.

Supposed to be wonderful, right? Well I got news for you. It stinks like-the-dickens when laundry is being done.

Something is going on when the machine tries to drain, I'm telling you. It smells like I've just washed the sickest, foulest, muck off our clothes like you wouldn't even believe.

The cat looks at us like, 'Oh yeah. ---And 'kitty-litters' a problem.'

Once I had hubby go in and try to figure things out. He took a disgusting glob of family crud out of some drain that, well, --I don't want to say this, but, ---- it could be used in enemy-biological-warfare, should word get out.
It was some putrid, reekin', stinkin' funk, I'll tell you.

I don't know what all it was for sure, -- but I don't ever want to see it again.

Hence I just keep washing away, now pretending I don't smell what surely is growing once more in that drain pipe.

Guests take a sniff and assume it is coming from the boy's bathroom. But---

"No, oh no," I laugh carefree'ly. "That's just our clean clothes!" I say, while trying to act sane.

Actually it really does throw them a bit. I mean, what do you say to a nut-lady like that, right?
--They say nothing.

What would solve this problem, you ask?
Well if you think Hubby's about to buy me another new washer before this one's put in four decades, --you're crazy.

And you know what? I bet he's holding out anyway for the day science is so advanced we don't even need clothes.

Funny, but I gotta imagine he's not the only dude holding out for that day to arrive . . . .

The Catalog Shop'ster

2008-12-09T21:20:00.000-08:00

Well, since we're on the subject of shopping -- my Sundance catalog came today and ooooo' what a treasure trove!

I can't decide between the Ellis Peak Boots, 'tread lightly but with a sure step in our stylish, pull-on distressed suede boots . . .' at a mere $298.

or the

Open Road Jacket, 'easy going, swings along city streets and country highways in any season of the year,' for a neat $425.

The Pemberton Flip-Top Table ( -- resolute, steady and stable, like the very best of friendships--) would be dandy in the kitchen. $1795 (plus $350 shipping and handling).
But I'm afraid it might 'crack' from the kind of 'friendship' business a family like mine would put it through.
We're no delicate actress-types like Mr. Redford and Sundance might be used to.

What I'd really like is for hubby to get me the 'Artisan's Organic Cuff', as a stocking stuffer. At $690 it's an 'untamed twist of natural apatite', whose 'organic composition spirals seductively around the wrist' ------
----Now I've never had anything spiral seductively around the wrist . . .

---oh, wait! Yes? . . . No. . . . . oh, no. No. I haven't. --That was secrete.

I've had something secrete from around my wrist, --but it was pretty nasty. (I don't want to get into it.) Nothing seductive about it.

Anyways, the Organic Cuff can be ordered Toll Free! So, you see? It's not all about the money, with Sundance.

I think the last thing I did buy from them was the Westminster Brilliant Cut Whirlwind Paperclip, --'a full sweeping twirl of erupting organically molten sterling silver.' 'indisputably fabulous.' It was only $39.95, but I guess in their eyes, good enough to keep me on the mailing list.

("Maybe she has a rich uncle?" they hope to themselves . .)

I don't mind, really. I'm sure Robert Redford would be a friend of mine if we ever met (--- on a plane to China about to go down over the ocean, and I had the last parachute--).

Truly though- there are affordable items to choose from for the finicky buyer.
Once I ordered a darling prairie dress. I ordered my size, but somehow they mistakenly sent me something fit for an American Girl doll. I tried to squeeze it on but I couldn't get it past my esophagus without spurting for air.
It might have been my fault, really. I measured around 'the natural waistline, keeping the tape comfortably loose', just like they said --- but my 'natural' waistline is a little hard to find anymore. I might have mistakenly sent them the measurements to my natural big-toe, line.

It was no biggy though. They took it right back for just the $69 re-stocking fee.
(They gotta make a living too.)

Well, if anybody cares, I've got my pile of Sundance catalogs here to look at. It's no doubt you'll find something you'd like to get too.
Just don't go crazy -- we're in a recession you know.

The Shop'ster

2008-12-06T10:04:00.000-08:00

I went shopping today for a birthday present for my sister-in-law. She's a great gal and really easy to shop for.
I didn't find anything for her - but I did find a nice sweater for me, a darling chihuahua mug, and shoes my husband might like for work.

Once at home and in real light--not that 'trick' light they use in the dressing rooms of department stores--I could see the sweater was way wrong on me. I bought it on clearance for such a ridiculously low price though, I'm too ashamed to return it.
I'll just put it in the DI donations for next month. (Helping the less privileged is just something I do.)

And you know, as I really don't drink coffee, and tea only so rarely -- I think I'll just save the chihuahua mug for a teacher gift? I can like, fill it with erasers - and put a note on it that says, 'You're The Doggone Best Teacher' (they eat that stuff up) --it'll come in handy in five months when school ends . . .

As for the shoes, my husband says he's never worn purple mock-leather loafers in his life and isn't about to start now, -so I return them.
While at the store I notice this fantastic three legged mahogany chair. It's the last of like, some set - and just might go super in my home office. ( . . I bet hubby can fix it for a song . . . )

I buy the three legged chair, --but not before spotting a cute floral notepad for the sis-n'law. Perfect!

Once home, I prop the chair up with a sturdy paint stick (for the time being) - and notice that it actually gives the chair quite a one of a kind look. I decide I may even keep it that way --kind of vintage like, or something.
With the chair a keeper -- I see the floral notepad happens to match my new pen set, like, exactly!

( . . I'll just run out one day this weekend and get something different for sissy-in-law.)

Interestingly, that night in bed channel surfing, I come across an infomercial for (and I'm not usually such a sucker) some sort of contraption-mask thing that if you wear it at night for a week straight -- will make your crows feet disappear.
I pony up the'ol credit card, order it rush delivery, and roll over for some shut-eye.
( . . some days, just exhaust me.)

The next morning, I decide I'm not keeping some dang screwy chair that doesn't even have four legs, and after a quick errand to return it, I stop at the Walmart to grab a diet coke at the indoor McDonalds, ---when the most amazing crockpot catches my eye.
It does everything but eat the meal itself!
I get it, figuring come summer I'm not gonna want to do any oven cooking.

At home I put last years crockpot on Craigslist.
It'be sweet if I could make just enough cash on it, to buy my sister-in-law something for her birthday.

Soon after, Hubby comes home from a bike ride with his buddy and shows me a darling flower pot Joe's wife was about to throw out.
It's actually in pretty good condition.
Don't hate me . . . but I think if I put a little spit-shine to it, and plant some miniature roses inside -- I could re-gift to my sis-in-the-law, flawlessly!

I grab my purse and head out to a nursery to look at plants.

Sometimes I feel like I just move in one big circle. You know?
I've always got something to do.

She's Hot!

2008-11-30T21:46:00.001-08:00

It's true. My friend and I made a wedding cake last week. No big'ee.

It was four layers of white heaven, --a Martha Stewart Weddings knock-off. And yeah, sure, --it looked pretty good. What'cha expect? I mean, come-on!

What went wrong, you ask?
Nothing.
Why do you have to go and assume something went wrong?
It was nothing. Nothing at all. . . Alright, yes. ----
---It was a little . . . .

. . . just a little,

---FIRE!

Yeah, yeah, --you heard me. A fire. Oh and not just any fire. Me. It was me on fire.

And before I go on let me just say, --this is exactly the kind of thing that would happen to me. It's no mystery. If I were to have seen a psychic last week - it'a'been a cinch for her to inform me of impending personal disasters to come. I'm a no-brainer for disasters and foul-ups. It'd be like, go ahead lady, take your pick -- which 'day-gone-wrong-in-the-future' would you like to relate to me? Like it's some mystery! Pleeeease!
Will I be tripping off a curb? Wetting my pants? Shooting coke out my nose?

And if she had told me, "I see in your future, --your body on fire at a wedding reception," I'd be like, "duh! . . and you want a twenty for that??!"

However, --since I was not psychic'ly prepared (and really, when am I ever?), --the whole 'body-on-fire' thing was fairly unexpected.

And it's not like I didn't assume something would happen to me -- it's just I was thinking more on the line of "you've got something in your teeth," or "gee, you have on the same dress as the flower girls."
You know, --classics.

The whole evening started out harmless enough. My friend and I had successfully baked and decorated, and transported the layers without flaw. Heck, we even assembled them with not so much as a quiver. ( . . . well. maybe a quiver.)
But Trusty Husband was there, --supplying dowels, measurements, screwdrivers, matches, saws, flashlights, and you know, --just overall construction superiority.

Best yet, -the corner we were assigned for set-up at this outdoor reception, was dark and mysterious. Just the environment we needed to make our cake look even better. In fact, it was so dark we decided to add little votive candles around the small table for atmosphere and romance.

I had on a real cute billowy blouse that always served to cover my pregnant looking non-pregnant belly.
Plus it was good for the kind of maneuvering I was needing to do. I mean I could have done acrobats over the cake table and nary a bellyblubber or grannyundie would be shown.

Now here's where the story gets interesting, (or amusing - depending on your cruelty) (p.s. it's times like this I find out who my real friends are).

As I leaned over the table to lift off the top tier cake for the bride and groom to keep, --my billowy blouse lit itself ever so flammable'ly, --and in no time I was upright with both precious cake in my hand, --and inferno on my bod.

The thing is, (and I never really knew it would be like this until the experience happened), ---when I catch on fire - I am more embarrassed than I am worried.
Strange, uh?

People complimented me on my 'thinking so clearly', and 'saving the cake', and how 'cool I was underfire' (so to speak).

But really, I was just too embarrassed to draw any more attention to myself yelling and carrying on. I had a look on my face like, "Yeah, I know I'm on fire . . so what? I mean to be on fire while I hold cake." Like, if I looked nonchalant enough -- maybe the others wouldn't notice the flames shooting from my belly.

And well, the truth is, --people tend to notice when you are on fire. There's just no way around it. It's a crowd getter.

Oh and you're sitting there thinking drop-and-roll, right? Well, you're not so smart 'til you've walked a mile in my shoes, (while on fire).

You can't just 'drop' and 'roll' when you're holding cake! And even if the pool was nearby (and it was), if you think I wanted to make a 'Splash' to go with my Fire -- you're crazy!

Luckily, and so luckily indeed, ---Trusty Husband was nearby and with amazing vigor he slapped at my blaze bare-handed until black smoke alone billowed above.
Now, I'm not quite sure if his amazing zeal rose from want of saving my life? or the blouse ( i.e. $$ )?

But no matter --- the deed he did, and a hero he was.

Whoo! Today I sure as heck count my lucky stars. In one evening I made cake, ate cake, and saved cake, ----all before any dastardly photographer or heyday wedding-go'er could snap a shot of me for the record (or the album).

Listen, --I'm memorable enough. Even without a pic.

Trash Lords

2008-11-13T22:12:00.000-08:00

Good News!
We are officially throwing away less trash then we used to.

And here's how I know.

On trash night, I used to have to send my little ones out into the dark with a pail of stinky diapers or Hefty bag of dinner trash, --to find a neighbors half empty bin, because ours was always filled to capacity and beyond.

But no more! And I don't know if it's because the diaper years are long over, or the one boy gone on a mission was a bigger trash maker, than I knew -- but it doesn't matter why. All I know is there's no more of me standing at the door (too ashamed of our gigantor trash deposits, and of the twelve year old robe I am wearing -- to venture out myself) and gently ushering my children through the threshold.

"It's okay honey - they're all asleep, they won't mind," as I shamelessly send a six year old to dump in his neighbor's bin.

Or

"Oooooo, --your muscles look so big when you carry that kitchen trash like that," to husband.

Or

"Of course honey, --it's not 'illegal'. We just do it in the dark because it's good for your Cub Scout Trash Nightowl badge. ---Now run!" to a middle child.

Yes, sometimes the neighborhood dogs would bark, or people would peek out their blinds to see what all the hubbub was around their cans . . . .
"It's just the Moriset boys again Gloria, --one of them is standing in the recycle can trying to make room for a buttload of empty cereal boxes. Go back to sleep . . ."

Bless their hearts -- none of our neighbors ever did complain -- so you'd think I would've gotten brave enough to start doing our surplus dumping in daylight? I don't know. I just always felt like sneaking was better.

What?
I'm the only mom who's ever taught 'sneaky'?????

The root problem--truth be told--was I refused to order extra bins from the city. We have more stuff piled on the side of our house than a homeless camp has recycle'able cans, and I could not accept adding extra trash bins to the maze.

There were times, yes, a little bit of guilt would rise up in my throat ---like when I'd wake a toddler just to have him bring my bath trash out. But you know what? Ultimately it's taught us how to stick together in times of hardship, or mass waste product.

Listen - Every family's different. And besides, --these days any one of my kids could slip a used Taco Bell wrapper into your purse faster than you could say hot tamale. It's just one of those practice-makes-perfect things, I suppose.

Plus (and I don't like to brag about my kids, but), --a talent is a talent.

Knit'n'Pick

2008-11-03T21:51:00.000-08:00

I'm knitting socks for my cutie son who is away on a LDS mission. Isn't that darling of me?

Yes -- and if only I were a knitter.

Oh sure, -- I've knitted practice squares and long plank scarves, --but I have learned socks are a whole different animal. And every dang time I go to read instructions it just makes me feel all the more lame. Even to "cast on 40" I need to crack open my Easy Knitter for Girls book and look at the pictures -which than makes me crazy 'cause it appears every ponytailed strawberry-shortcake eleven-year old can knit like there's no tomorrow -- meanwhile I'm doubled up in arthritic pain just trying to hold my needles the right way. Really I don't need these kind of comparisons (I have enough issues).

So I put away the picture book and decide to check out YouTube.

I figure there's a video there for just about everything - there must be a few about knitting? I'm looking for the perfectly nice granny-type, who will both show me what to do, and talk me through it in a soothing lullaby voice.
'See? There you go sweetie. I'm so proud of you, you know! Aren't you just the little knitter? Would you like a cookie?'

Come to find out -- it looks like nobody on a YouTube knitting video will even show their face! And I bet I know why -- it's because they know to knit, is not a natural state, --so they hide their pompous faces to keep from laughing while they imagine us mediocres desperately trying to keep up.
I can tie a bow, for pete's-sake, why can't I knit a darn purl stitch??

One Brit had such a delightful accent though, that while she knitted away I was lulled into a definite state of knitting talent - except when I looked down at my work I saw it wasn't knitting I had done -- but yarn origami . . producing something that looked rather more like an exotic twenty-four inch rainbow snake, than a sock.

In gentler times folk would sit around the fireplace at dusk, and gently prod their female youngins' into knitting slavery. They were eventually to knit every item the household needed --skirts, bedspreads, and rifle cozies. And this would start at a very young age because the older women were sick and tired of doing all the household knitting, and wanted to move on to something more liberating -- like soap making and varmint fetching.

Ahh for a simpler day.

You know, there is a hierarchy in the modern knitting world. Last time I went to get yarn, I picked up a lime acrylic skein while a lady next to me gasped. Had she not swallowed her gum in the act, I might not have even noticed -- but between the gagging and coughing, I couldn't help.

"Is there a problem?" I asked her.

"Oh, I . . I just was so surprised to see you pick that up," her eyes still wet from the choking spasm. (Or where they eco-tears?)

"Surprised?" I ask.

"Yes. I mean, you weren't going to knit with it, ---were you?" she replies.

"Oh No, I thought I might do some baking . . ." (What the heck, lady?)

"It's just, well. We only knit with natural fiber, non-toxic dyed." I took her use of the word 'we' to mean the rest of civilization, --bar me.

(Prop. 8 having been hard enough, --I wasn't ready to take on the rest of the world over yarn.)

"Oh no, you see. --Actually, I was just looking for the manufacturers address. I want to send those goons a real nasty letter about their mother-earth-hate'n products," I explained.

Whereupon, she glanced into my shopping basket and easily spied four other skeins of varying loud toxic colors, made of manmade material -- one even bragged 'Knit Him a Vest That Will Last His Lifetime, and Yours!' right on the label.
"I see," was all she could muster, but her beady judging eyes shot me a look of utter disdain -- and I knew right then and there I would never be able to run with her crowd.

Well no loss. So I'll never be a part of the Elite Knitting Superior.

Man. With my whole mood spoiled now, I might just skip the socks, and knit the boy a bookmark -- or even? Yes, --that's it!
If I hirer a knitter instead, will it still be the thought that counts?

. . . I'm going to mull that over, and get back to you.

Boo Hoo Hoo

2008-10-29T20:54:00.001-07:00

It's Halloween. So how about a scary story for you? It's from my teen years, -which explains 'scary'.

I was real boy hungry as a teenager. Not a surprise--I know--as the words 'boy hungry' and 'teen' go together like 'church' and 'late' for a girl.
But man, I could develop crushes the size of small third world countries.

In high school Spanish class, ninth grade, my object'd'crush was Mark. He was a senior, on the football team, and hardly made a peep. In fact the only time I heard him speak was when Mr. Garcia had him say something in Spanish. To think of it, I can't even be sure he spoke English! But, when he'd turn his head to smile at his buddy behind me, --his smile had to go through me to get there -- and that was all I needed. I was a goner.
I interpreted Mark's quiet nature to mean a deep maturity and super high IQ. Don't ask me how I made the leap, but I also figured he'd make a great husband. (I obviously had very tight standards then by which to measure a man. The only thing else he needed to be a perfect 10 was a car and prom tickets.) Oh, and did I tell you? Mark had a full grown beard. Now that - that was a man! The facial hair alone, was fonder for hours of daydreams.

There was the pesty problem though, of Mark having a little brother my age. And it seemed to me if I was to love one of them -- I was probably supposed to love the one that was assigned to me.
But I just couldn't!
Little Bro was barely my height and his chin was pasty and hairless. I knew in my heart I was doing the right thing in pining for Mark.

As is usually the case in a school that has other girls, --I was not the only one to notice Mark . . and out of all the luck, --the other woman was his age, blonde, and a cheerleader.
I was none of those things.
I could best be described as a ninth grader.

Now here was the pickle, even further, ---eight weeks into ninth grade, comes Halloween. When you're grown up, like I was, you can't be a little kid and go door to door begging for candy. Buuutt, at the same time, when you need the candy, it can put you in a real predicament.

(Let me just insert here, for the children reading along, --this was all back in a day when the world was not ours on stick. Teenagers didn't expect to do or get whatever they wanted, and at any age. --Like nowadays even with lights off - a band of wild-eyed teens might just as soon climb through a window for candy or whatnot if so inclined. There is no respect for Halloween anymore. Ask your parents.)

Sooooo, after much debate my girlfriend and I knew we had to do what we had to do. . . Dress up as either a baby or a hobo (--our same choices, every year), and get busy. We went with baby, and decided to hit the neighborhood blocks away so nobody would know us. I was the most adult looking baby ever to don a pacifier.

We weren't having a ball however. It probably truly was the year we had needed to quit rather than keep looking for Mr. Goodbar. After a dozen houses, and at least enough booty to make a dent -- we knocked on one last door.

I do not remember her name (an obvious mental block, I'm sure) but Blonde Senior Cheerleader (let's just call her Bertha), threw open the door to a porch spotlight of this baby ninth grade trick or treater - who loved her MarkMan.

"Oh My Goooooo*****!!! You guys are toooo old!!" I heard a hundred peers behind Bertha laugh at me, and winched, as she slammed the door on our faces.

I could have wet my diaper.

My life as I knew it (okay, -it wasn't that great yet. But still!) was over! I imagined Bertha running back to Mark, sitting on his lap and petting his beard, as they both threw their heads back with belly laughs at my childishness.

"I always knew she was just a little girl,--not old enough for true love, or winter formal," Mark would comment to Bertha, and the others. " . . . somebody bring me a mustache comb . . . "

That night, I cried myself to sleep in a bed of sticky Twizzlers wrappers, as the horror of my misadventure sunk in deeper, and I knew Mark was to be no mas. That tender woolly face ---forevermore gone from the grasp of my sticky hands because of this Halloween's bitter trick.

Indeed.

*****
True, as Halloween tales go
this one rather less scary -
rather dull, rather slow
But when you trick or treat
this year, in fun, in glee
be thou ever fearful -
as your own Bertha,
you may see!

Now's The Time to Invest ! ( . . maybe)

2008-10-27T22:15:00.000-07:00

The husband and I are shopping for a wee investment.

Well not so wee -- as it is a house we are looking for. (We feel blessed to do so.)

But at the same time we are big chickens, so I'm not exactly sure how we will fare in the World of Trump. We don't reeeelly want to spend very much, yet we still want something solid.
There is lots to understand about the California market, and one of those things is that you can't buy a nicely new, eighty-two thousand dollar, 2-story farmhouse charmer with a basement, like you can in Louisiana and Ohio --or wherever the heck else it is I keep reading about that has such places. (In fact in California, you don't even get basements -- at any price. Even our malls hover 10 feet about ground level.) (Maybe it's so we can look down at the rest of you? But whose laughing now, right? At least you guys have somewhere to go during your hurricanes and tornados. For earthquakes we all bite our nails and congregate at the local SmoothieKing!)

Well we went shopping last week---and the city in which we are looking has a lot of fixer uppers in our price range. In fact I'm just thrilled when the houses we look at have 2 to 3 of their exterior walls intact, and electric versus candle light. (At one house I saw this cute little family of rats runnin' the wheel just as hard and fast as their little bodies could, to keep that power going!)

I mean, we must be looking at the bottom of the real estate barrel, -I'll tell you that much.

One place had two bedrooms (that was if you decided to keep the curtain in room-divider position) and one bath (that was, if you didn't mind bathing in the sink). And it had it's own kitchen! (That was if you were a wiz with the hot plate and toaster oven).

I take umbrage with the fact that I've never had new carpet in my life, and my 10 year old car doesn't believe in brakes or FM radio, (if the steering pulls anymore to the left I'll be in my right mind) ---and yet a new house would get all the 'my' house and car money.
Buuuut, it'll be the price we'll have to pay if we want to become Ma and Pa real estate.

One house actually didn't look too bad cosmetically - which made us wonder what was brewing underneath. If only my husband owned an old work shirt, he could crawl around and check it out a bit. Oh Wait! I Forgot! He Does!! 32, Do-Not-Touch work shirts, 8 pants, and 6 old pairs of hole'y shoes. One pair with Power Ranger heads that light-up, belonged to our son -- though it's irrelevant that they don't fit my husband. They're Good Shoes!

Upon finding out the plumbing in this looker of a house would work just as well if we stuck a straw under the front yard and blew water through our mouths to the showers -- we passed on it.

Listen, it's not easy investment shopping. I suggested we invest in the GoldDigger 5000 motorhome instead - you know, for making more memories in -- but with no response from my hubby. Though he would, I reminded him, be able to fit more work/camping shirts in it then any 'old house we might buy!
Yes, I suppose it's true, --the long term value would be better in a house that's not on wheels.

But what do I really know? I'm a consumer, not a professor.

( . . . For the record.)

Serves, Peaches, and Cream

2008-10-16T21:56:00.000-07:00

I don't even eat bowls of ice cream -- but I was feeling melancholy, and had on stretchy pants.

Some friends of ours gave us a huge box of delicious peaches straight from the farm. They picked them up driving through Littlerock, and I was thinking how the church used to have a peach farm there. The farm has since been closed (too bad).
--But anyhow, since I'd already had my dinner, there were peaches getting soft, and someone had told me they're delicious cut up over ice cream . . I was about to party.

Really, -- am only having this bowl of peaches and ice cream in Honor of the churches welfare system. Am deep in thought pondering charitable acts of service I may one day offer when phone rings. It's Brother M from the ward. Another ward's co-ed adult volleyball team didn't show to their game tonight, --and would my husband and I be able to run down and play?

I hadn't prepped myself for this. I know pathetic, right? How does one prep for a little semi- senior citizen volleyball? Well for starters you don't eat peaches and cream while watching HGTV. (Jeez. Just saying the words peaches and cream, and HGTV, coaxs a grin.)

Of course, hubby is up for some game time. He's a stick figure with the energy of a blender, --and under the mistaken illusion these volleyball games feel just like the old days. Not so. Let me tell you something about our volleyball games. 'Old' is one word that comes to mind, yes. But then probably 'daze' --more then days.

-Before the game, --forget sportsmanship. We should
be praying deodorant and support garments hang in there.
-No one swears but there is a lot of grunting from the men
and high-pitched apologizes from the women.
-Whenever the ball goes over the net there's a hush in the
audience like they've just witnessed a rare Olympic dive.
-Most of us women--when the ball is heading for us--look
like we go through the entire sign-language alphabet before
deciding on a position for our hands.
-Our team's ball goes into the net more than Bishopric
members nap during sacrament.
-Three of us wear sweatpants so big, laid out they could double for the court lines.
-It's humiliating when the nursery kids behind the baby gate, laugh at us.
-In our game 'ace' refers to being able to return the ball without injury.

-In a sea of eyeglass wearers - it's still a shock how
fast the ball comes to being in front of you.
-We all have to carpool home in the same mini van because
our kids have our cars, our gas cards, and our twenty dollar bills.

-After the game no one wants to go for root beer, --only Advil.

-Somebodies husband keeps wearing his ninth grade "lucky" shorts to our games. (not saying who's husband - but
let's just say I happen to know very well, his poor wife has tried to
hide those shorts, like, a million times.)

Some might counter, it's not in the Winning - but how you Play the game?

Uh, yeah. Be a peach will ya? -and let's not bring it up again.

Back to Nature and Back

2008-10-13T21:35:00.000-07:00

Went a campin' this weekend!
What fun, eh?

Well, sometimes. Sometimes fun, sometimes just a count down to a hand washing.

Okay I'm not a complete spoiled sport. First of all I did my time tent camping and bush potty'ing years past. And I learned a valuable lesson from it. I gotta have running water and a toilet everywhere I go in this life (and in the next). (It's how I'll know I'm in Heaven.)

I'm not sure about in other states and all, but in Cali the one with the biggest motorhome and most attached awnings wins.

Grateful for it, --but our motorhome is like the booby prize of motorhomes. Every once in a while during pre-trip prep I will hear my husband mumble things like "I hope that part doesn't blow-up on us" or "this leak might get into the back mattress" or "that sewer line is the thinnest dang sewer line I've ever seen". Now I don't make a big deal out of it because bottom line, the motorhome doesn't come with us, my primitive indoor plumbing doesn't either - and I'm willing to risk leaks, blow-ups or a little camper fire for that.

I've done my part too, trying to cute it up with patio lights and such, --but my husband warns me plugging them in our outlet, might deliver an electrocution. (It's either that - or he just doesn't want Debbie Mumm Daisy Lites hanging around his man-time. Whatever.)

Also, space is cramped in our home away from home. When the boys were little they used to sleep together on the top bunk, like a litter of cute puppies, all intertwined and at peace. Now it's like a cruel chapter from Alice in Wonderland as they spread themselves masculinely and heavily across tables, floors, window ledges, counters, and faucets to sleep at night.

We camp a lot with my high school girlfriend and her family, and that's one of the saving graces to our trips --
Because their motorhome is freakin' Awesome! . .
it has push-outs, flat screens, spa tub, queen bed, food pantry, and a Cuisinart.

(Oh, and we really enjoy their company.)

With our motorhome you can hear us coming for fifteen minutes before we arrive. It has avocado appliances, a staunch supply of baby wipes, and swell walkie-talkies. --And my toilet, of course.
I admit one appears very ungrateful when they get to the point of coveting other peoples toilets - but her's is a glistening globe of porcelain paradise! . . mine a fairly functioning bucket with foot pump. Plus when you sit on it, the whole camper leans.

Each night after a long day of fun and games, a lengthy line of hairy, grubby, roast-beast smelling band of man and young men (all mine, --but that doesn't mean I want to sleep in the same space with them) line up to enter at the camper screen door. By this time in the evening I have swept it out three times, founded a pile of dirty clothes the size of Mars, and disinfected anything that doesn't move, twice. A terrible mean streak comes over me and I suggest in my sweetest mommy voice from the clean side of the screen "wouldn't it be fun if you guys all slept in the real outdoors tonight??"

It never works but I never cease trying. That whole bit about us women being natural nurturers really only applies to certain situations.

And while for this trip we were at the beach --which truly, is so lovely--thank goodness we had one of the front row spots where you can look out at the coastline instead of the six-hundred people in sites, packed in behind you tighter than pubescent girls at a Hannah Montana concert. I don't know what it is with Los Angelinos and this fantasy that we can ever 'get away from it all'.

But now that I ponder on it a bit more -- I'm pretty sure a good upgrade on our ol' tent-on-wheels might be the ticket just the same. If we can't get away from it all --- maybe a simple in the motorhome arms-length distance from each other would feel just as good. I'll keep you posted on any changes in this department.

The Psychology of Blogging

2008-10-08T00:00:00.001-07:00

I have a few insecurities.

I know, I know - You find that hard to believe from a opinionated but anonymous complainer like me, for example, too chicken to leave her real name or address, and obsessed over her site pic -- but it's true.

So imagine my pain when a friend mentioned reading one of my blogs, agreeing with it, but then deciding not to leave the comment 'good one!' (--apparently the temptation to comment 'you're brilliant! and sooo funny. I wish more people were like you!' did not exist. -- but I'm not going to second guess it. No.) (No. Don't be silly.)

(Am ready to quit the blogging business, get my overdue chin-lift, and sew oven mitts in a closet.)

Well anyway, since my conversation with her I feel it imperative I say -- that actually, yes, I need positive feedback. I need it like fleas need dogs. Yes, to leaving nice comments. Goody for compliments. If you can't say anything nice - don't say anything at all.
. . . . . Well alright, truth be told, anything commented will do. -- I mean I suppose either way I am getting attention, right? And isn't that what it's all about?

As I think about it more, even if someone were to leave the post 'that was a bad read' -- I could still make it work for my ego. I would first, mentally block out the rejection and judgment - and second, become like a comment hacker, you know? Hacking into the negative comments and playing around with them 'til they came out leaving me less self-loathing. I could play around with the word 'bad' for instance, like a tatoo artist does . . . and change it into a beautiful twirly flower, or a new word altogether, like, baa . . boodylicious. Or something.

Okay. What I'm trying to say, is I don't really care. Read my blogs, or don't. Comment, or don't. Love me or Hate me -- it doesn't matter.

Strike that. It does matter.
Love me, love me.

Forget that. It doesn't matter.

**she says, blinking a twitch kind of blinking**

One Man's Junk is Another Man's Hearth

2008-10-07T23:46:00.000-07:00

Okay - that is Enough!

(I am only bold in my reprimand mind you, as we are not actually standing face to face. I perform all my best tyrants this way. Something I'm sure you have noticed by now.)

The mantels of America are a disgrace, and I can't take it anymore!

I recently came home with a clearance'd book on decorating. The premise of the book was how to re-decorate with what you already have, and thereby creating an affordable makeover. A bit of home therapy, if you will. All well and good - until page after page after page I had to see, what this decorator had to see, ---Mantels-Gone-Wrong.

"Every time I'm in this room, it feels sad to me," said one oblivious homeowner.

"We haven't an idea how to make (the room) any better," said another.

"I love my home, but nothing seems right," said nutty professor number three.

'Uhh, why don't you try removing the line of thirty-two Happy Meal toys from your mantel top!' I wanted to scream at the pages.

While I at least give these men and women credit for feeling 'something' was askew in their living spaces, --I at the same time felt like boppin' them on their little printed page heads for allowing such monstrosities of mantel and fireplace decor to co-exist with their apparently existing IQ's. What in the world is so hard about not leaving every life memento and awarded fast food 'treasure' strewn across ones mantel? I understand how this sort of stuff ends up bouncing around in the back seat of your car a week or two too long -- but then to actually carry them into your house and decorate with them? Pleaaasse! I may not always know my Monet from my Warhol, but I do know what a mantel should look like. Just close your eyes and think Pottery Barn or Martha Stewart. How hard can it be?

I ask you, --if you had a tractor in the living room, wouldn't you feel it needed to go? If a meteorite burst through your ceiling - would some clean-up be in order? If fairies came in the night and laid bright inflatable pool toys on your couch, might they strike you as ill-placed? So why doesn't a knick-knack parade of free plastic vases, pig-themed votives, eighteen sets of candlesticks, change jars, dusty red-silk roses, and birthday cards from the entire last decade--placed across the mantel--strike the average American as all wrong??!!

One may think I am making too big a deal out of this, but no, --I disagree. I have seen it for far too long, and in too many homes to remain quiet. This is not rocket-science, and I refuse to believe we can't all do just a little bit better than we have been doing. If everybody within the sound of my voice would take just one souvenir Slurpee cup or superhero collectible from off their living room mantel, the world would be a much saner place.

And I a much saner discount book reader.

Crossroads

2008-10-03T23:28:00.000-07:00

Come on, I'm not the road rage kind of girl. But I am the kind to call a spade a spade.

--and some drivers get on my nerves. Now is that such a bad thing to say? Haven't we all at some time or another counted ourselves as the driver unlike the other drivers, that get on our nerves? Alright, you won't admit it - but I will, and while we are on the subject --- here's a couple 'getting-on-my-nerves' scenarios for you:

1. At stop signs we all take turns. Turns aren't only for the one with the biggest car or capable of the least amount of eye contact.

2. When the green left turn arrow goes dark, but your overall traffic light is still green -- please enter into the intersection while you wait your turn. From behind you I don't want to 'almost' make the light. 'Almost' only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and I've got places to go and people to see.

(Solved by a good honk, you say?
Can't.
I don't like confrontations. Plus I want everyone to like me.)

3. The more bumper stickers on your car the less sense in your head. I know this one isn't going to go over well with some folk -- but still, it's a scientific fact. If you have more bumper stickers on your car than eggs in your fridge--you have crossed a mental health line.

4. When I have to go potty and need to get home, do not test drive your energy efficient puff-puff cars in front of me. One of these days I will literally explode -- and will have your memorized license plate to report to the poor handsome paramedic that is called to clean up my accident mess. Everyone involved is going to be humiliated.

5. If your radio is so loud the metal of your car door protrudes with the force of each drum beat -- I don't want to share the road with you. I used to want to share the road with you, --and date you, -- but that was in my twenties and I'm much better now.

6. I love a diet soda as much as the next girl, but not in cups the size of space shuttles - and watching you try and drink from them constitutes a coronary for me.

7. I wasn't born yesterday. I'm perfectly aware my car looks like mother gooses'. (Please, feel free to start a charity for me.)
Someday I will be rockin' the streets in a smaller car, but for now I drive like I sit . . . Wide.

8. Picking up our children from school should be illegal. I know stuff is serious in Afghanistan, -but has the government really looked into what is going on in school parking lots? Serious warfare. Serious sin.
This could all be fixed, except for in a teens mind the term 'walk-home' is akin to 'skinned-alive'.
(---Just for the record, I have driven my children to somewhere (including today) a grand total of one billion, six million, four hundred thousand, one hundred and twenty-nine times.)

And so, who is it that coined the phrase Highway To Heaven?
I'd like a word with them.

What's In A Word?

2008-10-02T00:21:00.001-07:00

Oh my gosh! How fun is it to pick out a name for your 'own' blog site, right??!!

No Fun At All!
That's how much fun it is.

There are like sooo many cute words out there, and everybody else has already snapped up like, every clever title there could ever be! I mean, there are like a million trillion, mczillion words to pick from, right? But they are all being used, I swear! s-w-e-a-r! And how come everyone else gets to have all the way cute titles, for eternity? Shouldn't we, need to share or something? Like, couldn't we maybe like take turns, you'd think? WWJD?

I would have loved to use words like daisy, birdy, bloom, condescending, sunny, and tender in my title. Or rosy, sing, home, idle-talk junkie, meadow, faithful, or love. But nothing . . and I mean nothing seemed to come together. Whatever I did think of was either already taken, -- or was pretty lame, let me tell you. Just look at a few of the titles I decided against:

www. longtiredroadtobedtime
www. mormondamselindistress
www. youcantakethegirloutofjuniorhighbutyou
can'ttakethejuniorhighoutofthegirl
www. hesaidshesaid_Itoldyouthatalreadydon'tyoulisten
www. mycupsizerunnethoverandsodoesmytummy

I mean - come on, right??

Finally, finally - I came up with www.APrettyFunnyBliss.blogspot.com --and then what happens the very next thing?? The computer tells me somebody else already has that blogspot title too!!

Twenty minutes and one 5th grade neighbor later -- I gratefully learn it is only 'me' who is the somebody else. Why don't these computers come with an instruction manual, you know? . . . Well, I mean, I suppose they do. . . But who's going to look at those? . . . You'd have to be an idiot!

I guess the point of the whole matter is --- don't get your own blogspot now. Don't even try, I'm telling you. There is nothing left out there. Nothing.

I'm just going to have to try and do the best I can, -- for all of us. I know there's a lot on our minds - but I'm up to the task. You don't know 'a lot on your mind' 'til you've seen what's weighing on me. And, --if you really, really just feel like you have to say something somewhere (and since I have the last blog title in the whole universe of any real relevance or cuteness) - I guess you could comment here.

But keep it brief. This isn't your site.

Scrap Blogging

2008-10-01T20:18:00.000-07:00

Well, it turns out I'm not the only blogger in existence. Which I guess I already knew . . but there are a few others. In fact I think the number is somewhere equal to grains of sand at the beach.

No big'y.
(And me lost in the shuffle? Nothing I'm not used to, --I assure you.)

It seems however some are offended by blogs. I don't mean in the same fashion as one is offended by say, a racists or a cupcake hog, . . --- it's just some get a little grossed out by all the picture perfect 'Christmas-card' family stories to be read on blogs.

My girlfriend (*very excited here that so soon into my blogging I can already squeeze in a line alluding to the fact that yes, I have friends*) frankly,cannot stand them. I guess to her it feels like the same mommy-trend that hit hard about eight years ago when scrapbooking overtook even Oprah in social status.

I must say I'm with her on the scrapbooking thing. If I'm going to spend that much time around my pictures there better be modeling involved or a large check. And how long can a grown woman play with crafting scissors and stickers, anyway? I know someday our generation will be the pioneers of the Provo Craft era, but don't count me in. Any hobby that necessitates using the word 'cute' twenty-six times in a thirty minute spell, is the epitome of wrong--and you know it.

But, whatever . . And to each his own.

I can only pray though there is not a scrapbook in existence that was paid for by the missing of a Project Runway episode.

Don't hate the messenger.

Have You Left Me Speechless?

2008-09-30T12:11:00.000-07:00

Me getting gas:

BEEP (spoken so articulately).

"Oh yes," I respond. "Let me just get my card out right . . " ---BEEP.

"What? Oh. Oh, no thank you, you know - I might get a car wash next time - It's just that --" BEEP.

"Excuse me? Ahhh, sometimes I get to blabbing away . . you know! --But no, that's going to be all. I mean, I was thinking one of these days I might want to---" BEEP.

"Ooop, right again! Time to put the gas in. I know you're only trying to ---" BEEP.

"My card? Oh yes, my card (fumble, fumble) . . don't get mad now. I know it's here somewhere . . . No? You can't use that one? But it's always been--" BEEP, BEEP!

"Yep, my bad -- but if you'd just slow down for one second. My husband really wants me to use the account that--" BEEP.

"Okay. It's more than you want to know. I understand. I must be just burning your time up, right? And you're so important? You know I try to be nice,. You never give anything back. Never! . . . I'm only wondering, --has anyone ever just hauled off and gave you a--" GOOD-BYE!

Oh really? Like you're the only inanimate object in my life? I'm not so desperate you know.

"Come on," I say to my car. "We're leaving!"

At home I ask my mixer, "Please, just one more time. I know this is a big batch for you."
My toilet, "Stop running night and day! --There are people in China who have no water at all, you know."
Lawn mower, "You're not getting another nickel out of us."
Ice cream, "Yeah you're calling my name - but no ones listening, are they?!"
Chair, "You're my sweet little friend, you know that?"
Telephone, "You could try ringing when my hands aren't full of groceries. Ever think of that?!"
Dishwasher, "Oh what? We're not paying you enough? You don't even have a brain!"

"Who are you talking to?" My fourteen year old asks, when he walks in from school.

"Stop-it!" I say, to the washing machine behind me. "What do you mean?" I answer.

"Nevermind," he says, and walks away.

Stumped again. Am I supposed to read my kids minds, I wonder? Why can't he and I talk? Visit for a little while? We might learn something new about each other. And besides, frankly, I don't think these guys have a clue what it is I do all day.

I turn and whisper to the washing machine, "Well, maybe that's for the better. . . Don't you think?"

Moon River (sort of)

2008-09-29T21:25:00.000-07:00

Joy of all joys I got to go the doctor's this morning. And even better, it was the kind of appointment where only girls need to go . . if you get my drift. (That's right, where the sun don't shine.)
(Well, at least not since my honeymoon.)

It's always hard for me to pick out my favorite part at these appointments. Is it the outfits (sheets), nakedness? The temperature? The bill? The wait?

Let's start with the temperature. I've never wanted to be a carp (unicorn--a different story), --but cold-blooded would not be such a bad state of alive to be in when buck naked across wrapping paper tissued vinyl gurneys in arctic rooms.

And docs are best at making their appearance after giving you a healthy twenty-five minutes of feeling good and vulnerable. I guess they figure by than your lips are too blue to form the words "Yicks!" or "Jiminy Crickets!" when cold metal devices are used. I can hardly understand a word the doctor says either, --but maybe it's because I am too distracted by the fact that I can see his breath when he speaks.

As I stiffly--from the hypothermia setting in--turn my head to plea to the fellow female in the room---you know, the one who always wanted to be a nurse since she was a little girl, so she could help others---I see there will be no eye contact for us. I decide that could be either from the fact that she was the one who just had to weigh me, and is still feeling the shock of her life, --or she is bothered from the sight of the pirates hat I fashioned from extra paper sheets in an effort to keep the body heat from escaping through my head. Either way I can tell we are no more buddies.

What is it about women that make us turn on each other? I feel like Mister Fancy-Pants McTouches-A-Lot might never leave, but my gal-pal? It seems like she can't wait to leave. She and the other nurses must be late for a leeching.

I guess I know where all my stress could be coming from. I still can't figure out why they would need my first born to cover the bill. If we had the money we'd give it to them for pete's sake. We're still trying to catch up from the sports physical my youngest had last month so he can play school badminton.

It's sure not our parents world anymore, I'll tell ya. Was a time I know a doctor would come by just because of a phone call put in!

I'm feeling more than a little guilty though. I told my six year old niece I had been horseback riding all day when she asked what was wrong with my gait. Let the little bugger find out for herself. Heck, these kids get ipods growing up. All we had were Pick-Up-Sticks and blades of grass to play with.

Sicko

2008-09-26T21:32:00.000-07:00

So, I wasn't feeling good yesterday. Actually I was really sick with the stomach flu. I'm better today, thanks, but that doesn't mean I look better.

It's four o'clock in the afternoon and I have only to now notice the shirt I've worn all day is inside out and stained with Big Mac special sauce. Something it figures, I would not discover until after the public has gotten a good look at me.

I managed to brush my teeth this morning (for the sake of me as much as anyone else) --but it would seem that was all the beautifying I could muster.

Looking in the mirror (for the first time) I see my hair--which I thought was wrapped in a hair clip--actually is pulled back with the help of a plastic bread bag tie. I can't see my reflection too well though because all the light in the room is being sucked into the hole of my dark circles. I did try to put on lip gloss today but only succeeded in highlighting a genetically unfortunate mustache across my upper lip. The pushing bulge against my elastic waist sweatpants with the words 'Good Girl' across the bum, proves the 2 lbs. I lost to the toilet bowl have doubled back with a vengeance. (I don't know about yours, but my body is very thoughtful that way. . never one to starve itself.) I hang my head finally, only to see I have mismatched flip-flops on, --which wouldn't be so awful except one is mine and the other belongs to my size 14-feet son.

Certainly the toilet paper sticking out the back of my pants won me no fans.

If only sick days meant TV and honey toast all day like they did when I was a kid. I could have used a sick-note as well, pinned to my shirt as I went about my business in the community. "Please excuse Sharon" would have been all it needed to say, being rather self-explanatory.

Imagine! Here I was wondering why my dog barked 'Intruder!' every time I entered the room. And even when I'd get her to believe it was me, 'Mommy' -- she'd still growl with disgust and commence at licking clean everything she owns. I guess some sort of passive-aggressive doggy-talk, in response to my poor grooming.

My husband I am sure will be kind enough though to not blurt out in horror when he see's me - but believe me that only comes from lots of practice. He's had to suffer through the baby years, the muffin addiction years, the primary president years, and the Paula Abdul look-a-like years (those were accidentally by the way).

Oh my yes, I'd say. It takes years and years of practice for a good man to learn such reassuring phrases as "you don't look that bad, hon."

Listen, --I count my blessings anyway I can get'em.

Glamour Puss

2008-09-26T17:01:00.000-07:00

I've been married years and years, and have one professional family portrait to show for it. Professional that is, --if you call professional having a picture taken in the garage of my husband's high school buddy who does some wedding photography . . but I don't care. At least he had the computer contraptions and programs that allowed him to paint over my face until I was barely recognizable, and under a fog of goddess skin.

(Yet somehow, I'm sure you can see my poorly tweezed eyebrow from space.)

So anyways, I'm getting a lot of grief over my glam shot. And in case you aren't sure that is my husband's gray clad shoulder still in the frame -- not my football pads. (I didn't wear them for this pic.) (Only to ward potluck dinners, and when my kid is driving.)

I will tell you it was my husband who made me use the photo. I had this wonderful picture of me, reflected off the bathroom mirror, back arched like a gymnast, with a slammin' good-hair day that would make Shania Twain jealous. Unfortunately in that position my chest looked the size of hot air balloons -- and as I had my tech (husband) crop and crop them out - I was slowly turning into a neck with pimpled chin.

Hubby forced the glam shot on us all. (Maybe he likes it because there is a piece of him in it. I gotta tell you, his opinions seem to be getting way too involved in my girl time. I actually overheard him say to my friend the other night before handing over the phone "isn't this something you could take care of on the blogspot comments?")

You know it's not unusual that I give him an inch and he takes the whole ship by the helm. Last week at back-to-school for the kids, he kept insisting I clench a rose in my teeth for a picture by the hall drinking fountain. "A little something for the Site," he tells me. He's fancy'ing himself way too much the blog stylist now, and confidant.

This from a man who's own back-to-school attire consisted of an In-N-Out Burger T-shirt and cub scout pants.

I guess when all is said and done, I'm just going to stick with my current photo. It helps with my 'allure'. The only photo I have that's more 'alluring' has something to do with a bathing suit, and me bending over. Oh yeah. It's fascinating all right.

But you'll never know.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way to Bliss

2008-09-25T18:47:00.000-07:00

Smack in the middle of my wedded days and over the first humps of blessed child-rearing, one might ask, how's the road to bliss going?

Oh you know. There's been the usual stuff like we all experience.

Broken bones, broken furniture, broken eardrums, broken windows with two-story drops, and broken other-peoples-four-tier-wedding cakes (boys? really? ya-think?); spilled milk, punch, car oil, secrets, and kitty vomit (as it was, I'm not sure why that one needed to be carried around for 3 days in a football helmet); tears for fears, TV, candy, PlayStation, show, sports, homework, and toilet bowl cleaning because I-said-so-and-that's-what-you-are-going-to-do-and-I-don't-care-if-we-never-have-company-this-time-we-are-and-no-they-can't-just-use-the-yard-because-Dad-says-that-saves-money.

Maternal hormonal mood swing-eating binges-carpet ripping'up'ing-crank phone call making-purse shopping-wall painting-hair dying-and contortionist face making;

Taco Bell date nights, 'affordable' vacations (dirt, cliff-side camping), weight gain, "lets-not-exchange-gifts-this-year-because-who-needs-presents-when-you-have-a-love-like-ours" holidays, bald patches, and fashions from the 70's wearing, when he isn't going to a 70's theme party but says it's fine because like everyone knows fashion is a 'state-of-mind'; lovers-spats . . scuffles, scraps, skirmishes . . kick-boxing, fencing, jousts, --and ninja star-throwing. (Well, that last one there, -done just for kicks.)

So, clearly we know how to have a good time, right? But bliss? Them there is strong aspirations, sister. I mean sure, we've had our moments -- but a funny thing about bliss, --it's as hard to keep down as a 2 liter of cherry 7up and dozen chocolate cake donuts. Yet just like that (hypothetical) example- I'm still more than willing to keep trying.

And no, that doesn't make me a genius.

It's Official

2008-09-25T18:35:00.000-07:00

It's official. I'm a blogger. Though I didn't actually figure that out until recently.

I used to think I was just a pale skinned, fairly opinionated housewife. Now I see that what I've really been doing is blogging all along, ---just without all this fancy 'technical' part. But other than that, well, basically, --for a long time I've been blogging the ears off people.

I've blogged in the store, I've blogged at Enrichment, I've blogged at my doctor's office, at bar mitzvahs, family get-togethers, and pedicures. To say nothing of the blogging that goes on in my head. I've even blogged in the tub. (Don't ask, --but it had something to do with waxing and having had four kids.)

The point is, all this blog work and what has it gotten me? A bored husband? Embarrassed children??
Friends--so to speak--who can't even send a Christmas card anymore for heaven's sake???

I'm just saying I think it's time I put thought to paper instead . . or cyberspace as the case may be. Not everything I have to say is worthless, anyhow. Really, I'm a very nice lady (ask my therapist) who just has a few thoughts to share (read: decree).

Now, what can go wrong?

--You'll be the judge of that.