Who let me be a mother?

The Return

2010-11-05T07:23:00.000-07:00

I just realized that it has been almost an entire year since I last wrote. I'd like to say that I was doing something fabulous like touring the world ala Eat, Pray, Love. But in reality, I was struggling through life ala Kids, Dirt, Chaos.

So much has happened, and I have so many stories to tell. I am sorry to keep you all hanging for so long. My only excuse is that I was blatently unmotivated. (Or pathetically lazy.)

I promise to make up for it with many crazy tales from the World of Jenn. I've got some doozies. Naturally.

So, sit back, grab a bottle of booze and your reading glasses, and get ready for a glimpse into my crazy, crazy, world.

I've missed you all.

Love,
me

National Lampoon's Christmas

2009-12-06T06:33:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure I married Clark Griswald.

Every year, on Black Friday, when I am out shopping all the fabulous door-busters, my dear hubby is busy hanging Christmas lights from every orifice of our house.

This year, he started early. By mid-November, he had strung over 10,000 lights from every tree, branch, gutter, shingle, and deck post.

This isn't something he takes lightly. There are charts, maps, blueprints, and electrical grids involved. He actually starts plotting his course of action in the summer so that come winter he is fully prepared.

We have Polar Bear Ski Lodge, Snow-man Alley, Penguin Playland, Grazing Deer Acres, Santa's Workshop, The Polar Express Train, and enough sparkly tress to rival the Redwood Forest.

This year, he has outdone himself. He has set the lights to music. Yes folks, if you drive by our house and tune your am radio to 95.5, you will get an explosion of lights and music that rivals the Christmas Show at Rockefeller Center.

My favorite has to be Carol of the Bells. It is a fast-paced song that makes the lights go all strobe-ey, and the kids sing along with "Give-A-Give-A-Give-A-Garmin."

And Proud Paco watches with awe.

The truly funny part is that we live in the country. Our only neighbors are relatives. I think there are a total of 12 houses on our road and we are all about a 1/4 mile apart. And the neighbors that we aren't related to are mostly free-range hippies that complain about our carbon footprint. (If they could only see the smoke and sparks coming from our electric meter! oy.)

But that doesn't stop Paco. He plots, plans, and shops the after-Christmas sales to add to his ever-growing project. He is like a kid again. And his excitement and enthusiasm are truly contagious.

I invite you all to drive out and take a look. Feel free to stop in for Hot Cocoa and Hot-Toddies. We would love to have you. And if you can't make it, never fear... we are now visible from outer space.

Dicks and Wicks

2009-12-05T05:59:00.000-08:00

I recently attending a home-shopping party entitled "Dicks and Wicks." It was a joint party consisting of Party-lite Candles and Pure Romance products. (Um, I was only there for the candles.)

It was my first time ever attending a Pure Romance party and I wasn't quite sure what to expect. But, I was going with a fun crew of ladies so I knew it would be a good time.

We tried the lotions and perfumes, we put nipple cream on our lips with man-part shaped applicators, and we played games.

The first game we played was the Alphabet Game. It is a game where the letters of the alphabet are randomly mixed up on cards that the hostess will read out loud. The first person to yell out a romantic or sexy word starting with the letter will get the card. The person with the most cards at the end wins a prize.

The first letter was L and naturally someone yells "love." The next letter was T and someone yelled "touch." Then R. "Romance." And so on. We were 3/4's through the alphabet and I hadn't called out a single word. It wasn't until the letter Q that I was able to contribute.

There is only one word that starts with Q that is of a sexual nature, and it is not sexy. So, naturally, that is the word that comes LOUDLY flying out of my mouth. Of course the room was completely quiet. Everyone looked at me. The older ladies in the crowd look confused. The younger ladies gasped and a few giggled. One woman asked "what does that mean?" and thankfully the hostess called out another letter before I had to answer.

I slunk down in my chair and stayed quiet for the rest of the game. However, I did manage to leave with a large bag filled with, er, candles.

Somehow this story managed to become a topic of conversation during our Thanksgiving dinner. What is more traditional that sitting around the table as a family discussing Sex Toy parties and naughty Q words? (Thankfully the children were at the "kids table" in the next room.)

My mother sat at the head of the table with a quizzical look on her face. You could just tell she was racking her brain thinking of naughty Q words. Finally after several minutes, she couldn't take it anymore and insisted that I tell her the Q word.

I tried to quietly whisper the word to her. After all, it was Thanksgiving and I really didn't need to holler "Q#*%@" across the holiday table.

She still looked at me like a deer in headlights. "Is that even a word?" she says.

My brother practically choked and I thought my cousin was going to blow turkey out her nose.

"You don't know what Q#*%@ means?????"

Great. Naturally we had to explain this to my mother. So between second helpings of mashed potatoes and green beans we all managed to enlighten my mother to the meaning of the naughty Q word. I also managed to tease her that I bought her Christmas present at the party and it is called "Mr. Dependable." (I think she fainted for a few seconds after she called me a "huss-bag.")

I can only hope that Christmas dinner brings as much excitement.

Why Housework Is Bad For You

2009-12-05T04:41:00.001-08:00

Oh, irony. It's a bitch, isn't it?

If you have read my previous blogs, you may remember that there has been a bit of banter between myself and Paco regarding mopping. It is something that I just don't do. Our kitchen floor is 400 miles long and it is bright white. So by the time you get from one end to the other, it is already dirty again. So, I made the decision to boycott mopping altogether. (My next floor will be a lovely dirt shade.) Paco is a bit OCD, and at least twice a week he is on his hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. (I LOVE that man!!!)

What's even worse is that our entire downstairs is Pergo flooring that is a complete nightmare to mop. It shows every mop mark, so you have to dry it as you clean it. It is really quite a process. And, it covers over 1000 square feet. So, you are panting and sweating by the time you are done cleaning it. It is a workout and a half. I literally wait until the dirt is about a 1/4 inch thick before tackling it. (Or until we have company coming over. That usually motivates me. Can't let our friends think we live like heathens. *cough*cough)

So, needless to say, when I decided to surprise Paco and mop the downstairs floor, it was not without drama. I was 95% finished mopping when I slipped on a wet spot and landed with all my weight square on my bad knee cap.

Boy did I see stars. And rainbows. And unicorns. And naughty gnomes. Immediately my eyes filled with tears and all the wind was sucked from my lungs. The impact of my fall rattled the windows and shook the foundation. The kids thought a bomb went off and came running to see what happened.

They found me on the floor unable to speak. The pain was so bad it knocked the breath out of me. I didn't dare speak for fear of the expletives that would come flying out. I was in PAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ace panicked and called my mother. "Gram. Mom's hurt. It's an emergency. I'm not joking. She fell. Get help and get up here."

My dear mother was there within minutes. She too was panting and sweating. God bless her, her blood pressure must've been through the roof. But, she stayed with me, iced my knee, and got the kids calmed down.

I was finally able to catch my breath. It was at this point that I realized we had a downed NFL linebacker on the floor with only a 65 year old and some toddlers to help her up. This wasn't going to be pretty. It took 20 minutes, 2 chairs, 2 percocet, my mother and my sister-in-law, but we eventually got me up off the floor and on my feet.

And lo and behold, I was fine. Yep, my brilliant surgeon did such amazing work that it was able to withstand a major earthquake. Yes, I was sore and a bit bruised, but I was able to walk and move my knee perfectly. PHEW!!

When Paco came home an hour later, I was propped up on the couch with an icepack. I was still sweating and panting and I looked like I had just finished a triathalon.

The first words out of his mouth were "So, who did you hire to clean the house?"

Um, whatthefrickdidyousay????

I was speechless.

"The house looks great babe. Who did you get to come and clean it?"

I am not proud of how I reacted. But, I was still in severe pain and I was on painkillers. So, when my head started spinning, my eyes glowed red, and the words "I will stab you ASSFACE" came flying out of my mouth, I wasn't completely in control.

Ace started crying. Deuce ran to his room. And Paco asked yet again who cleaned the house.

"I did you ungrateful turd and I managed to practically kill myself in the process!"

OK. So, clearly I have tarnished my Mother-of-the-Year tiara. And my Wife-of-the-Year trophy might be up for grabs. But, seriously, can't a girl get a little credit?

I apologized to my kids for my crazy outburst and I gently explained to them that the chemicals in the mopping cleaner makes Mommy act all crazy, and that is why Daddy should always do the mopping because it doesn't bother him. (Their future wives will thank me some day.) Then I bombarded them with chocolate and soda and my Mother-of-the-Year tiara was placed firmly back on my head.

And let it be said that housework CAN in fact be bad for your health. (And your spouses if they do not choose their words wisely.)

Urban Legends

2009-12-04T09:48:00.000-08:00

I was much better prepared for day two with hunky Kevin. I was motivated enough to take a bath and put on some clean clothes. (Since I needed a crane - aka Paco -, some 2-in-1 oil and a spatula to get in and out if the tub, it took some serious motivation.) I even ran a brush through my hair and put on some make-up. I'm pretty sure that it looked like my 4 year old painted my face, but at least I felt (and smelled) a bit better.

By my third appointment I was on a roll. I was sporting both prom-hair and jewelry. By my fourth appointment I was calling him "Kev." I figured since he spent so much time fondling my leg that I could at least give him a pet name.

On my 5th appointment, Kev decided to unwrap my bandages and see how my scar was healing. After he finished unraveling the bandages, it was quite obvious that I hadn't shaved my knee since the surgery. There was a mohawk of white blonde hair sticking up around my scar. Kev gently brushed my scar and then looked up at me with his sparkly eyes and his dreamy smile and said "Well look at that! I thought blonde hair was a myth!"

I wasn't quite sure how to react because I knew that at that point he was envisioning whether or not the um, carpet matched the drapes. (If you know what I'm saying.) And the thought of him thinking of me that way made me turn 47 shades of red. I almost blurted out that due to a waxing incident I was actually sporting shiny hardwoods, but even with a healthy dose of percocet I managed to hold my tongue. Phew.

Needless to say, I am the star PT patient. I have made such incredible progress that my surgeon can't believe it. My Dr. informed me that I have made the best recovery of any patient he has EVER had. The fact that I am an overweight, twenty nine year old (cough*cough) mother of 3 totally blows his mind. I should've fessed up that I was working super hard to impress my hunky intern Kev, but instead I just basked in his glorious praise. (And, um, my husband was at my appointment with me.)

Sadly, Kev is on break now, so he hasn't been at my appointments. Needless to say, I am back to wearing shabby sweats and bed head. I'm saving myself . . .

Oh Therapy

2009-11-25T10:44:00.000-08:00

My surgery was on a Thursday, and I reported for my first Physical Therapy appointment the following Tuesday. To say it was a bit rough might be the understatement of the year.

Needless to say, I literally wobbled into my appointment. I was doped up on Percocet, wearing a brace that went from my woo-hoo to my ankle, and I was on crutches. The scene was very reminiscent of when you spin a little kid around and around and then set them down and watch them walk. Only a little kid is far more graceful than I was.

I’m sure I was a vision in my stained t-shirt and my yoga pants. Not only was I wearing the same clothes that I left the hospital in, but I had been wearing them for 6 days straight. So, I’m sure there was an element of um, smell, that factored into the equation as well.

My bandage was unraveling, and was dangling out of my pant leg.

I wasn’t wearing any make-up, and I’m pretty sure my hair hadn’t seen a brush in weeks. I vaguely remember brushing my teeth, but I can’t be certain.

Just imagine a blonde Frankenstein/mummy, and well, you get the picture.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from my therapy since I could barely touch my finger to my nose.

And I certainly didn’t expect KEVIN.

It was right out of a movie. My therapist Brian walked into the room, and behind him walked in one of the most glorious specimens of the human male that I have ever laid eyes upon. I swear when he entered the room everything started happening in slow motion. He was bathed in a golden spotlight and the faint sounds of “I died in your arms tonight” by the Cutting Crew could be heard in the background. The subtle smell of Drakkar and khakis filled the room. When he smiled at me, the glare from his pearly whites temporarily blinded me. I’m pretty sure I may have even stopped breathing for a few minutes.

“Hey Mrs. P, this is Kevin, he is interning here, and I was hoping you would let him follow your case. This would be his first post-op patient therapy, and I think it would be great experience for him. What do you think?” Brian says.

Silence.

“Um, Mrs. P? Can you hear me? Are you OK?”

I shake my head to clear the fog, and I subtly wipe the drool from my cheek while simultaneously lifting my chin from the table. “Um, sure, that would be fine” I manage to stutter.

“Great, let’s get you started!”

I spent the next 20 minutes having my leg fondled by KEVIN. It was DREEEEEEEEAMY.

I don’t remember much after that point. I’m not sure how I got home. (But, I know that I wasn’t driving. Phew.)

I really think I am going to enjoy my physical therapy after all . . .

And Now The Hard Part Begins

2009-10-08T08:02:00.000-07:00

"And now the hard part begins . . . "

Those were the wise parting words of the surgeon that performed my knee surgery. I now am the proud recipient of a new ACL, a new MCL, and a refurbished meniscus. It was quite the surgery, and there was more damage than originally thought. And, since I had a blood clot when I originally hurt my knee, I had the please of giving myself daily shots for the first three weeks following my surgery. My stomach looks like Oscar De La Hoya has been using it for a punching bag.

However, with the help of my friends, family, and lots of Percocet, am I doing very well. I am making remarkable progress. I have been busting butt with insane amounts of physical therapy and the motivation to walk normally. I had a Dr's appointment yesterday and my brilliant surgeon informed me that I am making better progress than anyone he has ever seen. (He even made reference to a Cornell Wrestler that had the same surgery, saying I am "putting him to shame.")

Naturally I came home excited to share the fabulous news with my dear hubby Paco. By no means have I ever been referred to as a model patient, so I was very eager to brag. After giving my dear hubby the Cliff Notes version of my appointment, I received the following response: "Well, if I sat around all day and did therapy than I would be ahead if the game too. What did he say about mopping?"

Bitter much?

"Well, he told me to avoid any housework for at least six months." (Take THAT you grumpy turd. My Dr. has got my back!)

I realize that I haven't been much of a household asset the last few weeks, but a little sympathy would be nice. Seriously, I just had MAJOR surgery. Most people in my position aren't even walking. My instructions were to rest, rest, and REST!

Thus, that is why I have not written in ages. I have been quite pathetic really. Too pathetic to even type. I have spent the last month on the couch watching really bad television and ready anything I can get my hands on. I am now an expert on The Atlanta Housewives (they drive me insane, but I always love a good train wreck.), Rachel Zoe (I die. I die.), Entourage, One Tree Hill, Californication (I would be Hank if I were a guy.), True Blood (weird, but addictive), The Vampire Diaries (hello, sexy vampires. Stefan, I swoon for you.), and GLEE, which is quite possibly the best-show-ever.

I plan on making it all up to you in the near future with many fabulous stories. I am finally motivated to move a bit, and I am feeling of the human variety again. Sadly, I have to wear a brace that extends from my ankle to my woo-woo, so my dreams of being an exotic dancer won't be happening any time soon. But, stay tuned, with me, you never know . . .

More Potty Talk

2009-08-27T18:14:00.000-07:00

My youngest son Trey always accompanies me in public restrooms. Even if Paco is around, Trey insists on going in with me.

Trey is an animated little guy, and he always has a lot to say. He loves to give play-by-play details on every situation.

This is an actual conversation that Trey and I had recently in a very crowded gas-station bathroom.

Trey: "Mom, I have skid marks and I can't erase them."

Me: "I am very disappointed that you have skid marks. You need to tell Mommy when you have to go potty."

Trey: "one time Dad had skid marks"

Me: "your Dad didn't have skid marks"

Trey: "Yes-Huh. I saw them. They smelled really bad."

Me: "Hurry up and get going so I can go to the potty."

Trey: "Are you going number one or number two?"

Me: "number one. hurry up."

a few minutes later . . .

Trey: "mom, why do you always put the papers on the toilet?"

Me: "it keeps the toilet seat clean so you don't get germs."

Trey: "why don't we have the papers at home?"

Me: "mommy cleans the toilet so that there aren't any germs."

Trey: "MOM!!!! You are going poop!!!!!! I can smell it!!!!!!"

Me: "ssshhhhhhhh" (courtesy flush)

Trey: "Ewwwwwwwww! It smells gross!"

Trey: "Your poop broke the paper!!! Now you are gonna get germs!!!!!"

I could hear the laughter from outside the stall. Needless to say I left with a VERY red face.

Eating Healthy Can Be Bad For Your Health. Seriously.

2009-08-27T17:11:00.000-07:00

In a desperate attempt to lose all the weight I have gained since I injured myself, I have rid my house of all processed foods and evil temptations and stocked it with only healthy and nutritious foods. (Well, I did keep the many bottles of wine because I'm sure I read somewhere that it is good for you.)

To start off my fabulous new healthy-eating lifestyle, I went to our local natural grocery store and spent over $100 on things like steel-cut oats, quinoa, organic wild rice, grapeseed oil, lentils, and tofu. (I know this sounds weird coming from me, but I promise that I will continue to shave my arm-pits and I will NEVER own a pair of Birkenstocks. Pinky swear.)

I was a bit concerned about my new diet as I have had past experiences with health food where I could have sworn that I was eating pine-bark and toenails. But, desperate times call for desperate measures and I felt that this was the way to go.

I started out my first day with a warm bowl of steel-cut oats with fresh strawberries and soymilk. This was very yummy and kept me full until lunchtime. My lunch consisted of lentil salad. Again, quite yummy. Dinner was a salad I concocted out of quinoa, tomatoes, basil, feta, garlic, and a balsalmic vinagrette. Once I got past the texture of the quinoa, the flavors were really quite wonderful. I went to bed feeling proud and satisfied. I was on my way to being the poster-child for good eating.

Day 2 I started my morning with another bowl of steel-cut oats with soymilk. I packed myself a healthy lunch of salad with herbed-tofu, and I headed out for a 9:00 meeting with a client.

As I started driving, I could hear my digestive tract kicking in as faint snap, crackle, and pops could be heard from my lower abdomen.

About half way to work, I felt a bit, um, gaseous, so I discreetly let a few butt-bombs in the privacy of my mini-van. After about 200 or so, I figured I was safe and I headed to my meeting.

My client arrived promptly at 9 and we sat across from one another on some modern leather chairs. (I figured if I um, accidentally let a little one slip, I would pretend that it was the leather chair squeaking.)

About 10 minutes into our meeting, I could feel some strange cramping in my bowels. Again, I could feel the snaps, crackles, and pops, only now they were beginning to register on the Richter Scale.

At this point, I am in excruciating pain. I am rocking side to side and my legs are twitching. I have my butt cheeks squeezed together so tightly that I am now starting to sweat. I am afraid to move an inch for fear that the gas I am holding in will erupt like Mt. Vesuvious.

Within 5 minutes my face is red, I am sweating profusely, and I am sitting in the chair half hunched over. My client is clearly concerned about my pain, and naturally assumes it is my knee.

"Oh, yes, my knee is killing me right now. Yes, my knee. I apologize. It, um, hasn't been this painful for a while. Can you excuse me for a few minutes? I just want to go to the bathroom and um, splash some water on my face."

I do a baby duck waddle to the bathroom. (I couldn't take a full step with my cheeks squeezed so tightly together.)

I finally make it to the potty and what happens next . . . well, I don't even dare tell you. All I can say is that it was a scene very reminiscent of the movie Dumb and Dumber where Lloyd is at some girl's mansion and proceeds to drop the loudest two-sie in history. (I could have provided the sound effects. It was that baaaaaaad.) I actually had to look into the toilet bowl because I was quite sure that my bowels had literally exploded. I was certain I would find an organ or two in there. Or some spare car parts.

Seriously, the effect was similar to steel wool and a power-washer. Not pretty. After about 10 minutes, I was finally able to remove myself from the throne.

Lucky for me, my bathroom is located in a small room off of our storeroom, so there are heavy doors providing privacy (and a bit of sound proofing). However, if my client didn't hear my little episode, I'm sure the fact that I reeked of Spring Meadows after being gone for 15 minutes was probably a dead giveaway. (I'm pretty sure I was waddling a bit bow-legged as well.)

Needless to say, my meeting ended shortly thereafter. I spent the rest of the day worshiping the porcelain god. (And I have since come to the conclusion that I will never buy anything less than two-ply TP ever again.)

I promptly bought myself an industrial-size bottle of Bean-O and I have have started eating an insane amount of cheese.

I am proud to proclaim that I have had a thorough power-cleaning from my rooter to my tooter. However, I have eased up a bit on the fiber, and try to limit it to once a day.

Who knew that eating healthy could be bad for your health?

The Grocery Getter

2009-08-05T10:33:00.001-07:00

I drive a mini-van. I feel like that should be the opening line to Mother's Anonymous. It has been 14 minutes and 12 seconds since I last drove my minivan.

It is the true and official symbol that my care-free days are over. I used to pick on people that drove mini-vans by saying things like "where is your Soccer Mom bumper sticker?" And naturally I had to stick my foot in my mouth the day one showed up in my driveway.

Not only do I drive a mini-van, but it is a dirty mini-van with 2 honkin' dents in it as well. And, I'm pretty sure if you look really closely under the driver's window you can see the faint markings of the words "pee" and "poop" forever etched in the paint.

I drive a mini van with the full knowledge that I am now in the ranks of Soccer Mom. And, that every time I open one of the doors, a bevy of children are expected to come pouring out. I get this.

That is why it never ceases to amaze me when men flirt with me while I am in my mini-van. Seriously, would you even want to flirt with a guy that attempts to hit on a woman in a mini-van?

Even my niece has told me that every time she drives my van someone flirts with her or tries to pick her up. So, at least I know it's not just me.

On my way in to work today, I was sitting at a stop light and I started swatting at a baby bee that was buzzing around my van. I had my hand up, and was waving it around trying to swat the bee. The guy in the red truck next to me thought I was waving at him, so he smiled and waved back. And, when I rolled down the window to shoo out the bee, he rolled his window down, thinking that I was ready to chat.

I should have been flattered. I wasn't.

Clearly I drive a mini-van because I have children. LOTS of children. More children than the average car can hold. I do not drive a mini-van for looks or for gas mileage. (They are both ugly and gas guzzlers.)

I can't really fault the guy. From his perspective, I was a blonde babe waving at him. (I was wearing sunglasses that cleverly conceal my wrinkles and my fat ass is not visible from the window. So, clearly my best view.) But, come on . . . the mini-van should have been a dead giveaway.

I was tempted to flirt back. And teach him a lesson. But then I remembered a story my GirlFriend told me recently about her four-wheeled flirting experience.

In a nutshell, my Hottie GirlFriend was in her SUV at a stop light and she was giving "the smile" to the cute 20-something guy in the big truck next to her. He smiled back and they played flirty-face for the next 3 stop lights. At the fourth stop light, my Hottie GirlFriend looked over and noticed that the cute 20-something in the truck was um, stroking his, er, gearshaft. (Yeah, I hope you get the picture here because that is all the details I am gonna give.) And, um, at the next stop light, she could tell that the um, er gearshaft had been freshly oiled. Yeah. True story.

So naturally, that's all I was thinking today when the guy in the truck next to me was trying to be amorous. What was my reaction? I yelled "Hey Scooter, can you have one of your 6 brothers hand me a fresh PBR and my ciggarettes" to the empty back seat.

He peeled out as soon as the light turned green. And I peed my pants laughing all the way to work.

Rockin' Robin

2009-07-21T17:41:00.000-07:00

Tweet Tweet, Tweetle leet.

I have lost my obsession with Facebook. I am now on to Twitter. I tweet.

Twitter is like a lazy Facebook. It is a site that gives you 140 characters to let people know what you are up to. It's like a status update play by play.

But, you can follow anyone. I follow some of my friends as well as people like Tina Fey, CNN Breaking News, David Letterman, P. Diddy and Chewbacca. It's really quite fun. You get a brief glimpse into their lives. I have certain updates sent right to my cell phone, so I get a daily play by play of what people are up to. And you can reply back and get instant feedback. It's really quite fun.

I find that I am much more honest on Twitter. On Facebook, I have tend to be more subdued since some of my friends are colleagues and students of my husband. But on Twitter, I find that anything goes.

I find that it is a way for me to sort of mini-blog about what is going on in my day. My Twitter name is JPwiczer. If I haven't blogged for a while, then check me out on Twitter and you will know what I have been up to.

I will share with you some of my recent tweets:

jpwiczer 23 days until Disney & three boys with strep. . .

jpwiczer thinks light up shoes are just weird.

jpwiczer is fascinated that the couple sitting across from me named their daughter Sparkle.

jpwiczer Sparkle is NOT happy.

jpwiczer wishing I was British so I could get away with saying things like "lit-ull" and "snog."

jpwiczer meeting with the Priest about the boys First Communion. Let's hope it doesn't end in a shouting match like last time.

jpwiczer escaped my meeting with no yelling. But I did pilfer a Reader's Digest. Hell for sure.

jpwiczer has killed two more houseplants. Apparently aquaglobes only work if you actually refill them.

That should give you a bit of insight into my life in the last few days. However, I will now share with you my latest tweet, which happens to be one of the best.

jpwiczer my mom stopped by and saw me tweeting and asked why I would want to "twat." I almost passed out from laughing so hard.

Happy "twatting" ya'll!

My Inner Hooker

2009-07-21T17:08:00.000-07:00

Today I had a meeting with the Priest at our church. Both Ace and Deuce were being interviewed to see if they are ready to take their First Communion. I was a bit nervous, to say the least.

The last time I met with this Priest, well, it didn't go so well. There was yelling, screaming, and accusations of being a "bad Catholic" in addition to accusations of being a "Priest who is as welcoming as gonorrhea." Yes, we all know that I will likely end up in hell (even though I regularly ask for forgiveness.) But, having a yelling match with the leader of our church is a surefire way to get the express train. (In my defense, this Priest was forced to take anger management classes. So, naturally, it wasn't all my fault.) However, I am probably one of the few people willing to take on a Priest in full on bout of mud-slinging. (And I'm not afraid to take on football coaches either, but I'll explain that in another post.)

My husband felt it best to accompany me today. All four of us entered the rectory and announced that we were here for our First Communion interviews. Sister Whitehair kindly looked at her schedule and then quickly looked right up at me and said "Oh, you are the so-and-so family. Yes, we have been expecting you." So, um, clearly she was aware of my last, um, meeting.

I promised my husband I would be on my best behavior. I dressed nicely, had the boys looking their best, and I even took a Xanax so I would lose my stabby rage that sometimes gets the best of me.

What I didn't expect was that my supercute front-closing bra would unhook itself the minute we stepped inside his office. Yes folks, only I could have my Girls Go Wild while I am trying to be on my best behavior for our PRIEST. And since my girls are such a prominent feature, the fact that they were on the loose is not something I could easily hide. While we were sitting, I was able to do the arm cross maneuver. But, when we had to get up to leave and shake hands, well, it wasn't pretty.

I tried to keep one arm across my chest while shaking hands with the other arm. However, this maneuver actually made me push my girlies right up into my neck. It was like they were caged animals trying to escape. Not the impression I was trying to make.

We shook hands, and I sighed in relief, thinking I was now in the clear. And that is when I noticed my crutches leaning by the door. Yes, braless Jen had to CRUTCH her way out of the Priest's office with her loosey goosies blowing in the wind. (The term "Shake-elies" as my son refers to them was extremely appropriate here.)

I will leave the rest to your imagination. The good news? The boys were both accepted as candidates for their First Communion. The bad news? I will now resort to duct tape for any future church meetings.

Dream Analysis

2009-07-21T05:15:00.000-07:00

I haven't had much sleep lately. But, what little I manage to get is interrupted by some VERY STRANGE dreams. I don't know quite what to make of them. So, I will share a few of them with you and ask for your intelligent insight. Clearly, I am sleep deprived.

In my first dream, I am shopping at Wegmans. Wegmans is very dimly lit, and I am having a hard time seeing. I am in a major hurry, and I am having a hard time shopping because they have moved everything around. My cart is heaping with all the stuff that I normally never buy (too expensive). Loaves of fresh bread, baked goods, fresh prepared meals, and gourmet goodies are literally heaped into the cart.

As I park the cart and start making salads from the dark salad bar, somebody from Wegmans takes my cart and restocks EVERYTHING. So, I'm in a hurry and now I have nothing.

I try to complain and they send me to a stinky wooden room all the way in the back of the store with a teenage girl with 200 facial piercings. She basically tells me that it's too bad and there is nothing they can do. I am SCREAMING. I am so mad.

I leave the store vowing never to shop there again and it's pouring outside.

Thoughts??? Anyone????

In my second dream I am living in a castle. I am a princess. (Go figure, right?) The castle is a big square, and I spend most of the day just running around the corridors. However, I have lots of secret hiding places.

I have a secret crush on a prince who also lives in the castle. (No, we are not related.) The prince is 18, and he has the lead in the castle play.

I am madly in love with this prince, and I am certain that we will be married someday.

As I am hiding in one of my secret hiding spots one day, I overhear that another Jennifer has gotten the lead femail role in the the castle play. A role that I really wanted. (Because they kiss at the end. Naturally.) I am devasted, and I go see my father the King. He kindly tells me that I am only 16, and you have to be 17 to be in the play. He rubs my head, gives me a kiss, and sends me on my way.

I decide to runaway. I use one of my secret passage ways to try to escape out of the castle. As I am running through the hidden passage, I run right into my secret crush, the prince. He wonders what I am doing in there. I try to pretend that I am just running around. He is really flirting with me, and I can tell that he really likes me. We hear footsteps so we quickly leave the passageway and go our seperate ways.

My father has put me in charge of helping with the play, and I am in the dressing room helping the other Jennifer get ready. She is pudgy, with red hair, and she is really mean to me. She knows that I like the prince, so she is really gloating. She tells me that they are promised to be married to each other.

Naturally I am crushed.

Sadly, I was awaken by a 4 year old that told me he needed to sleep in my bed because he had a bad dream and he needed to make my bed warm and snuggly. So, I have no idea where this dream was going.

Dream number 3 (my personal fave)

I am at my mom's house and I am hanging out with Tom Hanks. We are having a wonderful conversation.

I have to go to the bathroom and so Tom comes in with me so we can keep talking.

He sits on the crapper and proceeds to drop a twosie.

I really have to pee so I pull out a drawer on the vanity and pee in the drawer. I proceed to pee on all my mom's make-up, while still talking to Tom Hanks who is pooping on her toilet. Mind you, the bathroom is small and we are so close our knees are touching.

Analyze that.

Just When You Think It's Safe

2009-07-02T05:29:00.000-07:00

The official start of summer wouldn't be complete without a vomit story.

Wednesday night, the night of the LAST day of school, my son Ace walks out of his room around 11 pm gagging.

"Someone threw up in my bed! (gag, choke, gag)"

"Well, looking at the chunks on your jammies pal, my guess is that it was you."

"It wasn't me. (gag, gag, choke, gag) I was sleeping."

So, now I have a sleep-puker in addition to a talk-puker. Good times.

Thankfully Paco stripped the sheets and got him settled down. (This knee thing comes in very handy at times!)

What a way to start off the summer . . .

It Keeps Getting Better

2009-06-30T15:54:00.000-07:00

My water therapy is getting better by the minute. Now, my Mom and I are going together. She had her knee replaced a month ago, so now we are side-by-side swimming stars.

On our first day, I let Mom lead the way into the locker room. I knew what to expect, however, I failed to give her proper warning. As we were heading out to the pool she commented "What, is that some sort of nudist colony in there?"

"Well, Mom, you aint seen nothin' yet. When we get back you'll get to meet Hairy-ette and Muffy. They always put on a show for the new kids."

She giggled, as she thought I was kidding. However, on the car ride home, she had a lot to say. "Did you see that woman standing naked blow-drying her hair? Can you believe she didn't put some clothes on? She was bent over and her ladies were practically touching the floor!"

"Oh, that was Hairy-ette. She likes to put on a show. I think she's a nudist. I'm not quite sure yet. "

"And did you see that really big lady with the tatoo of the butterfly on her rear?"

"That was a rose tatoo."

"No, it was a butterfly, I'm sure."

"Mom, I swear, it is a rose. When she bends over, the skin straightens out, and it is definately a rose. I had a close-up view."

"Oh. . . is it always like that?"

"No. Muffy wasn't there today. Usually it's worse."

(Long pause) "I hope your brother get's his pool open soon."

The Start of Summer

2009-06-30T15:22:00.000-07:00

Woo hoo. Summer is here. Yippy skippy. That means that my three crazy children are now with me 100% of the time. It's super. Really. Really, REALLY SUPER.

We had a very exciting last week of school. My middle child, Deuce graduated from Kindergarten, and had a wonderful moving up ceremony at school. The morning of his ceremony I had him dressed and ready to head out the door and he informs me that he has a solo in the concert. Naturally, I had to hobble back inside the house and grab a shirt that didn't have milk spilled down the front so he could be somewhat presentable.

I had no idea that he had a solo (or that he could sing for that matter) so I sat anxiously on the bleachers waiting for my proud mom moment. Before the concert they handed out perfect attendance awards and lo and behold Deuce recieved an award for perfect attendance. Yes, I know, I sent my sick child to school. I am guilty. I don't think I ever did it on purpose. Honestly, Deuce is such a spontaneous sick person. There is no advance warning when he is going to be sick. I get a "Mom, I think I'm going to be -VOMIT- sick." (My Girlfriend was sitting next to me and ironically, her daughter had perfect attendance too. And, I can remember running into her at 9:30 one morning as we were both picking up puking kids. So, thankfully, I am not alone.) He was so proud of his award that he wouldn't set it down.

Well, Deuce's song finally came up and he took his place in front of the microphone. (Still clutching his Perfect Attendance Award for dear life.) His class began singing the words to "Old Man Tucker." He stood in front of the microphone, dead still, not blinking, not breathing, not moving. Just had his had on the microphone like he was a rockstar. I was beginning to think that he had choked when apparantly his solo came up. And with all his heart he belted out "Get out the way." "Get out the way." "Get out the way." I cried. He even had his knee tapping he was so in to it. (Deuce is my shy child. Well, the shyest of the three. But, they are spawn of Paco, so I guess it is in their blood. Nonetheless, I was completely blown away.)

I cried on and off all afternoon after that. I don't know if it was the overwhelming pride for my child or the realization that in a days time that all three would be home with me for the next 77 days. . .

The End of A Miracle

2009-06-25T05:25:00.000-07:00

People who assume water therapy is calm and serene have never attended one of my sessions. I have an amazing ability to stir things up and create a small amount of havoc.

Naturally, my last session was not without some drama.

Part of my therapy involves holding a small beachball between my knees and pedalling like I am riding a bike. I have to do this for 5 minutes. Naturally, I am completely bored after a minute or two. So, to spice things up a bit, I started doing some fancy Synchronized Swimming arm movements while I biked.

Just as I was starting to think that I was of Olympic caliber, my ball escaped from between my knees and rocketed up and out of the water. And, um, just happened to hit the lady next to me on the side of her head and knock her glasses off. (But seriously, WHO wears glasses in the pool??? Isn't that weird?) So, that quickly ended my water dancing.

However, as I was waving my arms in the air, Jed happened to notice that the underwire popped through the fabric on my Miraclesuit. I kinda freaked and screamed "WHAT THE FFFFFF??" to Jed. "This is the most money I've ever spent on a swimsuit and I've only had it 2 months!!!!"

I could see the look of relief on Jed's face as he realized that I wasn't yelling at him for gawking at my girlies. (My girls look FABULOUS in the pool by the way. They float ever so perfectly and look better than any 20 year-olds. Sadly, the effect is lost the minute I leave the water.)

Naturally, I spent the next 5 minutes trying to fix my suit and get the wire tucked back into the fabric. This process involved me rubbing my hand under my girl to move the wire over, as well as me lifting and tucking my girlie so that I could see what I was doing. (I was completely covered at all times. Promise)

I was so intent on fixing my suit that I failed to notice that Jed, Ed, and Fred were all watching me with great interest. I happened to glance up and Fred was in a near catatonic state, while Ed looked like he just won the Lotto.

Ooops, perhaps I should have waited until I got back to the Locker Room. Then I could've put on my show for Hairy-ette and Muffy.

I had no idea of the er, "effect" that my little girlie show could possibly have until it was time for the class to end, and um, Jed couldn't get out of the water. He needed a "few more minutes to relax in the water."

Sorry 'bout that pal. It's good to know that not every male needs the little blue pills in the golden years.

Naturally I am DEVASTATED at the loss of my beloved Miraclesuit. However, after 14 frantic phone calls to Travelsmith, I will now be the owner of a NEW Miraclesuit.

And I will do my best to avoid anymore Girly shows in the future.

More tales from Water World

2009-06-24T16:49:00.001-07:00

Major drama in the pool. Serious drama.

Someone is trying to steal my thunder and replace me as the cutest girl in the pool. WTF?????? Can you believe that?????? I'm devastated.

Betty not only wears her fancy beaded necklace that perfectly matches her insanely bright floral bathing suit, but she also comes to therapy completely drunk. And I friggen LOOOOOOOOOOOOVE her. Seriously, she is the "batshit crazy lady who is missing her tinfoil hat" that now adds a wonderful touch of unpredictability to my aquatic therapy. And she is cute as a button.

If I had to guess, I'd say she is in her late 80's. But she says she's "50 and holding."

On our first day of therapy together, I was going through the normal motions of my routine, and Betty sashayed up beside me. I soon realized that she wanted to talk, and I was the lucky listener.

"Do you think this shit even works? I started this God-damned therapy shit last week, and now every damn part of me hurts instead of my back."

(Did I mention that I LA-HOVE her?)

Our trainer quickly caught on to our chat and decided to separate us and attempt to make us work a bit harder.

As I did my fancy cross-country swim across the pool, I heard Betty yell "you rotten bastard, how in the hell is that gonna help my damn back?"

I was laughing so hard I almost drowned.

Seriously, I am beginning to think that the only thing that could make my therapy any better is if they served wine.

Perhaps Betty is on to something. . .

Potty Talk

2009-06-02T07:37:00.000-07:00

Hello friends. Sorry I haven't written much lately. But honestly, there is very little to tell. I have spent my recent days sorting through bins and bins of boys clothes in an attempt to rid myself of massive amounts of "stuff." So, I dare not bore you with the details of label checking, folding, and bin stacking.

Anywhooooo, I do want to offer major thanks to all of you Girlfriends for coming through with my Lia Sophia book show. Not only was it the biggest catalogue show the hostess has ever had (can I get a whoot whoot!) BUT, I am now sitting here wearing $1400 worth of FABULOUS baubles!!!!!!! (Yes, I am currently wearing EVERY SINGLE piece because I just couldn't decide on one. They are all so magnificent!) So, thanks to you all!!!! (Um, all of you that ordered, that is!:-))

But, I do have the transcripts of a conversation I had with Trey yesterday that is quite amusing. This conversation takes place with Trey on the potty, and me standing outside the door.

Trey: "Mom, I don't want you to see my long poop. It's like a snake."

Me: "That's nice dear."

Trey: "Did you ever see my poop that looked like a donut? That was cool, right?"

Me: "Um, unfortunately I did."

Trey: "I'm not a good wiper. I get skid marks."

Me: choking on the laughter that I am holding in, and rolling on the floor. (I may have peed myself.)

Until next time . . .

Queen of My Own Court

2009-05-27T06:49:00.000-07:00

One good thing that has come of my recent injury is everyone has a tendency to wait on me. It's really a beautiful thing. If I sit down in a chair, everyone will come sit next to me and ask me if they can get me anything. We went to a picnic over the weekend, and I never left my chair. My fabulous friends brought me food, alcohol, and dessert. Seriously, how fabulous is that????

I have gotten so used to it, that I am a bit cold and callous with my requests now. I expect so much now that I simply hold up an empty glass and nod and I fully expect someone to refill it within seconds. (And usually they do.) And if I want something, I just point and gesture. I feel like a Queen. Well, at least, I am acting like a Queen. If for some reason you hear of my beheading, I'm pretty sure that will mean Paco has hit his breaking point.

Recently, my mother had knee-replacement surgery, and I was one of the first people in the waiting room. So, naturally, I took my court in the most comfortable chair in the room. Which just happened to be a recliner. And the lovely lady working at the desk even brought me out a pillow to prop up my leg.

So there I was, propped up in the recliner, holding court in the waiting room. (Unfortunately, I left my tiara and wand at home for the day.) The volunteer kept refilling my coffee, and the nurses kept coming out giving me updates. It was wonderful.

That is until the 400 pound lady in the chair next to me started choke-snoring. She would snore loudly and then she would stop suddenly. Seriously, I kept thinking that she had stopped breathing and then she would do this snort-choke sound and continue on snoring. And, naturally, she was right next to me.

And if that wasn't bad enough, another lady decided to turn the television channel from the morning news to the Jerry Springer Show. Seriously, I didn't even know that show was still on. I am wondering if it is a requirement to have missing teeth and your brother as a father to get on that show.

Then, the room began to fill up. And fill up some more. Soon, every chair in the place was taken.

A lovely man with a briefcase sat on the other side of me. He wanted to know all about my injury and share all his tales of woe. We chatted for quite a bit. He was very charming. His wife was there having knee-replacement surgery also. So, we were swapping notes. In the middle of his telling me about his wife's knee, I heard a loud squeaking noise, like when you rub your bare skin on vinyl. Then, my new pal says "excuse me" and keeps on talking about how his wife wasn't looking forward to the scar on her knee.

Woah, back-the-truck-up. This adorable man just farted in a full room of people and completely "excused" himself. Nice. I kinda like this guy. He's got some cahones. However, after the 4th "excuse me" I was beginning to get a bit perturbed.

So, after much coffee and chit chat, I am still perched on my fabulous recliner. My niece stopped by and brought me lunch. She even went to the bathroom for me. I never had to leave my throne.

That is until the tatooed guy wearing woody woodpecker suspenders decided to come and chat with me. He was doing his best to be flirtatious, as he clearly could tell I was royalty.

However, his breath smelled of stale cigarettes and coffee, and it was all I could do not to gag right in his face.

I really felt the need to put my hand up and dismiss him with a wave. However, it didn't work, and I just ended up looking like I was having a mild seizure.

Perhaps next time I will remember the tiara.

Scarred for Life

2009-05-26T13:24:00.000-07:00

I had the most horrifying incident during my last water therapy session, and I fear I am scarred for life.

I should have known that my session would end badly when I entered the locker room and saw Hairy-etta doing yoga buck naked. Um, hello there. I fully expected a brontosaurus to coming running out from behind her "bush". I'm pretty sure I heard some growling. But, seriously . . . couldn't you wait until you get home??? Or at least put some clothes on???? She had her hands together over her head and she was doing some sort of lunge. I am just so thankful that I wasn't sitting behind her.

Naturally, I duck into the bathroom stall to change into my miraclesuit. Within a few minutes I emerge and head towards the pool. I glance over my shoulder on my way out just in time to see Hairy-ette bend over to do some more stretching. Nice. Thanks so much for that. I really needed to see your inner organs. Um, thanks.

I gimp into the pool and begin my session. I feel like such a pro now that I kinda know what I am doing. I was in the process of doing my side-walking when my new pal Morty entered the pool. Wow, how do I explain my new pal Morty? He is probably in his late 80's, he's very tan, with white bushy eyebrows, bright blue eyes, and a VERY bad toupee. Which - he - wears - into - the - pool. And naturally, I couldn't take my eyes off his hairpiece the entire time. I was just waiting for it to fall off, or twist around. I was completely mesmerized. My trainer Jeff had to yell at me twice to get to work. It was that bad. I just wanted to take him aside and say, "hey Mort, your eyesight is pretty bad, but your hairpiece is far worse. Um, you're not fooling anyone. It's time. It's time." Instead, I just stared at him for the majority of my therapy wondering how in the heck it was staying on.

I finished my therapy in record time and headed back to the locker room for a shower. The shower area has several private stalls, but I still wear my swimsuit in. (I need to rinse off the chlorine you see. I'm not that much of a prude.) As I crutched towards the last available stall, my crutch slipped on the wet tile and I fell down like a house of cards. And, because the tiles were so wet, I did a 40 mph slip and slide until I rammed into the shower door.

I wanted to sit there for a few seconds to catch my breath, but a bevy of women ran over to help me. AND THEY WERE NAKED!!! I really appreciate the help and all, but they weren't a pretty naked. It was actually a bit scary. I had two naked women trying to hoist me and my miraclesuit up off the floor. In the process one of the women's tubie-boobies wacked me on my ear. (And I heard it say "please get me a miraclesuit.") I was trying to avoid the other lady as much as possible because she had an Amazon Bush and I wasn't sure what might try to jump out at me. (Clearly the disposable razors I left on the grooming counter were not a big enough hint.)

I finally got on my feet again and thanked the nice ladies with the tubie-boobies and the afro-muffs for helping me. Then I carefully crutched into the shower and let the water drown out my tears.

Esther Williams

2009-05-14T06:44:00.000-07:00

I have started aquatic physical therapy for my knee. And you know what?? It's FABULOUS. Seriously, I LOOOOOOVEEE it. Never in a million years did you expect to hear that, right?

I was very skeptical at first. I am doing my therapy at a new state-of-the-art fitness and medical complex. It is full of happy-little-skinny people. That there is enough to make me run in the other direction. But, the thought of them all enjoying the sight of gimp girl in her miraclesuit was even more daunting.

I am still relying on my crutches, and I am unable to walk up or down steps. So, my therapist Jeff informed me that they have a special chair that can lift me in and out of the pool. Naturally, I named it the Whale Lift and I envisioned the worst. I could see an industrial sized whale net that swung in and out of the water. I could just actually hear the super-sonic loud beeps that I'm sure the lift will make. I could picture the glass walls of the pool area facing out into the fitness area and I could see the entire Fitness Center running to the pool area to watch the whale be released back into the wild.

As I entered my first day, I was able to see that thankfully the pool is seperate from the rest of the fitness center. I am safe from the prying eyes of all the skinny joggers. I also saw that the whale lift was a chair attached to a pole that raised and lowered in and out of the water. Not nearly the contraption I had pictured in my mind. I also had the pleasure of watching the last 10 minutes of the Aquacize class.

This is where it gets interesting. The class had about 40 people in it. And every single one of them had white hair. I think the youngest person was 403. These are folks that grew up with pet dinosaurs. And they were all hopping, bopping, and stretching their little hearts out. And every . . .single . . . one . . . WALKED out of the pool. (with fabulous water shoes to boot!) Not one had to use the whale lift. (And there were a few whale-sized aquasizers in the group.)

So, when it came time to um, go in the water, naturally I decided that come hell or high-water I would not be needing the assistance of the whale lift. 20 minutes later, I finally made it in the pool. (baby steps...baby steps)

Naturally, I wore my miracle suit. And naturally, I was feeling fab-u-lous. That was until I got a wolf-whistle and a "hey hot stuff" from the life guard. I should have been flattered, however the life guard is a guy that had a crush on me in high school, so therefore, I was completely mortified. I have doubled in size since high school. And there aint no suit on this earth miraculous enough to conceal that. We chatted for a bit and I learned that he would be covering all my therapy sessions. Lucky me. I am just praying that I don't drown. We all know how my luck has been lately.

After a few minutes in the water, I was feeling great. I could walk!! And, my boobs looked wonderful!!! How do I know? Because the four geriatric men in my therapy group couldn't stop staring! Even my therapist Jeff had to tell them to stop swarming me. So now I have four new pool boyfriends. I have affectionately named them Fred, Ed, Ted, and Jed. (FYI - Jed is the one with the white Grizzly Adams beard and the carpet of back hair.)

I am the Esther Williams of my pool group. Not only am I the youngest by about about 30 years, I am also the skinniest of all the ladies in my group. It was such a needed ego boost! I kicked, pedaled, circled, and waved in Gold-Medal-Olmpic-Synchronized-Swimming-form. You all would have been proud.

After my hour-long session, I took another 40 minutes to make it up the pool stairs. But, dang it, I did it. (I may have been crying and holding Jeff's hand at the end, but by golly, I did it.)

The trip back to the locker room is where it gets REALLY intersting. There were naked women EVERYWHERE. Hoards of naked women. EV-ER-Y-WHERE. At the sink, in the shower, coming out of the sauna, at the lockers, in the toilets, doing their hair, well, I think you get the picture.

The catch is, they were rather floppy, droopy, and large women. (Um, and a word of advice: if you are going to strut around nude in a semi-public place, please, please, please make sure your muff isn't large enough to conceal a faction of enemy terrorists. razors are only like a dollar now. the fro look went out in the 70's.) I could understand the need to strut around nude if you looked like Gisele Bundchen, however, these women were more along the lines of Mrs. Roper on Three's company. Yeah, you get the picture.

And they are just hanging out chatting and doing their hair. One nudie asked me how I hurt my leg. I'm straight and all but I still couldn't help but stare at her boobies. I was amazed at how long they were for being so small. They were almost tubular. She's all "oh, you poor thing. I hope things get better." And I'm all "hey tubie-boobies, you really should try a bathrobe." Oy.

I even had the pleasure of being mooned by a prominent local real estate agent. I'm sitting on the bench getting my shoes on, and as she bent over to pull up her panties, her rose-tatooed ars was a mere inches from my face. Nice, eh? I will never look at her picture in the wednesday paper the same . . .

Naturally I changed in the bathroom stall. I'm still a bit too modest to share my girly-parts with a quarter of the Ithaca population. (This is the exact reason I chose not to take any pain medication before class.)

Next session, I think I may just skip the locker room altogether . . .

Side Effects

2009-05-10T07:03:00.000-07:00

I wish to warn you all about the ill effects of Percocet. Apparently if you take a Percocet and watch TV, you will think you need to have every crazy item that they are selling. Somehow this drug affects the brain in such a way that you become void of all common sense. Infomercials are my new vice. I can’t watch one without ordering. I have become a sucker.

It has gotten so bad that Paco has threatened to hide my credit cards.

I will highlight a few of my recent purchases:

Touch n Brush – if you can get it to stick to the wall, it’s fabulous. My girlfriend actually had to stick hers in the shower because it won’t stick anywhere else. Gives the perfect amount of toothpaste every time. However, my kids still manage to get toothpaste on the ceiling. Go figure.

Bump its – fabulous hair bumper. Just can’t manage to make me not look like a blonde Amy Winehouse with a 3’ birds nest on my head. Need more practice.

Ken Paves & Jessica Simpson Hair Do – I still don’t remember ordering this. When the box came, I thought it was a joke. And then I saw the receipt with my signature. Hmmmmm. Very interesting. It’s a blond hair piece that doesn’t work with my hair whatsoever. I’ve tried and tried, but it looks like a dead cat sitting on my head. Still haven’t figured it out. But, it certainly makes for an interesting evening, let me tell you. It looks FABULOUS on my dog Otis. I will post pics at some point. However, if you see me out in public with my, er, hair looking like Dolly Parton’s, well, please be kind. Remember, I am on medication.

Strap Perfect – Could have just used a safety pin, but really needed the fancy plastic disc that provides an instant boob lift and perfect posture. Yeah, not-so-much. I would need a Frisbee-sized disc to give my girls the lift they need.

Smooth Away – Worthless. Rubs your skin right off. So, technically, a good hair remover, I guess.

Topsy Turvy – Will let you know when I am enjoying grapefruit sized tomatoes weeks from now.

Buxton Purse Organizer – My purse weighs 400 pounds, and my 8 year old thought I really NEEDED this. Every time the commercial comes on he reminds me that I really should get it. It is hideous looking, but really has pouches and pockets for everything. It is actually quite handy because it straps across my chest, so I can still use my crutches. Now my purse only weighs 300 pounds and I look like Granny Grunt. But, at least I can find my cell phone.

Jewelry Television – Wow. I think I need EVERYTHING. I spent 20 minutes on hold trying to order an 8 carat tennis bracelet. Luckily it sold out before I sobered up. Don’t think I could have snuck that charge past Paco.

Orange Glo Wood Floor Repair – Just makes the floor look wet and shiny for a few minutes. Doesn’t restore crap. Doesn’t fix crap. And still requires me to actually push the mop. Dud.

Aqua Globes – Wonderful product. However, there is a secret that they don’t tell you about. (You need to refill them for them to be completely effective). I still managed to kill 4 houseplants.

Sham Wow – Vince is a hooker-beating liar. Does NOT suck dog pee out of the carpet with just a few punches and tappity taps. Ok, so I technically purchased these prior to Percocet, however, it is so much fun to say hooker-beating liar.

EZ Combs – Wow, prom worthy hair in seconds. (I haven’t ordered yet but I think I can’t live without them. Will be ordering once I find my credit cards.)

I must be close to some sort of infomercial record. I am fully expecting Billy Mays to send me flowers any day now.

Oh, and if you are not poor like me and Girlfriend Beki, please buy something at www.LiaSophia.com/ColeenMcKeown there is still time.

If I could only find those darn credit cards . . .

Teaser

2009-05-08T11:59:00.000-07:00

All I can say is that I am starting aquatic pyhsical therapy. Me. Crutches. Swimsuit. Pool. Lifeguards.

If you want to whole story, buy some jewelry at www.LiaSophia.com/Coleenmckeown

Buy a pair of earrings. Something. Support me.

Thanks to Girlfriend Shelle, Girlfriend Amy L, Girlfriend Heather, Girlfriend Kelly, and Girlfriend Ardell for helping a sister out.

I will email you lovely ladies the full story, and it's freakin' hysterical.

For the rest of you, you know how to motivate me. And, believe me, I really need motivation.

Motivation

2009-05-07T12:41:00.000-07:00

I have become quite pathetic and lazy lately. Since I have such difficulty getting around, I literally stopped moving. I lay on the couch all day and watch TV and read. Pathetic.

However, the good news is that the little bug I had last week cleared me of the er, 12 pounds of fluid I, um, gained on vacation. I am even down a few pounds. I call it the rooter-tooter diet. However, I don't recommend it to anyone.

I have also been using the "i'm too lazy to get up to get food" diet. Since the kitchen is like 14 miles away, I never seem to get there anymore. I put a large bowl of fruit in the living room so I could have an occasional healthy snack. However the kids wiped that out in about 20 minutes.

Since I have become so blatantly pathetic, I have found it even somewhat difficult to write. That involves me actually having to sit up. Oy, the effort.

So, I need some motivation. Buy something from my Lia Sophia book show and motivate me to write. I'm totally whoring myself out for jewelry. (I'm on to groceries next, so watch out.)

Go to www.LiaSophia.com/ColeenMcKeown and support my addiction.

It ends this week. The more jewelry I get, the more posts you get. Deal? I really have some fabulous stories to tell . . .

Firing on All Cylinders

2009-05-02T06:30:00.000-07:00

I have clearly upset the Gods.

I'm not sure if it was the window-licker comments or my murderous thoughts toward Paco.

Whatever it was, I'm so very, very sorry. VERY sorry.

I have spent the last 2 days fighting a miserable bug. I'm literally firing on all cylinders. Both ends are spouting like Old Faithful.

And when your relying on crutches and a wheelchair for transportation. Well, it's pretty stinkin' miserable.

And like Old Faithful, I erupt every hour, like clockwork.

The best was Paco came home from basketball and found me on the toilet, puking out my spaghetti dinner into the bathroom trash can.

Since I was unable to clean up after myself, Paco was given the wonderful task of cleaning up my mess in the trash can. And since I only used a flimsy Wegmans bag as a can liner, naturally, when he removed the bag, he managed to soak himself in my spaghetti vomit.

Perhaps that will teach him to let me out in public with a ginormous clip stuck to my head, eh?

Cultural Enrichment

2009-05-01T06:30:00.000-07:00

Is there such a thing as too much enrichment?

I am really starting to think so.

My precious son Duece was invited to participate in the violin program this year. It is a scholarship program for select kids in the elementary school that show musical aptitude.

Wow, what an honor. We were so thrilled that he was chosen that naturally we said yes.

What was I thinking??????

After 8 weeks of instruction, Deuce was finally able to bring home his own violin to practice for the upcoming concert.

And after 8 weeks of instruction he knows exactly ONE note.

So for an hour EVERY night we get to listen to lovely screeching sound of eeeehhhh, eeeeeeehhhh, eeeeeeehhhh, eeeeehhhhhhh.

He insists he is playing a song called "Everybody Stop Stop." But, I swear it is more of an eehhh, ehhhh, eehh, eehh, eh, eeeehhhhh, eehh.

For his big concert he playes this eehhh, ehhhhh, eehhh, eehhh, eh, eeeehhhhhh, eehh 24 times in a row. Yes, I said 24 TIMES IN A ROW. And the best part, there will be 25 other kids making the same screeching sounds 24 times in a row.

I don't think there is enough motrin on this planet to get me through this concert. Ear muffs? Maybe.

And I take it all back

2009-04-30T15:28:00.000-07:00

OK, so every kind word that was in yesterday's post about dear hubby Paco???? Well, fuhgetaboutit. Seriously, wipe it all from your mind. I take it all back.

This man. . . This man who vowed to honor and cherish me almost 13 years ago. . . to protect me . . . This man who should have my best interests at heart . . . this man. . . well . . . he let me go out in public looking like a TOTAL AARRSS!!!!!

Ever since I've gotten my fabulous bangs, I have somehow lost the ability to use a curling iron. It's like the 80's never existed. Every time I try to curl my bangs a bit I end up burning my forehead. It's awful. I think I've have burned it so many times now that I have a permanent scar.

I put a lot of thought into a solution to my problem. I thought perhaps if I got a different curling iron that it might solve the dilemma. However, the new curling iron has a smaller barrel, and it gives me the 80's rolo bangs. Very groovy. Yeah, not so much.

Anyway, after many trials and experiments, I have learned that if I do the 80's jerry-curl rolo bang and gel it lightly and clip it off to the side for about 10 minutes, well, the result is perfect, fabulous bangs.

So, my daily hair ritual involves clipping my bangs off to the side with an industrial size hair clip that hair-dressers use. It is bright silver, and 4" long. About a 1/2" wide. With little circle cut outs. Quite a large, ominous clip. Probably from the 80's. A large, antique clip.

You KNOW where this is going, right????

Oh yes, my dear spouse of almost 13 years, Senor Paco Pants, allowed me, his loving wife who is in excruciating pain, to exit the house wearing the LARGE silver clip in her bangs.

Oh, and it gets soooooo much better. Not only did he let me wear it out of the house. He let me wear it to the Orthopedic Surgeons office, to the drug store, to the grocery store, AND to pick up the kids at school.

Yes folks, I spent an ENTIRE day traipsing around town with a freakin' satellite receiver attached to my forehead!!!!

When I got home and saw my reflection and realized that I had been wearing the clip ALL DAY LONG, well, I was a bit, well . . . how do I sum it up . . . I was in a semi-murderous rage. (eye twitch, eye twitch.)

I used my very best I'm-pretending-to-be-nice-while-not-strangling-you-voice and quietly asked Paco if it perhaps had crossed his mind to tell me that I had a Godzilla sized clip protruding from my head at any point during the day. Or perhaps, was he just proud to be seen hanging out with a woman in a wheelchair who clearly fit the window-licker part.

His response??????

"Oh, I thought it was some new barrette."

AFTER 13 YEAR OF TOGETHERNESS, DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT I WOULD PURPOSELY MAKE MYSELF LOOK LIKE A COMPLETE TARD???? DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NOOOOO STYLE WHATSOVEVER????? (Eye twitch, eye twitch.)

"Um, I dunno. I guess I never really pay attention to that kind of stuff."

At this point my eyes are twitching so much that I'm actually fluttering. I'm about ready to take flight. I don't even know what to say to him. I'm actually speechless. (Yes, I know, a first.)

I know I am a chubby, married woman, but I am always a stylish, chubby married woman. I do try to take my appearance very seriously.

Suddenly all the people running out of my path at the grocery store makes complete sense. A fat woman in a wheelchair pushing a grocery cart with a metal rod sticking from her head is bound to look a bit suspicious. I probably would have ran too. Maybe I even had a booger sticking out of my nose. That would have been perfect.

I am trying to think of proper form of payback. Your suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

In the meantime, I have switched to bobby pins for obvious reasons.

Queen Jenn

2009-04-28T23:14:00.000-07:00

I would like to start out my post with a large thank-you to my dear Paco. As much as we drive each other insane sometimes, he has been my knight in shining armor lately. (Does anyone have a spare suit of armor lying around? The visual is a bit of a turn on.) He has gracious wheeled me around, driven the entire way to Myrtle Beach and back by himself while I played with unicorns, carted me to various appointments, done all the laundry (um, he did run my miraclesuit through the washer and dryer, but, miraculously, the suit still lives up to it's name. It just smells like burnt tires now.), he has made dinner, fetched 414 glasses of water, pulled me from the depths of various toilet bowls, and he has lovingly tended to our dear 3 boys. And all this with only minimal amounts of sarcasm and narcissism.

I started off by asking him do things for me by saying something like, "hey babe, can you do me a favor? can you ________?" And he would do it for me without saying a word. After 20 or so rounds of this he may have snapped and said "it's not a favor. It's an order. Just tell me what you want already and stop saying I'm doing you a friggen favor."

Um, Ok, point well taken.

So now I just order him around. I have decided that I now need a tiara to make my transformation complete. How could he deny the orders of a woman wearing a crown, right? I think it's a brilliant idea. And I could call myself the supreme ruler. I am even thinking of bedazzling my crutches with 4 million rhinestones. If I have to use them for the next 5 months, they should be FABULOUS, right? I even talked to a friend yesterday about getting some flames and chrome wheels for the ol' wheelchair. I will only ride in style, you see.

Perhaps even a wand would be helpful. He did threaten to snap of my fingers when I pointed to him the other day and asked him to put "that over there." Gotta give the guy credit though. If the roles had been reversed, we all know that I would have pushed his wheelchair down the stairs by now. (With HIM in it!!) So, I am forever thankful for him. He really is a bit of a saint. Even if he does leave his sneakers lying around and I trip over them on my crutches. It's forgivable.

If you see Paco, give him a pat on the back and tell him he is a great guy, and he is doing a great job looking after his wife. And tell him that jewelry and flowers always make women feel better. Much better.

Now, I'm off to find my tiara . . .

A Cure for the Blues

2009-04-28T08:39:00.000-07:00

I'm blue. Sad. Slightly depressed. Completely bummed.

In my one attempt at Olympic Freefalling I managed to completely wipe out any fun plans I may have had for the summer. I have completely torn my ACL, put 2 tears in meniscus, wiped out my ligaments, and cracked my tail bone. I'm a hurtin' pup, to say the least. I'm an Orthopaedic Dream! I did some other stuff too which I don't really quite understand. But the gist of it is that I bruised my bones in such a way that it created a large amount of internal bleeding, some of which has calcified in my knee. So, I'm also seeing a vascular surgeoun. (And apparantly he's HOT. So, that could be fun.)

I have been to see two different Orthopaedic Surgeons and I have been given two different courses of action. But there are two distinct similarities: One - My golf game is over for the year and TWO - my crutches will be my best friend for the rest of the summer. Not what I wanted to hear. (And by the way, do you have to be a Grumpy Old Man to be an Orthopaedic Surgeon? I'm noticing a trend. . .)

Normally I beat the blues with mass quantities of chocolate. However, I have screwed that up too. Since I am limited with my movements, I have to be very careful of what I eat now too. I have been on a quest to lose weight since January, and sadly my ars is bigger than ever. (If you say ars instead of ass it is not swearing. My Dr. told me that.) My mom came and cleaned out my pantry of all that is good and filled it with fiber puffs and bulgar wheat. (She can be a party pooper sometimes. Even though she has my best interests at heart. Does anyone know if they make chocolate dipped fiber puffs????)

Normally in times of depression, I look to two things that never fail me - Jewelry and purses. They ALWAYS fit. No matter how big my ars is. So, I am looking to all you lovely ladies to help cure my Blues. I am hosting a Lia Sophia book show, and I need you all to buy something. Yes, I know, this is major guilt. However, you will all be helping to save a seriously depressed soul in her time of need. Screw the casseroles, hook me up with some bling. (I promised you that as I lie here on my couch typing right now I am wearing a fabulous pair of earrings. I am wishing I had a tiara too. I think Paco would take my orders much more graciously if I was wearing a tiara.) Oh, and the deal is, if you buy 2 items at regular prices, you get 4 items at half price. And you can use the half off deal on the most expensive stuff. Isn't that GREAT?????????

I have already picked out over $1400 worth of jewelry that I want, so I really need to sell, sell, sell. I have this fabulous idea that we should all get the Surge ring and it will be like our secret society decoder ring. We will see each other on the street and we will know that we are Girlfriends. Wouldn't that be fun? Our own private club! We can come up with secret shakes and passwords and everything. Clearly I have lots of time on my hands to think of these things. Oh, but I absolutely must have the Moonlight earrings too. Maybe we could use those instead. Hmmmm. But, I also LA-HOVE the Moon dance bracelet. Oy. Decisions, decisions. Now you see why I need you all to buy something. Please, please, pretty-please with sugar on top!!!!!

The way it works is that you buy yourself some fabulous jewelry at fabulous sale prices, and I get credits, and in the end I will get some free bling. It is win-win! Mother's Day is around the corner, so you can even buy your Mom something fabulous. (I am hoping to get free jewels for my Mom since I am still bitter about the fiber bit.) And remember if you buy two items at full price you get up to four more items at any price for half off. And you can use the half off on the higher priced items. Isn't that great? My LA roomate is a Lia Sophia sales manager and she encouraged me to host a party. Naturally after looking at the catalogue I was immediately hooked.

Go to liasophia.com/coleenmckeown
Click our jewelry. You will have full access to the current catalogue.
After you order your first item, you will have to put in Jennifer Pawlewicz as your hostess name. (so I get the credits. Don't forget that part. I need all the credits I can get.) And you can check out right there. They take visa, mastercard, and discover. They will ship your order right to you.

Sorry to use the guilt thing on you. Well, if it gets me some cool jewelry for free and some more for sale prices, then I'm not that sorry. A girl has to do what a girl has to do. Oh, and don't forget to shop at Habitat of Ithaca while your at it. I am in such pain. Ouch. I can feel my knee aching right now. Help a sister out. (Insert guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes here.) Just remember, I am in a wheelchair for the entire summer. And it is up to you to make sure that I am well accessorized in my new throne.

Orders need to be in by May 10th. I have lots of catalogues if you need one, let me know!

Thanks in advance for any orders. I promise, I will let everyone borrow my baubles.

I Like That Boom Boom Pow

2009-04-22T10:05:00.000-07:00

Boom Boom Pow is a new song out by the Black Eyed Peas. It is the perfect song to be the soundtrack to my yesterday. (Coincidentally it is also my niece's ring tone on her cell phone. And since she was taking me around yesterday I heard it a LOT.) It's a very catchy song and once you hear it you'll have it stuck in your head all day. I promise. I like that Boom Boom Pow . . .

Yesterday was my big day out. I had all sorts of appointments and errands and my fabulous niece was carting me around. She is so much fun to be with. Unfortunately, her wheelchair driving skills leave much to be desired. So sadly, I spend most of the day going Boom Boom Pow into various walls, doorways, and pieces of furniture.

We started the day with my MRI. She pulled right up in front of the hospital doors to drop me off. She gets the wheelchair, lovingly assists me into my seat, and then Boom Boom Pow, she wheels me right into the sliding door frame and nearly knocks me out of my chair.

We go to the registration desk and are directed to another desk to check-in. My niece is busy checking out the cute guy in the hard hat working behind the counter, and yep, Boom Boom Pow right into the desk. (He was really cute so I can't blame her there.)

I survived the rest of my appointment with just a few Boom Boom Pows. But the bigger digger in the bathroom was all me. I can't understand why the hospital bathroom off the MRI waiting room doesn't fit a wheelchair. WTF??? (Insert my WTF scrunched up face here.)

We then stopped by my store to take care of a few things and to say hello to one of my favorite people. (My store is Habitat of Ithaca, on the Downtown Ithaca Commons. It is a fabulous store filled with wonderful gifts and home furnishings. If you have never been there, you MUST come. It is so much fun. Please stop by ASAP and buy something. Yes, I know I am going a bit over-the-top with the gratuitous sales pitch here, but it has been slow, and we have just gotten in some of the cutest Spring merchandise. Please help me keep the lights on . . .sniff sniff) So, since we were only going to be a few minutes, we parked in the 15 minute loading zone. Again, my sweet niece brings my chariot right to me and gingerly helps me get situated.

Then Boom Boom Pow she rams me into the curb and again almost knocks me out of my chair. Then Boom Boom Pow into an upturned brick. Then Boom Boom Pow into the doorframe. Then Boom Boom Pow into the elevator frame.

We finally made it into the store. I was a tad bruised, but thankfully, no blood. My manager had done quite a bit of rearranging since my last visit and the store looked absolutely stunning. (Insert another gratutious sales plug for Habitat of Ithaca on the Downtown Ithaca Commons here.) We visited for a few minutes, looked at all the pretty new stuff, and headed back out for appointment #2.

My second Dr's Appointment was to have my blood pressure checked. It had been registering extremely high, so it was suggested that I follow up with my Dr. to have it looked at. (Hellooooooo, I'm in PAIN. Of course it's off the charts!)

We get to my Dr's and my lovely niece only Boom Boom Pow's me once getting in. (I think she is finally getting the hang of it.) I have a cute male nurse that is getting all my vitals.

He is clearly flirting, and I can't tell if it is for my benefit, or my nieces, but at any rate, he is laying on the charm. I explain how I am supposed to have my blood pressure checked and I also tell him that my tail bone is killing me, and I think I may have hurt it when I fell. "Do you want us to take some pictures of your butt?" he asks?

"Um, only if you give copies to my hubby. He likes that kind of thing." That shut him up for a minute.

He attempts to take my blood pressure but can't get a reading. He tries the other arm. Still no reading. Back to the first arm. No reading. "Great, now I'm dead too."

Finally the Dr. comes in and we start talking about my blood pressure. It's high, and she's concerned. She asks me if I use a lot of salt. I explain that I do not salt my food, but I use some in cooking. I tell her that I am more of a sweets eater. She doesn't buy it and puts me on some new medicine to lower my blood pressure. The problem here is that I am not supposed to drink while I am taking the medicine. Great. Take away ALL my fun.

Next I go to x-rays. My niece only Boom Boom Pow's me once on doorcase. After a series of x-rays I find out that I have a small fracture on my coccyx bone. She explains that is a bone that serves no purpose and can fracture pretty easily. Oooh, fun. She recommends that I get a Donut to help with the pain. "I wish there was a Krispy Kreme nearby," I say.

"Not THAT kind of donut. A chair donut. It's a pad that will help relieve the pressure on your tail bone. But, I'm beginning to see why you have high blood pressure" she replies.

I finally exit the Dr's with a full cache of happy pills, my new blood pressure meds, and bragging rights that now I have TWO butt cracks.

My niece and I go to Chili's to have one last drink before I start my new pills. I am in quite a bit of discomfort so I decide to take a pain pill with my El Presidente Margarita. It is at that moment that my niece spits out her drink and starts laughing uncontrolably.

I am certain that she is laughing at my choice of chaser for my percocet. However, after serveral minutes she finally blurts out, "I think I may have found the source of your salt problem."

I look up from my Margarita glass and I am suddenly aware of the rock salt mustache decorating my face. Sooooooo good.

We finish our lunch and head out to Wal-mart. This is the last stop on our list. I get the pleasure of tooling around in one of their electric shopping carts. And, I must admit, even though I am an awful driver, it is a LOT of fun.

I tool into the store and the cart is too fast for the electric doors and I ram right into them. The "welcome to Wal-Mart" guy sees this and runs over to help. Not a good call on his part because I manage to run into him as well. Oy.

I make it back to the shoe department. I need some new flip flops, since none of my shoes or sneakers will fit my swollen foot, and naturally all my flip flops are 2" platforms. Not the best with crutches.

I quickly find a pair and we head towards check out. We scoot past a group of college kids that go out of their way to smile and say "hello."

"Who are they?" my niece asks. "I have no idea." I reply. "That is the 'sorry you're a cripple' greeting."

"Oh, I get it now," she deadpans.

We make it home without any further incident. I am so happy to have my niece helping because she kindly carries in all my groceries. I scooched my way up to the top of the stairs. In my futile attempt to stand I managed to Boom Boom Pow myself and lock my knee out of joint. I was literally rolling around in pain on the floor. I couldn't get my knee to pop back in place. It took almost 15 minutes of stretching and twisting to get it back where it belonged.

Now I am sweating, sick to my stomach, and my knee is throbbing. I lay on the couch and promise myself I will never ever leave this spot.

A few minutes later my youngest son Trey enters with a huge bouquet of dandelions for me. "Mommy, I'm sorry you broke your knee. I love you sooo, sooo superdy much." So, I get my happy ending after all.

No Pain, um, No GAIN????

2009-04-21T13:01:00.000-07:00

Slight problem. I went to the Dr's today, and I seem to have, ahem, gained 12 pounds since I left for vacation. I'm certain it is the um, swelling in my knee and foot. Swelling creates lots of fluids and um, fluids weigh like a LOT. Plus I was stuck in a wheelchair so that made me retain even more fluid. So, like according to my calculations, if I urinate every 2 hours for the next 17 days I will be back to um, normal. (I am quite certain that the cadbury mini eggs had nothing to do with this since they are so small and innocent looking. How can such a happy snack be bad for you??)

So, clearly my miraclesuit was working major miracles. It held in an extra 12 pounds of, um, fluid, and still managed to keep me fabulous. (And yes Ardell the suit was fabulous. It was not just the alcohol and happy pills this time. You silly, silly girl...) Unfortunately I did not take off my miraclesuit until the night before we left. Perhaps I might have noticed the swelling and um, fluids a bit sooner.

At least my pits are smooth. . .

And so are the days of my life

2009-04-18T03:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was very interesting. To say the least. It was so eventful, I really don't know where to begin.

I guess I should start with yesterday morning . . .

I'm laying in bed watching the news, and Trey sneaks into bed and snuggles up under my arm. "Mommy, I love you. You're so beautiful." Awwww. What a great way to wake up. "Mommy, you have hair on your armpits. Only fat girls have hair on their armpits, right?"

I hear Paco choke on his coffee and my mother bursts out laughing. Even Deuce was laughing.

At this point I have no energy to engage so I simply say "yes honey, only fat girls have hair on their armpits." (In my defense, it was mere stubble. . .)

Naturally my mother couldn't resist and says "What about Grandma?"

"No Gramma, you don't have hair cause you're skinny."

Insert knife and turn, turn, turn.

We get around early and head out for the beach. It was a big day for me. I was finally going to set foot on the sand. Paco had made arrangements with a lifeguard to use a beach wheelchair for the day. This should be interesting, to say the least.

As we are heading down in the elevator, we stop on another floor and a lovely couple and a group of golfters get in. Trey proudly exclaims to them "my Dad always drinks beer."

Oh dear Lord. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I make my way down to the clearing and I see Paco standing next to this enormous blue and white contraption. Upon closer inspection I see that it is a beach chair made out of pvc pipe attached to ginormous inflatable tires. He really doesn't expect me to be seen in this thing, does he?

As it so happens, 2 tour bus loads of high school band members happens to be unloading at the exact same time as I make my ever-graceful transition from one wheelchair to another.

After many grunts, groans, and a 64 piece band tribute, I get settled into my fancy new ride and we head to the beach. Naturally everyone on the beach has to turn and look. It looks like I am being wheeled in on some sort of ceremonial throne. Paco naturally is doing donuts and figure eights, having a super time. I am just thankful that my miraclesuit is still holding up after all this time, and I hold on for dear life.

It was very windy at the beach, and after shivering for 2 hours, we head poolside. I get one last ride in my beach chariot. It's actually a nice ride if you don't mind looking like you belong in Smurf-land.

Poolside there is very little breeze, and it gets hot quickly. Very hot. So I get this wonderful idea that I am going to take a dip in the pool. I manage to hop and slink my way into the pool and I enjoy a very relaxing swim.

Getting out of the pool? Well, let's just say it was NOT pretty. I accidentally shifted my weight to my bad leg and I ended up falling down like a house of cards. As I lay there thrashing like a beached whale, a very sincere 90lb-80 year old man came running to offer his assistance.

Um, sir, you are very kind. But, I don't want to take you down with me.

I managed to get myself hoisted up and back into my wheelchair. Paco just happens to wander back at this exact moment. I explain to him how he is 5 minutes too late to see me flopping around like a beached whale.

He proceeds to inform me that beached whales lay motionless. That is why they are beached. They can't move. He gives my the 5 minute Discovery Channel synopsis of the life cycle of whales.

Seriously Paco, did you have to go there? Your sympathy is overwhelming.

Thankfully my mother hands me a coctail, and life seems much better for the time being.

We spend the next 5 hours poolside. After absorbing as much sun as my skin could handle, we move to the indoor pool to let the kids finish the day with a swim.

After my afternoon coctails I am again feeling brave and I decide to enter the hot tub. (Paco promised to help me get out this time.) There are three hot tubs that are connected in a semi circle. They are all empty, so I pick the one the farthest back.

I ease myself in and enjoy the warm water. Within minutes my bliss is interupted when Grizzly Adams decides to join me in the hot tub. (Did he NOT see the two EMPTY tubs????) This man was covered from head to toe in a carpet of black body hair. I'm not convinced that it wasn't a sasquatch. At any rate, all I could think of was being in a hot tub with a black shag carpet and I really needed to get out. Fast.

Paco was heading over thinking I was being attacked by a Grizzly Bear. He helped me hop out of the hot tub and back into my wheelchair.

At this exact moment a young girl with Down's Syndrome walks over to me and tells me she is sorry that I am in a wheelchair. "I bet it is really hard," she says.

I am convinced that God has a wacko sense of humor and He was warning me about my window licker post. I'm feeling very small, needless to say.

We get back into the room and I immediately head to the shower. I have this insane feeling that I am covered in bear hair and I really need to shower.

I decide to remove my miracle suit for the first time all week. It is a sad moment. But, she has earned a rest. As I take it off I notice a blue mark on the side of my left boob.

Naturally I am starting to panic thinking I have some wierd skurvy from the dude in the hot tub. But upon closer inspection I realize it is just a piece of shell from a cadbury mini egg. Wonder how long that's been in there.

I get situated in the shower. My mother has cleverly placed a plastic deck chair in there for me to sit on. However, I can't seem to get the shampoo out of my hair. So, I carefully stand up and try to turn around on my good leg while holding on to the chair.

Naturally I slip a bit on the water and start to fall backwards. My ass lands square on the faucet and gives me um, quite a jolt. Ahem.

Well, the good news is that my little fall seemed to get things moving in the pipe department. I literally ended up scaring the crap out of myself. . .

After my eventful day I am exhausted. I crawl into bed and get settled in. Trey naturally climbs in behind me and nestles up under my arm.

And he doesn't even skip a beat. He immediately notices that I have shaved my armpits.

"Mom, you don't have any hair on your armpits anymore."

"No honey, Mommy shaved." I reply.

"So, you're just a little fat, right?"

Um, right . . .

For the love of Percocet

2009-04-17T12:04:00.000-07:00

Percocet is my friend. Let's just get it right out in the open. It could quite possibly be one of my new favorite things. I think the man who invented it should be cast in bronze and placed in the Percocet house of worship. I would certainly come and visit.

I have found that every morning I wake up in excruciating pain. I take a Percocet, I pass out for about 45 minutes, and then I wake up in considerably less pain. It's wonderful. I see rainbows and unicorns. I have even come to understand the B-52's song "Shiny Happy People." And 3 1/2 hours later when the pain gets unbearable again, I begin the process all over.

I have noticed that when taken with a Margarita, it is even more powerful and the pain becomes almost non-existent. (Coincidentally drool and slurring are a common side effect.)

There is one downfall to the wonderful world of Percocet. My pipes are a bit clogged. I haven't been able to poo since we left NY. And things are starting to get a bit, well, uncomfortable. My toots have turned toxic, and my bowels are starting to protrude out my back. (I am beginning to think that there might be a significant back-up of cadbury mini eggs that could turn lethal. I guess I really should have listened to my mom.)

I have been popping Dulcolax like tic-tacs. And after spending 2 hours on the throne the most I've been able to produce are a few, sad nuggets. Seriously folks, this brings pain to a whole new level. I started drinking cider vinegar today because my mom read in a magazine that it would help. Oh, and I stopped taking my Percocet. (OK, so officially I ran out, but in my defense, the cute ER Dr. only prescibed me 20 pills because I was supposed to follow up with an Orthopedic Surgeon in a few days. Not 12 days later. oops. My bad.)

So now I am stuck in my wheelchair constipated, in pain, and smelling like salad dressing. But at least my miraclesuit is still looking fabulous.

The miraculous miraclesuit

2009-04-16T12:22:00.001-07:00

OK, let me just start by telling you that my new miracle suit is worth every stinkin penny. Since I nearly killed myself trying to get this thing on (had to take 2 pain pills with a wine chaser) I made the executive decision just to keep the darn thing on for the entire vacation. And, let me tell you that was a brilliant move on my part. I have showered in it, swam in it, gone out to dinner in it, and slept in it. I love this thing so much I think I may wear it forever. It gives a wonderful girdle effect under clothing that makes everything look so much better. When I win the lottery I will buy the company and give you all free miracle suits. They are truly miraculous.

The rest of my vacation has been a tad less miraculous. I am slowly learning the trials and tribulations of getting around in a wheelchair. Everywhere I go I get the "oh, she must be a window-licker" look and the obligatory head nod. I am truly treated like I must be semi-retarded. I've noticed people talking much louder and more slowly. But, because of the fog caused by my fabulous pain pills, this has actually been quite helpful.

Also, I have learned that hotel bathrooms are not wide enough to fit a wheelchair. So, I have to do the wobbly hop into the bathroom every time I need to go. (The floor is tiled so my crutches just slide. I have deemed it much safer without them.)

I have had the pleasure of falling into the toilet not once, but twice, when one of my precious sons left the seat up. Very humbling when you have to scream at 3 am to have your hubby come in and haul you out because you can't do it yourself. (Even more embarrassing was the fact that I had my miraclesuit pulled over to the side and wedged up my butt crack so I wouldn't have to pull it all the way down. Lovely vision, I'm sure.) However, I am quite certain that I have put the fear of God into my children and they will never leave another toilet seat up as long as they live.

I had the pleasure of a surprise visit from a long-time Girlfriend and her family and her mother, who is also a dear Girlfriend. It was nice to visit even if I was stuck in my bed most of the time. But, I did learn that taking a pain pill with a Margarita makes me feel supercalifragilisticketchbealidocious. Thanks for the yummy drinks Chris! (She even brought fabulous Margerita glasses. I am such a spoiled brat.)

I have determined that I am a very bad cripple. I just do not have the patience to be waited on hand and foot. I know that sounds ironic being that my number one wish is for my own personal cabana boy. However, having to rely on someone else for every basic need is rather frustrating. My poor mother has been waiting on me endlessly. And I am truly thankful for that. It just gets old every time I ask for a drink and she reminds me that I just finished one a few minutes ago. Or she says something like "Jenny, you are on your third bag of cadbury mini eggs. Don't you think you should slow it down a bit." "Do you really need another helping of ice-cream? I mean, I know you said it helps cool you off, but, it's only 61 degrees in here right now." "Um, Jenny sweetie, I am quite sure that you are not suppossed to take your pain pill with a bullfrog. Um, by the way, what exactly IS a bullfrog Jenny? And why does it smell like vodka?"

My boys love pushing me around in my wheelchair. They feel like they are being wonderful little helpers. I have been pushed into walls, doors, and parked cars. But, they feel like they are doing a good thing so I just grin and bear it. (And wipe off the blood and dirt when they aren't looking.)

I really have no patience being pushed around in the wheelchair. I have tantrums like a 2 year old. It's quite sad. However, I have learned that my mother and my husband push my wheelchair like it's a grocery cart. They will just stop mid-stride and walk away, leaving me right in the middle of a walkway or in the middle of the parking lot. When they push me into the elevator, they often push me right to the back corner so I get to stare at the wall like I've been naughty. The worst is when I have to use the public bathrooms and my mom insists on coming in with me. I know I should be greatful for the help, but it has to look a bit odd for a 35 year old woman to be taken to the bathroom by her mommy. Thank God she hasn't tried to wipe me . . . yet.

The good news is that the weather has been fabulous. It has been sunny and in the 70's almost every day. Once I get wheeled down to the pool, I flop into a lounge chair and nap all day. It's been great. My purple and yellow leg has been getting lots of odds looks though. I get it all shiny with tanning oil so then it really looks sausagilicious. A big ol' link of pork parts. Yummo.

I have a feeling Myrtle Beach might never be the same . . .

Olympic Freefalling

2009-04-13T07:01:00.000-07:00

If there was an Olympic Freefalling event, I am quite sure that I would take home the gold. I have pulled of a perfect-10, awe-inspriring free-fall from a bar stool into a fire-fire truck metal bunk bed and managed to pass by $300 worth of breakable artifacts without so much of a splinter. My body however, well, that is another story altogether. I guess a fat girl trying to teeter on a bar stool to hang a light on the ceiling is not a good idea. Who knew?

Friday afternoon, approximately 4 hours prior to our leaving for vacation, I was at the store doing some last minute things before leaving for the week. One of these last minute things included hanging a light fixture in the corner of what is going to be a spectacular kids room. I couldn't quite reach the ceiling by standing on the bed, so I grabbed a bar stool and used that to hang the light. I am standing on the bar stool with both arms reaching toward the ceiling, when the bar stool tips out from under me. Because my hands were full, I was unable to cushion my fall, and sadly, my knee took the brunt of the force.

As I was writhing around on the floor in excruciating pain, all I could think of was leaving in a few hours for my vacation. HOW COULD I HAVE DONE THIS??????

I get up and attempt to assess the damage. My leg is kind of dangling so I know that it can't be good. I try to put some weight on my leg, I hear a loud pop, and I'm back on the floor. Nothing really holding it together but some fat and skin.

Now I'm a bit nervous and starting to sweat. I call my mom and she comes to take me to the emergency room. (I had to pass by Enrique Los Hotpants in a wheelchair. Oy. That guy really gets to see the best in me.)

By the time we arrive at the ER I am just writhing in pain. Serious pain. And lucky for us, we got right in. My blood pressure is 150 over 110. Um, yeah, it hurts THAT bad.

The cute PA feels sorry for me so I quickly get a large injection of morphine. I am still in tons of pain, but I seriously don't care. A cute college kid gets put in the bed next to mine and before long he is asking for my number. Morphine is my friend.

As it turns out, the PA is leaving for Cancun in 4 hours, so he is just as eager to get out the door. I am quickly sent off for x-rays, and after a few minutes, I am told there is no break, given some crutches and a brace, and told to follow up with an orthopedic when I get back.

Well, as it turns out, even though morphine is my friend, morphine and crutches are mortal enemies. So, I had to finish packing from the perch of my wheelchair. (It only took me 17 minutes to scoot up the stairs.)

Needless to say, I was a bit suprised to find a screwdriver and 3 packets of parmesan cheese in the bottom of my bag.

So, dear Paco finishes up the packing and gets the car all neatly packed. He is totally OCD when it comes to packing so everything is perfectly weighted and balanced.

Our normal ritual is for me to drive the first and last leg, and Paco drives the middle bit. However, since I was seeing rainbows and unicorns, Paco did all 12 hours on his own. He is such a good man. And he never once complained when he had to stop every 2 hours to walk his wife. Good man. Very good man. (I'm still on drugs.)

So, now we are here at the beach. My favorite place in the world. I am still seeing rainbows and talking to unicorns, just in much better surroundings.

I will keep you all posted as to the foils and follies of the next 7 days. Wish me luck . . .

It Takes A Village

2009-04-11T05:04:00.000-07:00

As I am typing, the sounds of "Vacation" by the Go-Go's are swirling in my head. Since today starts the official beginning of our vacation, I am going to skip my normal ranting, and instead I am going to post something by my extremely hysterical Girlfriend Amy "Boom-Boom" B. (Official names have been changed to protect innocent families and wives from the wrath of deranged husbands.) This is something she emailed me and another Girlfriend the other day when we were all stuck home with sick kids. We are soo gonna write a book together. I totally peed myself whilst reading . . . (I LOVE the word whilst. I didn't make it up either.)

It Takes A Village , by Girlfriend Amy

Ok, so we are all home with sick kids...Miss M. came home with a fever...no other symptoms, and looked awful. Once she had some soup (Oh Lipton Cup O'Noodle, why didn't I buy your stock shares?) she seems to be on the rebound....Girlfriend J.--your comment about Z-man being active despite the fever pretty much sums up our house right now...

Since I'm getting caught up on everything I blew off over the weekend, I guess it's a productive day. Of course, when I have no vacation time left at the end of the year I will be happy that the laundry was caught up once. (eye twitch). And I can't find my mop! I know it's been a while, but how the hell does someone lose a mop? I'd ask the hubby, but I know that he wouldn't even know that we owned a mop, and that will lead into some comment about me wearing a french maid's outfit and he'll allude that I could dust his balls or something....

Overshare much? Between this and my comment about you two prostituting for groceries I imagine that you'll never open a message from me again....

With that, I have been thinking about how how we are each in our own homes, with our designated sick kid, and maybe there is something behind the "it takes a village" theory.....

so, imagine that we are in our village in the rainforest, while our sick kids recover....I think it may go a little something like this:

-There would not be snow predicted for tomorrow's weather forecast. We could complain about how the endless rain makes our hair frizz

-All the kids would be in their hammocks, if one of us was walking by we could give their forehead a quick check, swing the hammock a little bit, and go back to our spot around the fire

-The men would be out hunting a boar or wild pig (or are those the same?) and we would compare recipes about how to best cook it, as well as swap the leftovers--kind of like a Rainforest Buffet

-We could sit around the fire and laugh about how the Village Whore thinks she is so sexy, but really we know that she has stuffs her coconut bra with leaves and she really isn't as endowed as the men think she is

-There would be a steady supply of fermented fruit (I may not know how to build a fire, but I will figure out how to get wine of some sort)

-We could compare how to wrap ourselves in palm leaves that best accentuates our figures

-We could rearrange the hammocks in our huts. Then when the menfolk came home after the hunt, they could complain that their hammock wasn't where is was that morning, and they'll "totally crash into it when going out for a pee in the early morning hours, and why can't we just leave the hut as it was"

-We could gossip about how the couple in the hut next door were arguing because he wants her to dress up in a sarong that is much shorter than she finds acceptable

So, I think that really, there is a good purpose behind the "takes a village" approach....at least we could all chat and have a coffee or something while the kids recover. And I just watched Miss M. "recover" by being angry that there is a tv commercial. Clearly she is regaining her strength....

And I think that there is something questionable going on between Moose A. Moose and Zee on the Noggin channel. Those 2 spend a lot of time together, and I don't think either one wears pants.

Good luck girlfriends, hope the kids feel better soon so they can return for a HALF day tomorrow and NO SCHOOL on Thursday. Not that I'm bitter.....

(and where the hell is my mop??? Now I'm tempted to get once of those steamy ones that they sell on tv...the H2O mop or whatever it's called...I've already been conned by the Sham Wow...that Vince guy deserves getting bit by that hooker).

No Hatin'

2009-04-10T06:54:00.000-07:00

I don't want you all to be hatin' on me, but at this moment, I am finishing packing for our trip to Myrtle Beach. We will be leaving as soon as Paco gets home from school.

For the next seven days I will be holed up at a fabulous Ocean-front resort with 20 pools sipping margartitas and getting sand in my toenails.

But, alas, it is not all good as I am taking Paco and the kids with me. I couldn't talk them out of it.

However, I will keep you all posted with tales from the land of fabulosity and (hopefully) sun and warmth.

Until them, remember, it IS 5:00 somewhere . . .

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah

2009-04-09T04:31:00.000-07:00

Rarely do I have the time or energy to do two posts in one day, but I have exciting news and I must shout it from the rooftops! I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in LOVE!! And I don't care who knows it! (That is my quote from the movie "Elf" because that may be one of the best movies, like, EVER.)

I have found a fabulous swimsuit that actually FITS! (Cue trumpets, sun beams, and parting of the sea.) Dum, dum, da, dum, I SAID that I found a fabulous swimsuit that fits AND looks halfway decent. (Cue loud gasps and applause!)

I was completely freaked out a first, because when I opened the package and pulled out the suit, it looked like it was supposed to fit a 7 year old. I may have had to lube up my thighs with baby oil and jump off the bed to get into the darn thing, but once it was up and on the sun came out from behind the clouds and I could hear the angels in heaven trumpeting the sweet sounds of "Glory, Glory, Hallelujah."

The darn thing cost me more than a week's worth of groceries, but it is a "miraclesuit:, and I must say that it lives up to it's name. I actually have two separate boobs, a distinct right, and a distinct left. And, my girls are even in the proper hemisphere. I don't have that loaf-of-bread bosom that you usually get with swimsuits. It is simply fabulous!

And the truly exciting part is that when you look at me from the front, I have an actual waist. There is this fabulous hourglass thing going on. (Sadly, when you look at me from the side, there too is a not-so-fabulous hourglass thing going on. However, that one is all on me. Oy.)

I don't know what this suit is made out of, perhaps duct-tape fibers and anti-gravity solution, but it is quite possibly the greatest piece of clothing I have ever owned. I am so gonna wear it to my Parent-Teacher conferences today. I will get my money's worth one way or another.

Perhaps I have merely overdosed on happy pills and this suit doesn't look nearly as good as I think it does . . .

Santa! Oh my God! Santa's coming! I KNOW him! I know him!

Eating me out of House and Home

2009-04-09T03:34:00.000-07:00

I have three little boys that are capable of eating mass quantities of food. These boys can easily eat their body weight in food. When I complain to people all I get is a “you’re so lucky that they are such good eaters.” What I am looking for is an “I am so sorry that you have to mortgage the house to buy groceries.”

For some reason breakfast in our house has somehow turned into a bit of a diner experience. They basically “order” what they want. At any given point I try to be well stocked with eggs, sausage, toast, toaster strudel, hot pockets, French toast sticks, Fruity Pebbles, Frosted Mini Wheats, All-Bran with Strawberries (this is a favorite of Deuce, weird, I know), yogurt, fruit, and Fiber One Bars. I know this sounds like a lot of food, but they fly through it all in record time.

If you think I am exaggerating (as I might have a slight tendency to do), I will assure you that I am not. For breakfast this morning we went through 8 eggs, a pound of sausage links, 3 yogurt smoothies, a bowl of fruity pebbles and a half a loaf of bread. And that is just the kids. And the truly sad part is that I got two “I’m hungry”s before we even made it out the door. (I sooooooooooo wanted to cry.)

Yes, I am lucky that my kids are good eaters. They will eat just about anything, and they are always willing to try new things. But for 3 skinny little boogars, they seem to have endless stomachs. I can’t even begin to think of what they will be like as teenagers. Oy.

I posted a note on my Facebook page the other day that I couldn’t believe the mass quantities of food three boys are able to consume, and that I may have to prostitute myself for groceries. Naturally, I thought this was hysterical, and I got many responses that supported that.

However, when I mentioned this to Paco he flipped out. “This is exactly the type of thing that could come back to haunt you some day. What if a potential employer is looking at that?”

Um, well, then, they would think I am hysterical and they would hire me because they know I need the money to feed my kids.

And then Paco says “You know, if I ever do decide to run for President, it is this type of thing that will be my downfall.”

OK, so seriously?? The only thing he has ever talked about “running” for is to lose weight by “running” on the treadmill. But, this is the SECOND time we have had this sort of conversation.

Honestly, I think America would LOVE me as a First Lady. Don’t you? I can’t understand why he would think that a comment about prostituting for groceries would be construed as negative. If anything, it would make me seem more humane. I mean the fact that I am willing to do anything to feed my kids would certainly score some points with conservatives, right?

But I love that we keeping having this conversation. It gives me something to aspire to. However, it will not change the way I think, speak, or act. I am who I am, and as a possible, potential future wife of a political candidate I can only think that it would serve to better our position to have all our skeletons out in the open. Perhaps we can start a new trend in politics. Put it all out there up front and let the voters decide. Now there’s a concept, don’t you think?

In the meantime, I will continue to clip coupons and shop sales for groceries. I don’t have to resort to drastic measures yet . . .

Car and Driver

2009-04-08T06:51:00.000-07:00

I don’t speak Car and Driver. So, I find it humorous that Paco always has me take the cars to be serviced and then complains because I never get it right. And it must be that time of year because I have spent 2 days in the last week stuck at various auto dealerships getting the vehicles repaired and serviced.

The other day I took the van to get the brakes looked at and to have some warranty work done to the door and a seat frame. First of all, I was charged a “diagnostic fee” for the dealership to even look at the car. Needless to say, that upset me quite a bit. I bought the dang car there, and they need to charge me money to tell me what’s wrong with it so then they can charge me more money to fix it. After dropping off my van at 8:30 am (I had an appointment) I finally get a call at 3pm that my van needs new rotors, brakes, an air filter, and an oil change. And, they can do this for $587 plus tax. WTF??????

OK, so I don’t speak car and driver, but I’m not a FREAKIN’ MORON either!

I kindly tell the gentleman just to do the warranty work and I will take the van elsewhere to get repaired.

Then he has the nerve to try to talk me into the repairs. “Ma’am, you really shouldn’t be driving your car in this condition. We could make all the necessary repairs and have everything ready for you in 2 hours.”

“OK then, if you can have everything ready in two hours , then why are you charging me 8 hours worth of labor? And why are you charging me $109 for rotors and $72 for brake pads when I can get them at the parts store for $39 and $24? Oh, and also, if you blow out the air filter with an air compressor, they clean up like new.”

Obviously he wasn’t expecting me to have a clue because there was a long silence and then I got a “ok then, all your warranty work has been done and you car can be picked up any time.”

Yeah, thanks.

So today I am getting the Suburban serviced. It needed an oil change. The fancy place that I’m at today even does a free 29 point inspection. And of the 29 things, I think this guy is trying to tell me that 28 things are wrong.

Again, we need brakes and rotors. (just on the rear this time.) And, the transmission fluid is almost black. And we really need an alignment. And wiper blades. And, they can fix it all up for us for the low, low price of $818 plus tax.

OK, do I really have MORON tattooed on my forehead?

I kindly tell the nice 18 year old that is helping me that my husband can replace the brakes and rotors, and that I’ll have him switch out the transmission fluid as well.

“But ma’am, we have a machine that can do all the work for you. Your transmission holds 14 quarts of fluid. It can be very messy.”

Didn’t I just tell you that my husband can do it? My hands won’t get dirty. No worries. And, it will only cost me about $250 for everything. Thanks though. I did cave and tell him to do the alignment because I know Paco can’t do that.

So as I am waiting for my alignment to be completed I pour myself a cup of really bad coffee with some pathetic powdered creamer and start watching the Today show. Did you know that during the last hour of the Today show that Kathie Lee Gifford is a host? I had no idea. So anyway, after watching for 20 minutes I have decided that I CAN NOT STAND KATHIE LEE GIFFORD. I even had the pleasure of seeing her cheating-hubby Frank because he had a cameo. Seriously, someone needs to send her away on a cruise that never comes back. How can someone that spells Kathy with an “ie” on the end NOT be annoying? (um, if any of you spell your name that way it totally doesn’t count.)

But after this last week of dealing with car repairs I have decided that I am going to open a garage. Obviously there is some big money to be made in this business. And since no one is shopping at my store, I am thinking I might have to find another job soon enough anyway.

I will cater my garage to women and the few men on the planet that have no clue about cars. I will serve great coffee with real creamers, have great shows on the TV, have clean and comfy chairs in the waiting area, and women working behind the counter that can explain in human terms what really needs to be done. There will be a huge glass wall so people can see the hot mechanics in muscle shirts working on their cars. (And, seriously, I will ONLY hire hot mechanics in muscle shirts.) And, I will charge less than everyone else. (When they bill you $90 an hour for labor and you KNOW they are only paying the staff minimum wage, you can’t go wrong.) It’s brilliant! I might even offer spa services while you wait. Oh, the possibilities. . .

I feel another career move coming on . . .

Learning the lingo

2009-04-07T11:46:00.000-07:00

I don’t think it’s a big secret that I am not the most technologically advanced. I am slowly learning the ropes. It may take me a few tries, but eventually I am able to figure things out.

I am very proud to confess that in addition to my presence on FaceBook, I am now tweeting on Twitter. That sounds very kinky, but in actuality it is very innocent. Twitter is a site that basically allows everyone to give a brief sentence to let the world know what they are up to. It’s basically just the status update part of Facebook. But the fun part of Twitter is that you can follow anyone, and you don’t need to get permission. For instance, I am currently following Justin Timberlake, Jimmy Fallon, Tina Fey, and Chewbacca. Chewbacca mainly just says things like “Arggghhhhuuuurrr” and “Rrraaaagggeeuurrr”, but I can totally relate. (Um just so you don’t think that I have all sorts of time on my hands, I actually went to a small business seminar and they recommend that you connect yourself on all these social networking sites so that people can relate to you on a more personal level and they will feel like they know you personally when they shop your store. In theory that is great. But when I tweet about hooker boots and xanax somehow I feel like I might be taking a step in the wrong direction. Ooops.)

The thing I have the most trouble with right now is probably one of the most basic. My cell phone. My cell phone is probably far more advanced than I could ever possibly need. I use the phone for 4 things: making phone calls, taking pictures, an alarm clock (laugh now, but every Monday through Friday I get an obnoxious buzzing sound at 1:30 pm that reminds me I need to go and pick up my kids. Without it I’m sure I would be late 95% of the time) and texting. The fact that my phone has internet, GPS, and music playing capabilities is all beyond my capabilities.

The texting part is a still bit advanced for me. I am one of the few people on the planet that must text with proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation. So I am not very fast to say the least. And I am still learning all the texting lingo. For the longest time I thought LOL meant “Lord oh Lord”. (It’s far more fun than “laugh out loud” don’t you think?)

Well recently I have been turned on to WTF, which in texting lingo means “What the F.?” And I just love it. I have a whole “What the????” face and sound that I make every time I see it or type it. It is so much fun to just sort of wrinkle up your face, squint your eyes, and say “What the . . . .???” You don’t even need the swear word. I find myself thinking it all the time now. And I will often just give people (aka Paco) the “look” now. I don’t even say it. He totally knows my WTF face now. He even has his own version.

But it’s so much fun to throw it into everyday living.

“Honey, I made tacos for dinner.” WTF?? (Insert wrinkled face making the WTF look)

“Babe, the dog just puked up a green army man on the leather couch.” WTF???

“Mom, I’ve got skid marks.” WTF????

It’s my private little joke. And for some reason, I over-use it to such a point that I find it absolutely hysterical. (Yes, I know, I need to up my meds.)

I am slowly starting to learn the proper texting lingo, as I have had to ask my niece just about every time someone texts me something beyond my basic knowledge.

I will share some of the lingo that I have learned recently, and some that I have created because I think it is far more fun.

LMAO- laughing my ass off

ROFL – rolling on the floor laughing

LSHIS – laughing so hard I sharted (a shart is a moist fart that leaves behind
residue Mom. I know you will ask)

PM – peed myself

TNTSTK – trying not to strangle the kids

As I am starting to master the acronyms, I am now moving on to making the smiley faces and winky faces. I am quite proud that I recently learned how to make a heart! (The less than sign with the number 3)

I have even figured out how to twitter my status updates on my cell phone so that they automatically update on my Facebook page. WTF??? Yes, I agree that sounds very technologically advanced, and I am quite proud to say that I actually know what it all means. (Even if I did have to have somebody else show me how to do it.)

So, if you are tweeting, I’m JPwiczer. Follow me, and I’ll follow you. And if you have no idea what I am talking about, well that’s ok too. We all have to start somewhere.

Killing Me Softly With His Songs . . .

2009-04-04T09:13:00.000-07:00

My sons are natural entertainers. I think they get that from Paco. They love to sing and dance. We spend lots of nights at home just listening to music and dancing around.

We listen to all sorts of music. So the boys have a great appreciation for everything from Elvis and the Rolling Stones to the Jonas Brothers. I always used to laugh when I saw the infomercials for those Kidz Bop CD's, wondering who would want to hear a bunch of kids singing and be crazy enough to buy them. Sadly, I must admit that we own Kidz Bops 11-15. Oy.

The 2 older boys both asked for Ipods for their birthdays this year. (OK, so they think Ipods are the old-school CD walkmans, but hey, I saved a LOT of money on their presents this year . . .) So, I have the pleasure of listening to them sing along to their various Kidz Bops as I drive them to school every morning.

The only problem with my little rock-n-rollers is that they have a tendancy to get the words wrong. Sometimes, very, very wrong.

I am going to list actual song lyrics as intereperted and sung by my precious children. (If you were not a teenager or a 20 year old in the 90's then you probably won't recognize half these songs. Sorry.)

red neck wine - to the tune of red red wine (UB40)

i gotta go pee pee - O.P.P.

I like big butts and I can not lie, you other brothers can't deny, my brother from another mother (Baby got back)

kokomo - aruba bahama come on baby momma (Beach boys)

chicken shout, chicken shout, - shout at the devil (AC/DC)

Here I am. Rockin' like a Burger King. (Rock you like a Hurricaine)

cheese my cherry pie - (She's My Cherry Pie)

Sadly, I know that there are many, many more that I have simply forgotten. I will try to list them as I remember. But you get the idea. It's always VERY interesting.

Do You Want My Autograph?

2009-04-03T08:41:00.000-07:00

The weirdest thing happened to me today in Wegmans. First of all, I went into Wegmans to buy some Cilantro and a loaf of Italian Bread and I managed to spend over $200, but that is another story . . .

So I am in front of the Mediteranean Olive Bar when this woman walks up to me and starts talking to me.

"You are so right. The bangs ARE fabulous! They make you look 25! You don't need Botox!" says the lovely lady in her best Cheerleader voice.

"Thanks!" I say. "But, if you ever hear of a sale on Botox, please let me know."

"You are sooo funny!" she says, "You look great! How are the workouts going? How much weight have you lost?"

"Well, I think I gained 4 pounds." I say somberly. "And after I leave this store I'll probably be up another 2 pounds."

"Just don't walk in front of the bakery case," she jokes and heads toward the deli case.

The thing here is, I have never met this woman. I know my memory isn't what it used to be, but I still have some recollection of people I've met. And, I have never met this woman. Honestly, I have never seen her before. I'm panicking trying to remember how I know her? Is it through family? School? Work? A drunken binge that I have completely erased from my mind?

So, it dawned on me that people I have never met are reading my blog. And, I am totally flattered. However, if you see me in public, INTRODUCE YOURSELF! I'm a fun girl. We can be BFF's! At least give me a name or something. Or a favorite color. Something to work with. I can't have it all be one sided. I'm too nosy for that.

I run into this woman again in front of the tomotoes. So, I say, "Hey, I'm sorry if I offend you, but I really can't remember your name. I lost too many brain cells in the 90's"

After chatting for a bit longer, she tells me that we have never met, she loves my blog, everyone at her work reads it, and she said that I am not nearly as big in real life as I make my self sound in my blog. (I LOOOOOOVE you Girlfriend Carol! You are in my will!)

So, I flitted myself all around Wegmans thinking that I was pretty hot stuff. I mean, I was recognized. I may have been wearing my spandex pants that show the cellulite on the back of my thighs and a stained sweatshirt, but, hey, I was trying to go incognito, right? Just when I am thinking how hot to trot I am I managed to ram my cart right into the heel of an 80 year old man looking at tissues. Well, that brought me down to earth in a hurry. Yeah, um, sorry 'bout that. But, I'm kind of a mini-celebrity right now so you should be flattered that I ran into you. Um, NOT! (Another nod to the nineties there in case you missed it.)

I am a crazed wife and mother. I don't think of myself as anything special. I probably shouldn't even have children as I am not what one might consider a role model. I just have the talent to put my crazed thoughts and experiences into words to share with others. And, thankfully, many of you are in the same boat as me so I never have to paddle alone.

The only thing I ask is that you all introduce yourself if you see me. (I mean if I don't already know you.) I love your comments and feedback. It's what keeps me going. And share your stories! That makes it even better. I can't thank you all enough for the love and encouragement. We Girlfriends are all in this TOGETHER!!!

Oh, and if you ever run into my hubby, be sure to call him Paco and make some smart comment about him finally coming out of the closet . . .

Pringles are the Anti-Christ

2009-04-02T09:36:00.000-07:00

Let me start of by saying that I very rarely eat potato chips. I know that sounds like a lie coming from a fat girl and all. But, I have gall-stones, and potato chips cause me much more pain than they are worth. So, I try to avoid them at all costs.

Today however, I made an exception. I had just loaded up on groceries and was heading to the school to pick up the boys. The boys love pringles, so I thought I would surprise them with a favorite snack.

As I was driving along I realized that I hadn't eaten lunch and I was hungry. So, I decided to open the pringles and have a few. They wouldn't miss a couple. I took out a small stack and started savoring each delicious chip.

I'm driving, listening to music, enjoying the sunshine, and I quickly munch through my small stack of pringles. Oh, since I haven't had lunch, a few more won't hurt.

Doot dee doot de dooo, I'm still driving along bopping to the tunes, and again, I'm quickly out of pringles. Just a few more. . . And a few more . . . and a few more . . .

The next thing you know I am tipping up the empty can to drink the last of the crumbs and frantically hiding the evidence under the car seat as I pull into the school parking lot.

I'm already feeling sick to my stomach and having acid reflux. Not to mention feeling insanely guilty for breaking my diet with one pathetic can of chips.

I get the kids loaded and we head for home. We are close to home and a raft of ducks runs across the road in front of my van and I have to slam on the brakes. (I googled it and a bunch of ducks is called a raft. Weird, eh?) So, anyways, I slam on the brakes and the darn pringles can rolls out from under the seat.

Naturally, my 6 year old spots it immediately. He doesn't miss a beat. "Mom! Did you get us some pringles????"

"Oh honey, that's from a long time ago." I sweetly lie to him.

"Can you buy us some pringles some time? They're my favorite. Do you have a coupon?" he says so innocently.

OK, so now I feel like total crap. I lied to my precious son, I am burping up acidic portions of chewed potato chips, I've consumed over 1000 calories that I didn't even appreciate, and I have a serious case of pringles-breath.

By the time I get home, I'm in so much pain that I have beads of sweat rolling down my face, my stomach is churning, and I have heart burn so bad that actual flames are shooting from my mouth.

So I have decided that pringles are evil. They force me to lie, cheat, and they are contributing to global warming by forcing humans to emit toxic gases. And seriously, each can should just be considered one friggen serving because it's impossible to not eat the entire can. I will try to remember all this the next time I buy some . . .

April Fools

2009-03-31T23:55:00.000-07:00

First and foremost, let me tell you that I am not a big fan of April Fool’s Day. I am gullible 365 days of the year, so I really don't need a full day to celebrate it. (Can you say "Sham Wow?"?) And, the only thing I could sucker someone into believing is that I am pregnant again, and, well, that JUST. . . ISN'T . . . FUNNY.

So, in honor of today being April Fool's Day and all, I am going to list all the things that may or may not have happened to me yesterday. It is up to you to decide which ones are April Fools . . .

While enjoying my morning coffee I may or may not have heard on the news that my Sham Wow pal Vince was arrested for beating up a hooker. . .

While attempting to do my hair with the new curling iron I bought to replace the one I may or may not have dropped on the floor after burning my forehead, I may or may not have realized too late that the barrel was smaller, and therefore, I may or may not have been sporting 80's bangs and a mild Jerry-curl (and coincidentally, another burnt forehead). . .

While driving into work I may or may not have heard on the radio that Justin Timberlake was in town filming a music video and I may or may not have said a silent prayer that for the first time in weeks I had my hair down and I was not wearing my spandex sausage suit but rather a black suit that may or may not have made me look flabulous. (Flabby yet FABULOUS). . .

I may or may not have posted on my Face Book site that Justin Timberlake was stalking me again. . .

I may or may not have entertained the idea for more than 20 minutes that Justin Timberlake could actually be in town before realizing it was an April Fool’s Joke . . .

I may or may not have spent far too much time at work gossiping with everyone about Justin Timberlake . . .

I may or may not have left work to pick up the kids at 2 to only realize that on Tuesdays they do not get picked up until 3 . . .

I may or may not have used the extra hour I had to go to Taco Bell and the Liquor Store. . .

I may or may not have been seen in the Liquor store with taco meat on my shirt and lettuce in my hair . . .

I may or may not have been really embarrassed when the sales clerk at the Liquor Store pulled a band-aid sized piece of lettuce from my hair at the checkout . . .

I may or may not have a drinking problem and that is why I am continually seen at the liquor store . . .

I may or may not have been too lazy to cook and fed the kids popcorn, Easter Eggs, and carrot sticks for dinner and said we were having a “movie picnic” . . .

I may or may not have taken a picture of “the money I could be saving on Geico” and considered posting on this blog . . .

I may or may not have had 2 glasses of “the body of Christ” for my dinner . . .

I may or may not have fallen asleep on the couch at 8:15 and missed most of American Idol . . .

I may or may not be going to hell because I may or may not have made the comment to Paco that I am surprised the blind guy didn’t sing a Stevie Wonder song for Motown week . . .

I may or may not want to hit the blind guy with a baseball bat because his voice may or may not make me really crazy and violent. . .

I may or may not be telling the truth and all of the above actually happened yesterday. April Fools???

Fashion Police

2009-03-31T06:52:00.000-07:00

Clinton and Stacey really need to make a trip to Ithaca. Today, I saw a woman driving a Volvo wearing a life preserver. A big, orange, puffy, life preserver. I panicked when I first noticed her. Perhaps she knew of an impending apocalypse, or perhaps she was preparing for the melting of the polar ice caps. But, as she drove closer to me, I noticed that her life preserver happened to have a fur trimmed hood. Then it hit me. This woman dressed this way on purpose! She thinks that actually looks good.

I swear to you all right now that if I had lights and sirens in my mini-van I totally would have pulled her over. Seriously, after several fleeting glances I feel it safe to say that this woman needs a bit of a fashion intervention.

I can't say that I am the most fashionable person at all times. Usually at any given moment you can find some sort of stain on me. I affectionately refer to my hooters as crumb catchers, so you get the idea. But I do my best to color coordinate and I am ALWAYS well accessorized.

However, the idea of someone using a boating aid as a piece of avante garde fashion is very unsettling to me. Clearly if she can afford a Volvo, then she can afford to shop somewhere other than Bob's marina. I can only assume that she is single and friendless, because no one that really loves her would let her out of the house like that.

I hereby give each and every one of you the authority to "arrest" me should I ever commit such a fashion offense. I can't promise you that my two-ton thunder thighs will always look fabulous stuffed into various ensembles. But, I solemnly swear that said thighs will be supported by fabulous shoes and hidden behind marvelous purses that more than make up for it.

When is too much vomit ENOUGH??

2009-03-30T12:29:00.000-07:00

Last week was rough. We played "sick rolls down hill" and the cootie bug worked it's way from Paco, to me, to Ace, and then Deuce. Luckily, Trey missed getting sick this time. (However, he didn't escape completely unharmed.) The rest of us, well, we all took turns worshiping the porcelain god.

Paco was first in line. And, I must say that Paco is quite possibly the worst sick person EV-VER. Men just don't know how to be sick gracefully. They have to let you know that they are sicker, pukier, and more feverish than anyone else ever was. I mean, how could anyone that has given birth to three children even have a remote clue as to the level of pain that illness can bring? He even dared utter the phrase "you have no idea how sick I am right now." Suddenly we are competing in the battle of the sick-os. AND, he feels it necessary that I personally tend to his every need. (And even when he is sick, he thinks he has those needs. "OK, puke-breath, back-off. My pills don't make me that happy. Brush your teeth and then we'll talk.")

As a matter of fact I DID know how sick he was because within a matter of hours, I was going through the exact same thing. And, while sick, I still managed to do two loads of laundry, make dinner, bathe the kids, and empty the dishwasher. All I needed was a little ginger ale to keep me going. (And yes, I did call Paco at work and make him stop and get me some more ginger ale, therefore, he feels that he is single-handedly responsible for my speedy recovery.)

However, the boys, well, they seemed to get the worst of it. I think they both puked more than twice their body weight worth of liquid. I dealt with so much vomit over the course of 3 days that I am now an Expert Vomitologist.

And, as an Expert Vomitologist, I feel compelled to warn you all of the dangers of allowing a sick child to sleep in the top bunk. My precious son Deuce woke up in the middle of the night needing to vomit. Instead of using the puke-bucket I had lovingly placed by his head, he decided to lean over the side of the bunk bed and let it all loose. However, we have those fancy T-shaped bunk beds, and the stream of bile managed to land square on top of a sleeping Trey. You see, Trey likes to squish all the way down in the covers and sleep at the very bottom of the bed. So, Deuce's vomit was a direct missile onto Trey's head. (and neck, and arms, and chest, and the sheets, blanket, comforter, rug, etc. . . )

So, Paco is trying to pull down the puking kid from the top bunk and I am trying to comfort the half-asleep 4 year old that is screaming "stop puuuuuuuking on me broller." Hmmm, there isn't anything about comforting a sleepy child covered in his brother's vomit in the parenting manual, so I am forced to wing it. I decide to remove Trey's pajamas, give him a quick wipe down, and put both kids in bed with us. I shut the door to their room and decide that I will deal with the mess in the morning.

Needless to say, morning came much too fast, and I had quite a clean-up job ahead of me. I scrubbed, steam-cleaned, disinfected, and washed every stitch of bedding in the house.

I am proud to say that we are all healthy at the moment, and we are looking forward to our upcoming trip to Myrtle Beach. I can only hope that we are able to leave the puke-buckets behind . . .

Stupid People

2009-03-26T09:05:00.001-07:00

I don't want to start off sounding like I have some sort of God complex, because that certainly isn't the case. However, I have had my fill of stupid people this week. (And it's only wednesday. ugh) And, I'm not talking mildly stupid, I am talking the person that see's you in a boat, on a lake, with a fishing pole in your hands and asks you if you are going fishing. That kind of stupid. (Here's your sign kind of stupid)

It started on Sunday, when I was pulling into the parking garage at work. All the gates were up, and there was a large sign on the toll booth that said "free parking evenings and weekends". However, a lovely woman from NJ was holding up the entrance because she couldn't "get the damn machine to spit her out a ticket."

"Um, lady, it's free today. That means there are no tickets. " So she gives me a dirty look and speeds away. Uh, you're welcome.

Monday I get a phone call at work from some automated woman telling me that my auto warranty was due to expire.

It was the third call in like 15 minutes, so I figured I'd wait to talk to someone to get the number removed from their call list. Our work van is so old that the warranty expired in like 1982. So, after hitting 44 buttons I finally get through to a cheery person that asks "Are you ready to extend your auto warranty?"

I try to be funny and tell her that my van is older than dirt and I really don't need to worry about a warranty, and I just want to be removed from their calling list. She cheerily informed me that their warranty program does cover classic cars. My beater van is a classic? I never looked at it that way. I politely say "no thanks, please just remove this number from your calling list."

She proceeds to ask me if I have the funds to pay for an engine replacement out of pocket. Or, a new transmission. Because those repairs are covered under their plan. She clearly isn't taking now for an answer. So, I played along. She went down her list and asked me a series questions. After about 10 minutes, she says "ma'am I really think that this plan makes sense for you. For only $1999 you can have complete piece of mind." Hello Dolly, um, "that is more than I paid for the darn van. Please just remove me from your calling list."

And, I swear to God, this woman says "well, thanks for wasting my time" and hangs up the phone on me. Hmmm, now I wasted HER time. Interesting concept.

That should have met my stupid people quota for the week, but there's more. Unfortunately.

I went to Wal-Mart to buy a bunch of clearance Valentine merchandise. I was getting some frames, candles, and a bunch of shiny foil hearts to use at the store next year. I counted that I had 32 shiny foil hearts. I even double counted, and yep, 32 shiny foil hearts. I told the woman at the check out that I had 32 shiny foil hearts. And do you know what she did? She scanned each one individually. Really. And when they wouldn't scan, instead of just using the bar code from another one, she would enter the numbers manually on the keypad. 14 minutes and 2 fistfuls less of hair later, I finally was able to pay and leave the store.

But the stupidest person of all????? That would be the lady at Home Depot looking at door knobs for 10 minutes and pulling her hair out and finally asking a 17 year old clerk why all the packs come with two knobs because she only needs one. "Ma'am, um, that is just one knob. One goes on the inside of the door, and one goes on the outside of the door." The woman turned 14 different shades of red, grabbed the first knob she could find, and ran from the store. That woman would also happen to be me. Yes, I really thought I was much smarter than that. Here's MY sign . . .

Paco's Coming Out

2009-03-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

We had a very unique crisis in my household the other day. Somehow in the midst of acting like a 6 year old and playing "you can't find me" with the kids, my dear 39 year-old hubby Paco managed to lock himself in the closet in one of the kid's room. Somehow the knob fell off but the mechanism remained inside.

I happened to be hiding in the bathroom, on the phone with a Girlfriend while this was happening, so, I was blissfully unaware of all the commotion in the other room.

My youngest, Trey, did come into the bathroom and start screaming something and waving a golden orb at me, which I assumed was a broken toy or something, however, I quickly ssshhhhed him and told him to get out. A few minutes later he came running back in hollering and waving his arms. This time I may have said something like "if you don't be quiet and get out of here right now I am going to rip off your arm and beat you with it!" Or something along those line.

About 5 minutes later my oldest son comes running in with a powerdrill in his hand. "Mom, I'm not joking. We're having an emergency. Dad is stuck in the closet."

OK, so now he has my attention. "So what do you mean Dad is stuck in the closet?" I ask.

"Come here and see" he says as he starts dragging me out of the room. I quickly say "goodbye" to the Girlfriend and go to investigate.

Upon entering the kid's room I see the floor is covered with various tools. There are scissors, pliers, hedge trimmers, a steak knife, wire cutters, a phillips head screwdriver, a plastic hammer, and a bag of fruit snacks scattered on the floor. (Trey thought Daddy might be hungry so he was feeding him fruit snacks through the small hole.)

Clearly, my kids were ready for action. However, my first reaction was to prolong the incarceration and drag this out and really torture my dear Paco. So, I lean up next to the door and whisper "Hey handsome. Why you hiding in the closet? Are you stuck?" I purr dermurely.

I hear a muffled "yes" come through the door.

"I'm sorry pookie-bear, what did you say? I am having a hard time hearing you."

I hear another grunt and a mumbled "yes" come through the door.

"What sweetie? I didn't get that." I say

"YES I AM STUCK IN HERE!" He yells at me.

"Is it dark in there?" I ask.

"Yeeesss" he retorts very sarcastically.

"Well then, maybe you should have installed those lights the last 14 times I asked you." (Hey I had a captive audience and I had to get my point across. However, I am quite sure the lights will be installed in the closet by this weekend.)

I pass a 2' long screwdriver in to Paco and he manages to pry the door away from the frame and push it out enough that the door finally pops open.

Slowly a very embarrased 39 year old man with his head wagging low begins to emerge from the closet wearing his tattered t-shirt and boxer briefs.

Naturally I say "Nice to see you finally coming out of the closet, dear."

That should be enough punishment for one day, but of course I have to take it one step further and remind the kids to tell their teachers that Daddy finally came out of the closet this weekend.

I'd like to see how he explains that one.

Back to the Gym

2009-03-19T08:06:00.000-07:00

After dealing with sick kids for what seemed like centuries, I finally made it back to the gym. And, oh what a welcoming committee was there to greet me!

Not only was Kitty there in her SKINNY jeans and Farrah Fawcett hair, but she was joined this time by two blond co-eds that I have affectionately named Tawny and Bambi. And, also joining the crew today was Fitness Frank. I can only assume that he is the owner because for an older, bald man with a bit of a pot belly, he seems to be the center of attention. They are all standing behind the counter which I have dubbed "the ring." Any smart comments from a single one of them and you bet your booty that I will jump right in their ring and hurt someone. I am soooooo sleep deprived that I am borderline psychotic today.

There is only one other person in the gym today beside my welcoming committee, and that is Crazy Mike. He is the toothless-tattooed wonder that thinks hitting on fat girls is an Olympic sport for which he is training. Wow, can a girl get any luckier??? I give him the finger right off the bat today so he doesn't even THINK about trying to chat me up.

I grab my towel and head for my throne in the corner. I get myself situated with my ipod and my book and I start pedalling away. This bike used to be my favorite machine in the world. But for some reason, today my thighs feel like they could spontaneously combust and any moment. It's so bad that I see Kitty standing by with a fire extinguisher. I can only think that when I did my tanning parlor squats the other day that I must've used some muscles that haven't seen action in a while. But at any rate, I am pedaling in pain. This is going to be a very long 30 minute ride.

About 12 minutes into my session I see everyone in the ring watching me. At this point I am the only one in the gym, so they all get to focus their attention on me. A few seconds later Tawny starts walking toward me. Oh great. I pause the Ipod and see what she needs.

"Hi there!" she chirps in her I'm-so-happy-I'm-a-hot-size-4 voice. "We couldn't help but notice that aren't getting the most out of your workout today. You really need to slide your seat back a notch so that your legs fully extend as you are pedalling."

"Thanks, but I'm comfortable this way." I shoot back. And I give her a look that clearly says "if your bony little butt even tries to tell me one more thing I am going to strangle you with the wires of my Ipod." What I really wanted to say to her was "well, Tawny, at least I'm not on the couch eating a box of ho-ho's. Something is better than nothing."

I didn't realize I was being patrolled by the Fitness Police. Is this a free service or do I have to pay a monthly fee? I wouldn't be surprised if they start handing out tickets soon. That is just how my luck is going lately.

As a side note, I have to add that there are 3 televisions in this gym. They are all 12" TV's that are bolted to the ceiling. They have the sound off but closed captioning on so that you can read what is going on on the screen. But the funny part is that due to the locations of these TV's, you would need binoculars to read anything on the screen. For some reason I find this extremely humorous. I think tomorrow I will bring binoculars just to see what happens.

I finish my tour-de-france on the bike and I do a few rounds of sit-up thingys on a weird looking machine. (I'm sure I'm doing that wrong too but they wouldn't dare correct me today.)

I toss my towel in the bin by the door and shout goodbye to the crew in the ring. And, I literally shouted goodbye because I had my Ipod on super loud and I didn't realize it. Oops.

I can only imagine the talk in the ring after I left. They probably don't have another client that is as bitter about working out as I am. Or as bitchy. But, hey, what would they have to talk about if I hadn't been there today?

A Happy Marriage

2009-03-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

Warning: This post is not for the prissy, prude, or weak of stomach. If you do not have a dirty sense of humor, then please do not read any further.

OK, so you are still reading. You have been fairly warned.

First, I have to admit that I never made it to the gym yesterday. Even though I was wearing my spandex finest, I never made it. However, since my thighs are still aching from my ballet squats at the tanning parlor, I am totally counting that as a workout. So technically I am off the hook.

I want to tell you all the my dear dog Otis has not had any "accidents" in the house since my last post about him. Perhaps he is finally catching on. Whatever it may be, I am thrilled and Rick's TV is finally losing the urine smell.

However Otis is not without his flaws. He is still a humper. We haven't had the chance to get him fixed yet, so he still tries to mount any poor pooch that enters our yard. And, he particularly LOVES the leg of one of my Girlfriend's son. (I think he can smell their German Shepard and he goes absolutely nuts. I feel bad for the poor kid because he is probably scarred for life. He doesn't even want to come over any more.) Otis' snippage is on my to-do list.

We have a large chaise that sits in front of a big picture window. And Otis loves to jump up and sort of sit on my shoulder and look out the window. It's really quite cute, and the kids call him Otis the Parrot. (And I may make stupid pirate sounds.) The only problem with this is that his canine cohones always seem to end up stuck to my neck or right in my face.

Naturally Paco thinks this is hysterical, so any time someone sits in the chaise he will call the dog up. I however get truly grodied out and I usually end up whizzing Otis right at Paco's head. (OK, so I don't really throw the dog . . . it's more like a gentle love toss. Ahem, sure.)

So the other night Otis jumps up on the couch and lays at my feet. He is laying with his butt facing me, and naturally his kibbles-n-bits are staring me right in the face. Otis is not a big dog. So, his cohones stick out quite prominently. I think they might even wave a flag that says "hello, here I am, look at me!" It certainly seems that way.

Well his big orbs were there . . . in my face. Seriously, I couldn't escape them. They were like everywhere. It was like when you know you don't want to look, but you can't help looking every few seconds. Very disturbing.

They are pink with black-ish speckles. (or hair, who knows, I certainly don't look that closely.) So, me, thinking that I am quite possibly the funniest person ever, make the comment to my dear hubby Paco that the round knobs protruding from Otis's hind quarters look like speckled Candy Easter Eggs.

And Paco says "No, honey, that is the money you could be saving with Geico."

So I totally laughed myself 'till I peed. And that friends is why I am still blissfully happy (90% of the time) after 12 1/2 years of marriage.

Only In My World

2009-03-17T08:54:00.000-07:00

Seriously folks, I can not make this kinda stuff up. Crazy things always happen in my world. All I can think of is the old Hee-Haw song "if it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all . . ."

So, I recently bought a one month tanning package to prepare for our April trip to Myrtle Beach. Yes, I know, someone who had a cancerous mole removed 6 years ago really shouldn't be tanning. But, I don't care what anyone says, fat and wrinkles both look better tan. So, there you have it.

Anyway, I buy this one-month package and I manage to get 1 session in before Trey gets sick. So, in two weeks time I've managed to go exactly twice.

I made a conscious effort to go tanning this morning before work. Since the place doesn't open until 9, I killed time by stalking Wal-Mart for clearance items. (And lucky me snagged a supercute shirt for the hubster for $3. Woo-hoo.)

At 9:05 I enter the tanning place and got myself signed in. (The young lady behind the counter was crying and I totally should have taken that as a sign and left.)

I get in my room and get busy lotioning up every ounce of my skin. I am so looking forward to my 7 minutes of Vitamin D. I take my time and really lotion up nicely.

Um, I wasn't wearing underwear today (which is in itself a long story that I may or may not share with you at another time. In the meantime, just use your imagination.) so I rigged my spandex sausage pants (I planned on going to the gym afterward so I was dressed in my best Buns Of Steel ensemble.) into a sort of loin cloth. I was quite proud of myself actually for my amazing problem solving skills.

I am one of those people who always wear my bra and undies (or a swimsuit) while tanning. In my mind everyone else does too. The thought of laying in someone else's butt juice will get me hyperventilating. I know they clean the beds between tanners, but still . . . So, I have convinced myself that everyone tans in their panties. My butt has never seen the light of day and is a glorious shade of snow white.

Anywhooo, I finally get myself lotioned up, loin-clothed, and tucked into the bed. (Oh, and I had a cute hot pink barette with a monkey on the bed pulling back the ever-fabulous bangs.) I put my little hot pink gogglettes on and I attempt to turn on the tanning bed. As I tried to turn on the bed I turned my head just enough to have one of my goggles fall off my face, land on the tanning bed, and ricochet out of the bed. I only had 1 minute before the tanning bed turned on by itself so I hurried to search for my lost goggle.

I am on my hands and knees searching when I realize that the goggle has slid under the 1" gap in the wall partition and is now in the hallway. And it is about a 1/2" away from the tips of my fingers.

Great, now I have to open the door and step outside my private room to retrieve the goggle. I realized that I wasn't dressed to pull that off without major problems, so I threw on my knee-length black raincoat and I carefully opened the door.

I did the whole CIA/Spy maneuver and looked cautiously in both directions. I figured if I ran out really quickly no one would even be the wiser. I mean the place just opened, how many people could be there already?

The coast was clear so I quickly ran out and grabbed the goggle. As I bent over to pick it up, my makeshift loin cloth just happened to fall down around my ankles. So, now I have to do a careful squatting maneuver to pick up the loin cloth because if I attempt to bend over, all my girly parts will be on display.

So now I am attempting a ballet-style plie squat to get my loin cloth. And, as I do this, I also manage to drop the goggle again, and this time it slides under another partition into a room with a closed door and the glowing blue light coming out from underneath.

I again try to do the graceful squat maneuver to retrieve the goggle from under the door. And, just at that moment a very cute college boy exits the bathroom and starts heading down the hall toward me.

This must look really good. A half naked woman squatting in a rain coat with a pair of pants around her neck and her hand under someone elses door. Can you say "psycho stalker?"

Naturally the cute college boy has to make a smart comment and he smiles and says "oh, are you a flasher?"

"I'm sorry son, I don't feel like scarring anyone for life today. I just dropped my goggle." I say and run back into my room.

At this point the tanning bed has already been on for 2 minutes and I only have 5 minutes left to get my glorious tan. I wear the one goggle that I have and keep switching it back and forth so I don't get pirate-eye syndrome.

After my 5 minute escape, I quickly redress and hide in my room until the person across the hall leaves their room and I can retrieve my goggle.

I get my goggle and bolt for the door. I really hope they don't have surveillance cameras. Because if that is the case then I can never go back.

And, as I sit here sharing this story with you it has come to my attention that my make shift loin-cloth may not have been the best idea either. I clearly missed a good portion of my snowy white butt that is now a wonderful shade of hot-pink, and causing me a bit of misery.

The truly sad part? I will be back tomorrow for more.

Our night at the Dentist's

2009-03-13T16:28:00.001-07:00

We have settled into our room at the hospital. We have a nice private room with views of the lake. Trey is put into bed and the nurse shows him how to use the remote and how to move the bed up and down. So naturally we spend the next 30 minutes listening to the bed go up and down and watching the channels change.

The nurses here are great. They are really doing their best to chat up my little man. They take him into another room to do the blood work and insert his IV. Since he is so dehydrated, they are having trouble with the IV, and after poking 14 holes in his right arm, they have to call in someone else. He's crying and I'm bawling.

The next nurse gets the IV in after just a few tries. Naturally it is painful and Trey is crying crocodile tears. So, they give him a stack of stickers and send us back to our room.

We get him settled back into bed and he spends another 15 minutes playing with the up and down buttons. The poor guy was just a human pin cushion so I am letting him do whatever makes him happy at this point.

The nurse comes in and hooks up his bag of IV fluids and explains that he is getting a solution of 10% sugar. "It's like an IV bag of kool-aid," she explains. "Is that legal?" I ask. I mean seriously folks, sugar in the kids IV? Isn't that just asking for trouble? She politely explains that his body needs the energy to fight the infection in his blood.

"Well, can I get an IV bag of coffee please?" I ask. (It doesn't hurt to try . . .)

Trey's lunch tray arrives a few minutes later. He is less than impressed with his assortment of chicken broth and jello. I have to laugh because they also included a mug of hot tea. For some reason I just don't see this being a popular choice with 4 year olds. After struggling for 10 minutes trying to get him to eat I give up and send Paco to the vending machine. He has lost 3 pounds in the last week and he looks like a twig. My thought is that the poor kid has been through so much, let's just give him whatever is going to make him happy. So Paco comes bag with a variety of bags and Trey is happy to munch on some doritoes. Naturally, the nurse catches us red-handed.

God bless the nurse because she pretends she doesn't see it. She says that Trey has been through enough and if he wants to nibble on some chips, well at least he is eating something. My hero. I am so sending her a thank you card when this is over.

Now Trey is starting to get calls from friends and family and he tells everyone that he is at the Dentists. I thinks it's kinda cute, so I don't bother correcting him. However dear Paco aka the pronunciation police has to tell him that he is at the "hospital." And when Trey pronounces in HOPS-pital, Paco spends the next five minutes sounding out hos-spit-tal.

Oh Paco, the poor kid is sick and in the hospital. Can't you give him a break?

Trey is really starting to catch on to being the center of attention. He has figured out that the nurse will give him anything he really wants. She asked if he was thirsty and he said he wanted orange juice. Within seconds he was sipping on an ice-cold cup of OJ. So, when I was busy ready People, he pressed the call button for the nurse. When she enters the room asking "what do you need little guy?" He promptly replies "a tuna sandwich." Apparently the jello and broth just aren't cutting it.

After kindly explaining to him that he can't have normal food right now she returned seconds later with a Popsicle. Crisis averted.

Trey really started to perk up right away. The fluids were definitely helping. He went through an entire bag and was on his second bag before he had to use the bathroom. The nurse said that he really needed some fluids and that this was a good sign. However, getting a four year old to pee in a "hat" is not a task that should be taken lightly. You see, the first stream of urine naturally ricochets up and out, and in this case, veers to the right and directly into the face of the sleep-deprived mother that was holding on to the IV pole.

We get the little man tucked back into his bed, and again we spend the next 15 minutes listening to the bed move up and down until he finds the perfect position. After we are settled, the stream of gifts start to arrive . . .

Trey gets two balloon bouquets, 2 stuffed animals, and a bag full of candy and toys. He is starting to really like this hospital stuff.

Trey finally passes out at 6, and Paco decides to go home to "work on his paper." Sure, he is coincidentally going home to "work on his paper" right as March Madness begins and Syracuse is playing. Uh-huh. He must really think that because I am looney with the lack of sleep that I have become a COMPLETE moron. But, I smile and wave. I'll get him back later. Oh, you bet I will.

I hunker down for a wonderful night of sleep on a stained chair made of concrete and cardboard. I feel bad for Trey because the nurses have to come in every few hours and wake him to check his vitals. But, he takes it all in stride. God bless him.

By 6 am the next morning, I am starting to petrify and I'm in major need of caffeine. So, I find get Trey to the potty, find Sponge Bob on TV, get Trey situated with drinks and candy, and explain to him how to use the call button if he needs the nurse. I head out in search of coffee. As I am at the nurses station telling them that I am going to get coffee, I see that Trey has already hit the nurses call button. I walk behind the nurse and I hang outside the door.

"My Mom went to get coffee. So, do you you want to hang out with me?" Trey says. Naturally she sits down beside him and I head for the cafeteria.

I'm not gone long. After I get back and start enjoying my coffee, Trey's breakfast tray shows up. I don't know who put this together, but somehow I can't really see a 4 year old getting too excited for chicken broth and jello for breakfast. Oh, and they included a steaming hot cup of coffee this time. FOR A FOUR YEAR OLD. I pulled out a bagel with cream cheese from my purse and let him munch away. That's what mom's are for.

Paco shows up shortly after with a piping hot cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee. OK, so now maybe I'll forgive him for ditching us for basketball. Maybe.

The Dr. comes in and examines Trey. He is marvelled at how well he is doing now, and says that if Trey can eat a normal meal and have a normal bowel movement than we should be able to go home in 6 or 8 hours. Woo-hoo!!!

When Trey's lunch of mac-n-cheese arrives we immediately start cheerleading to get him to eat. Paco says "If you eat all your lunch then we can go home!"

"I like it here!" Trey responds.

Um, not the right thing to say to motivate a 4 year old who thinks the hospital is better than a hotel.

Trey did a good job of eating, and I may have accidentally told the nurse that he had a BM when he really didn't. But the end result is that we were able to go home. Ahhhh, HOME.

Florence Nightengale

2009-03-13T16:15:00.001-07:00

Please forgive me for my lack of posts. I have been busy playing nurse for the last 11 days. And today I am so pathetically tired that this post may or may not make any sense whatsoever. So, in advance, please forgive me. . .

It is that time of year - sick kids everywhere. And naturally, my kids are all taking turns getting sick so they can prolong my torture.

It started last Thursday evening with my youngest Trey. He started throwing up and running a temperature of 103.1. Let me explain to you first that Trey is quite possibly the worst puker to ever walk the earth. He is what I would call a puke-talker. He has to do a running commentary while green bile is shooting out of his mouth. “Mom” cough – spit – “ I am “ cough – spit – vomit – “so sick” – cry – cough- spit – vomit – “I’m puke” cough – spit- vomit –cry – “puuuuuking” – vomit – cough – “I can’t go to” – cry – cough – vomit – spit – “pre-k.”

He had to make it very clear to me that since he was sick he needed to stay home. He loves school, but he loves being stuck to me 24/7 even more. And when he is sick, I am the one who really suffers. Naturally, he knows hows to work me, and in his most pathetic voice he would completely order me to satisfy every whim. (He thought he was too sick to hold his own cup of water so I had the pleasure of performing every sip.)

Within minutes (well it seemed like it anyway) he had the 3 pack-a-day cough, constant vomiting, and a fever that was hovering between 102 and 104. It seemed like he was getting sicker by the minute.

By Friday afternoon he was delirious and telling me he couldn’t find his helmet. Whaaaaaaaaaat? So, I made an appointment at the Dr’s. I didn’t want him to have to suffer through the weekend. Or, perhaps I didn’t want to suffer through the weekend. But, in either case, he was off to the Dr’s.

My dear hubby Paco volunteered to take him since I was functioning solely on caffeine and absolutely no sleep. I rattled off the checklist of things he needed to discuss with the Dr. and I sent him on his way. (I even made a point to tell him that he needed to tell the Dr. that this is our THIRD child, and we really know how to tell when he is sick-sick or just sick. And this time I knew he was sick-sick.)

So, what does Paco call and tell me is the problem?????? It's a VIRUS, and it needs run it's course. Oh, and this one is a 5-day VIRUS, so he will be like this for five FREAKIN' days. "And if he's not better in 5 days, do call us and schedule an appointment to be seen again. Thank you, that will be 5 hundred dollars please."

The Dr. that saw him is a bit, well, crunchy. (As in yoga doin', no-armpit-shavin, "let your body heal itself" kinda crunchy.) Paco said she was in the room for no more than one minute performing her exam. So, this diagnosis should have been expected. But, it still ticked me off. All she had to do is send us home with a bottle of tylenol with the words "miracle medicine" written in magic marker across the front and I would have felt sooo much better. Just something to make me feel like she actually gave a damn and I wasn't completely over-reacting. But, nope, nothing. Just a "call us if he's not better in 5 days" send-off. Thanks for that.

So for 5 glorious days I cleaned puke off of every orifice in the house. (He even managed to get puke on the dog. I can't quite get over that one.) I dispensed so much tylenol and advil that I decided I should buy stock in them. I wiped 300 butt-loads of diarrhea and did laundry 24/7. And, I even managed to be nice. (Which under the circumstance deserves both a trophy AND a trip to the spa.)

Somewhere in the midst of this Ace also started puking and needed motherly supervision. He seemed to recover much more quickly though.

So, by day six when Trey's fever topped out at 105, I think I may have actually been swearing when I called the Dr's office to make appointment #2. The call may have gone something like: "Good Morning, such-and-such pediatrics. How can I help you today."

"You can help me by giving me some friggen' ANTIBIOTICS already! We are on day 6 of the 5-day virus and my son is WORSE!!!!! He hasn't slept in 6 days, he has puked and diarrhead more than double his body weight, and now he has greenish-yellow slime oozing from his nose now. Can you tell me why that is possible, huh, can you, CAN YOU???" I scream in the phone.

"Um, well, how soon can you get here?" She says ever so sweetly.

Needless to say I was there in 15 minutes.

I insisted on seeing his regular pediatrician. He performed a very thorough exam and sat me down for the news . . .

He has pneumonia and a raging ear infection. The ear infection is so bad that the Dr. can see puss. Wonderful. (The word puss actually makes me gag, so it was quite a miracle that I didn't start vomiting too.) It will be 5 more days of antibiotics and nebulization every 4 hours before he will be back to normal.

Great. This 5 day virus is turning into a 10 day party. Woo-hoo. Lucky me.

So, he sends us to the hospital for blood work and chest x-rays, and tells me that we should start seeing some mild improvement, and to come back tomorrow.

We head home, perform all the required tasks, and I'm back at the Dr's the next day.

Trey's fever has finally broke so that is a positive sign. And, his ears are looking much better. (I didn't bother to mention that I used half a box of q-tips cleaning out the goo. I am a mother after all and the thought of puss in my sons ear made me gaggy. So, I waited 'till he was asleep and went to town cleaning them out. At least I felt a little better.)

The Dr. was happy with his progress and we were given the usual "If he doesn't get better in a couple of days, give us a call and we'll have you come in again."

That night, I nebulized, medicated, watered, and tucked-in Sir Trey and headed for bed. My dear hubby Paco volunteered to sleep on the couch and be on sick-patrol so that I could get some much needed rest. What a super duper guy.

At exactly 12:02 am my dear precious Trey climbed into bed with me and immediately started puke-talking. "I don't have a good feeling about this" puke-cough-spit-sputter-"Mom, I'm SIIIIIICCCCCKKK"puke-cough-spit. Somehow, this precious little 4 year old managed to get vomit on my comforter, 2 shams, 1 pillow case, 1 pillow, the top sheet, the blanket, the bottom sheet, and in my hair. It was after had stripped the bed and screamed a stream of cuss-words that dear-'ol Paco wanders in and says "when did he come in here?" Oh, Paco, Paco . . . I could just feel my hand squeezing my imaginary knife. That man has no idea how lucky he is to still be breathing.

The next morning, Trey's puking and diarrhea intensified, so at exactly 8:30 am I was on the phone with the Dr's office. "Good Morning, such-and-such pediatrics. How can I help you today?"

"He has had 2 doses of antibiotics and he is STILL puking! He is not getting any better. You said he would be getting better!!!!!!!!"

"Good Morning, Mrs. P. How soon can you be here?" I didn't even have to give my name this time. Imagine that.

45 minutes later we were back at the Dr.'s and 30 minutes after that, we were headed for the hospital. Apparently the Dr. wasn't happy with Trey's progress either, and he wanted to get him on IV meds.

You can only imagine what I might look like after 9 days of sick children and no sleep. I imagine that my odor wasn't terribly wonderful either. My hair was looking kinda like Amy Winehouse's and my clothes were stained. I think I may have scared the nurses.

Perhaps it worked in my favor because we were given a private room. . . Good times. . .

Synchronized Snoring

2009-03-05T06:26:00.000-08:00

My husbands ability to snore rarely ceases to amaze me. However, his antics last night were absolutely blog-worthy.

Paco has been a consistent snorer since we were married. However, it seems to be gotten worse through the years. Now his snores have actually started to crack the sheetrock on the ceiling in our room from all the vibrations. Seriously, it is quite bad. I constantly have to roll him over when he is sleeping so he will stop. Yet he is still in denial that he snores. (I have video taped him several times to prove my point but he thinks that I am making the snoring sound because it is so exaggerated. Hellooooo - McFly - that is the lovely snorking sound you make on a regular basis!!!!!)

Out of sheer desperation I bought a product for him called Snore-Stop. (Actually is was free with a rebate so I figured it was worth a shot.) So I put the box on his dresser so he would be sure to see it. He comes home last night, sees the box, and asks me "who is that for?"

"You, numnuts" I say.

"But I don't snore" Paco says.

"Um, yes, you really do." I reply.

"Well, it can't be that bad because I've never noticed it." He states matter of factly.

Ya THINK?????? Perhaps you haven't noticed it because your FREAKIN' SOUND ASLEEP?????!!!!!?????

I was grabbing my imaginary knife and clenching my teeth when I sweetly replied, "maybe you could just try it tonight for my sake. Kay?"

I think he grunted something but I was too busy running from the room to avoid having to go all spousal abuse on him.

Neither one of us has had much sleep for the last few nights, as we have had a steady stream of coughing kids wake us up. So, to say that we are tired is a mere understatement.

Paco and I finally got settled on the couch a few minutes after 8. He had the remote (as usual) so he was switching back between American Idol and some show on discovery about a swamp monster. He's got the remote in his hand, aimed at the TV, and he is scrolling through the channels to see what else is on. One second he is clicking on Ghost Hunters and the very next second he is snoring. It happened so quickly that I thought he was faking, but upon further inspection (OK, so maybe I stuck my fingernail up his nose) I found that he was truly sound asleep. He still had his arm up pointing at the TV and he was snoring like a lumberjack.

I quietly reach over to grab the remote so I can watch something other than Alligator Man and as my hand is within 1 inch of the remote, Paco suddenly opens his eyes and starts clicking through the channels. He never even skipped a beat.

"Dude, give me the remote, you were zonked out and snoring again." I say.

"No I wasn't." He says.

"Yes you were."

"No I wasn't." He repeats.

"I gave you a wet willy and you didn't even flinch. I can assure you that you were asleep. So give me the friggen remote!" I say as fire blows out from my nose.

He grudgingly hands me the remote. And before I am back to the other couch, he is already snoring again. You have got to be kidding me. This has to be some sort of record. Does anyone have a copy of the Guiness Book of Records handy? Every once in a while he would do a snort/choke snore and I would think that for sure that would wake him up. But, he never even cracked an eyelid.

I click through the channels and I settle on Ghost Hunters. I watch long enough to get my blood pressure up enough so that I am completely wide awake. So, I switch to CSI and try to get drowsy. Finally at 10 pm I round up the troops and head for bed.

Within minutes Paco was snoring again. Go figure. And apparantly it's contagagious because Otis was snoring right along in syncopation. Wonderful. Now the hubby has the dog snoring. (And, I should add that my spoiled dog not only sleeps with us in our bed, but for the last 4 nights he sleeps under the covers with his head on the pillow. MY pillow. Snoring in MY face. If he weren't so darned cute . . . .)

At 12:28 I am still wide awake. Paco and the dog are now snoring in unison. I nudge the dog and give Paco a hearty swat and that stops the insanity for a few moments. Just long enough for me to fall asleep.

My dreams were rudely interupted at exactly 3:36 when my precious son Deuce crawled into bed beside me. "Mom, I can't sleep in my bed." At this point I wouldn't care if Jeffrey Dahmer crawled into bed with me. I'm exausted. So, I tuck him in, give him a smooch, and try to fall back asleep.

Five seconds later Deuce, Paco, and Otis are all snoring. It's a symphony of snores now. Aren't I such a lucky girl to have my own personal lullably crew?

At 3:42 I grab my pillow and head for the couch.

Tonight, however, I will be force-feeding Snore-Stop to both the hubby and the dog before bed. A girls gotta do what a girls gotta do . . .

I really AM friends with Patrick Dempsey

2009-03-03T09:53:00.001-08:00

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Day 2 at the Gym

2009-03-03T09:00:00.000-08:00

I gingerly walked my sore self into the gym for my official day number 2 of working out. I could barely lift my key chain to scan the barcode. But, there was a new cute skinny girl behind the counter today, so I did my very best to look fit and fabulous. (The pain meds have started to kick in and I am loosening up a bit.)

Today the gym is full of wonderfully skinny and fit people. Where did they all come from? I thought that by joining a gym located in the basement that there would be a smidgen of a chance for a little privacy in my workout. Clearly everyone else disagrees because there are at least 20 people that turn to stare at me when I walk in. I feel like I should raise up my arms like I am a celebrity or something. But, I think I'll save that for next week.

I scan the room to figure out where to begin. The only machine that doesn't have someone right next to it is the treadmill. But, unfortunately, the treadmills are located right in front of the stair-steppery things, and I really don't want the pressure of all the fit be-yotches staring at my swass.

I find my work out weapon of choice. It is a sort of bike thingy, with a full seat that you sit on while you sort of pedal out in front of you. It's perched high on a ledge in the corner, directly in front of a fan. So, I have the supermodel-wind-in-the-hair thing happening while I get the most fabulous view of everyone in the gym. And, I don't have to worry about anyone staring at my butt hanging out over the sides of the machine. I have officially dubbed this as MY corner.

I get on my bike and start pedalling like Lance Armstrong. The first two minutes are a bit painful, but once I have loosened up, it feels really great. It's actually kind of easy. (I must be coasting.)

I've got my I-pod cranked and I am just pedalling my heart out. This is wonderful. I feel like Jack LaLane. I must be fit as a fiddle. I am just zooming right along. I am actually starting to enjoy myself.

Apparantly, I was having such a wonderful time that I got a bit carried away. Before long a very large sweaty gentleman in a harley t-shirt covering his naked lady tatoos approaches my throne and says "ding ding."

I pull out my ear buds and politely say "excuse me?"

"Ding ding" he repeats.

"I don't get it. Is my time up or something?" I say.

"No, you kept singing 'you can ring my bell' so I came over to give it a ding."

This would be mildly amusing if the man didn't look like a serial killer and I didn't have sweat dripping from my fabulous bangs. However, I am a bit mortified that I was caught singing.

"Was I that loud?" I ask a bit shocked.

"Well, I was right in front of you. I assumed you were singing to me." He says and gives me a big grin that shows me his lack of teeth.

"Nope. I'm new to this and must've gotten carried away. Sorry." I say in my best leave-me-the-f-alone-and-let-me-finish-my-friggen-workout-in-peace voice. I put my earbuds back in and I resume pedalling like a fiend. I really wish at this point I could pedal right out of the building, but I have 10 more minutes on my program.

Seriously, I don't get men. I am wearing spandex pants and my "I drive a mini-van" tee and I have bobby pins in my bangs to keep them out of my face. My pits are soggy, my face is beet red, and I'm panting. Yet somehow this man thinks that I have come here to be a part of some social dating network. I would be flattered except it is quite obvious to me that this man has no taste whatsoever.

I finish my 40 minute bike ride and I do a quick upper body workout. (OK so I lifted 2 pound weights 20 times, but it's a start.) I've decided to call it quits for the day when I see Killer Man heading my way again.

I practically trip over myself trying to get out the door. I escape and press the button and wait for the elevator. (Yes, I know it very hypocritical that I take an elevator after working out. I'm not quite ready for stairs yet.)

The elevator in our building is a little different. And, it is quite possibly the slowest elevator in the entire world. If you get off the elevator on floors B, 1, or 2 the front doors open. But, if you get off the elevator on 1R, which is where the store is located, the back doors open. So, I entered the elevator in the basement, pressed 1R and walked in and faced the back of the elevator.

It never even crossed my mind that the elevator could possibly stop on the first floor. I just assumed it was a slow trip, and since I was still jamming to my I-pod I was blissfully unaware that the doors had opened and that everyone in the atrium on the first floor was looking at me shake my booty in the elevator. Somehow I missed the discreet coughs from the people outside waiting patiently to get in. But, when someone touched my shoulder, scared the pants off me and I screamed bloody murder, well, it all dawned on me quite suddenly.

I jumped 4 feet in the air and turned around to see a scary homeless-looking woman and Enrique Los Hot Pants standing there waiting to get in. (Enrique Los Hot Pants is the fictitious name we gave the super hot banker/trader guy in the office next to ours. He is like 6'2" and he is absolutely stunning. And since the wall of the store that faces his office is all glass, we get the pleasure of seeing him all day. Wonderful eye candy.)

NOW I am a bit embarrassed. Not only was I caught singing and dancing but it becomes evident to me when I enter the store and see myself in a full length mirror that I also have a wonderful streak of butt sweat down my spandex pants. Wow, what I sight I am.

I am just the classiest of all the class acts. I never cease to amaze myself. Perhaps tomorrow I will take the stairs after all.

The Elephant In The Room

2009-03-03T05:39:00.000-08:00

I officially broke off my relationship with Sven. His B.O. was starting to get to me and I was totally cheating on him anyway. Somehow in the process of my Wii-cheating, I gained back all the weight I had previously lost. I am back at the starting gate.

So, out of sheer deperation, I joined a gym. A real, true, brick and mortar gym where you actually pay to work out. (I still can't quite wrap myself around the fact that I am paying to be miserable and in pain.) But, I did it. I now have my own little bar code scanny thing and I am off and running. (Well, briskly walking)

Yesterday was my first official "day at the gym." And today, every ounce of my body hurts in such a way that typing this blog is causing me mild agony.

The morning started out with the normal paperwork, background check, fingerprinting, and drug test. (Seriously, do you have to know the exact brand of birth control I am on for me to walk on your treadmill?) The lovely woman working the counter looked so fabulous in her spandex and polar fleece, that I couldn't help but be nice and answer all her silly questions. (Apparantly when you have a low percentage of body fat, you get cold very easily. Thanks for that info. I will sleep so much better tonight.)

My wonderful employees chipped in last year and bought me a month-long membership to the gym that is in our building. Well, that was a over a year and a half ago according to Kitty. (I named the front desk lady "Kitty" because she never introduced herself and Kitty just seemed to fit better than Barbie.)

"What took you so long?" Kitty asks me in her very nice I'm-skinnier-than-you'll-ever-be voice.

"Well, I've been very busy," I reply ever so sweetly.

She looks me up and down with a sly smile on her face and I swear I am telepathic because I could hear her saying "yeah, busy eating oreos." But, her mouth never moved. Perhaps I am just bitter. Imagine that.

She proceeds to walk me around and show me all the various machines, and how they work. I really don't remember what any of them are called because in my mind, there are only two types of exercise machines - the elliptical, and anything that is not the elliptical.

I started off with a 30 minute brisk walk on the treadmill. (One of the friendly non-elliptical machines.) I was quite proud of my pace until a 70 year old woman with flame red hair got on the treadmill next to me and totally starting showing me up. And do you know how I know that she is 70? She told me. While - she - was - running. That ol' bitty can exercise and talk at the same time. She is my hero.

So, after the treadmill, I went to the bikes. (Another safe non-eliptical machine.) I pedaled like a maniac for a full 10 minutes, and then I had to move to another machine because the seat gave me an excruciating wedgie. (Can anyone tell me how to discreetly yank out a wedgie in a room full of mirrors without pulling a muscle? Enquiring minds want to know.)

I went to another non-eliptical machine called the orbital or something like that. (I really wasn't paying attention to all the names but I told Kitty that I hated the elliptical more than men in speedos, so she assured me that this was NOT an elliptical, but it was more like a stair climber, but without the pressure on the joints.)

Ok, so one of the first lessons I learned that day is that Kitty doesn't know what the hell she is talking about. I renamed that non-elliptical machine the "Flaming Thighs From Hell" machine. Non-elliptical my fanny. OK, so maybe there isn't the cross-country ski motion thing happening, but you still get the same feeling of going nowhere fast. All the while your thighs are creating so much heat that they are likely to set your pants on fire. I think I hate this machine even more than the elliptical.

But the sad part is that Flame-Haired Granny was again on the machine next to me and she was totally kicking my ass (while telling me all about the last episode of brothers and sisters.) I told myself that I could last the entire 10 minutes that I programmed in. Well, I lasted 7 minutes and 36 seconds. And, when I went to step off the machine, I literally couldn't feel my legs. I swear I was walking on two stacks of jello. My legs were actually jiggling in places I have never seen before. But, somehow, I managed to walk out the door. (And then I crawled to the elevator because no one was around to see me.)

Well, today there is a large, invisible elephant between my legs that is making it impossible for me to function. He literally is everywhere. I can't close my legs. I can't walk in a straight line. And, my thighs and calves have actually started to bend around the darn elephant so I am walking bow-legged. Even peeing is painful. I truly feel the sensation as though I am straddling a 2 ton elephant. (Not that I have ever straddled a 2 ton elephant, but this is how I have always imagined that it would feel.)

So, what's a girl to do? I certainly can't give up after one day. Kitty is expecting me at 8:15. She wants to follow up and see how my first day went. What do I do? Can I call in on my second day?

Well, I am having 2 vicodin and a xanax with my coffee. My plan is to strut bow-leggedly through the door and let Kitty's skinny little ass know that I am ready for day #2. I will keep you all posted. However, if Flame-Haired Granny tries to chat with me again today, there is a very good chance that you will find her treadmill-burned body in the dumpster out back.

The Big Night Out

2009-03-02T08:04:00.000-08:00

I had the rare opportunity to get out of the house this past Saturday night without the hubby and kids. I started off the evening by going to a Tastefully Simple party at a Girlfriend's house. I had never been to one before and I must say for over-priced, pre-packaged food, it is pretty darn yummy. And, it all only takes 1 or 2 ingredients for you to be able to qualify for "home-made" status. We started out with samples of garlic dip and beer bread. What is better than beer and garlic? Maybe a bacon cheese ball? Or chocolate pound cake? I'm drooling again.

Well, before I left, I managed to spend a week's worth of groceries on 2 dip mixes, 3 loaves of bread mix, and a cheese ball. But, it was tasty, so I'm not complaining. My fear is that I will become addicted to the stuff and can somehow justify a 7.95 cake mix on a regular basis.

Well, after 2 loaves of beer bread, I was feeling a slight buzz. So, I headed off to meet up with my Niece at a bar downtown. There was a band playing that she really wanted me to hear. (She had been inviting me for months and months, but with a name like 10 Man Push, I thought she was inviting me to a male stripper show. So, I kept politely declining. Sorry, I don't care how hot you are, but lubed up men hanging out in banana hammocks shaking their willies in my face just don't do it for me. I can get that at home for free.)

Well, they were playing at a Downtown Bar/Restaurant that I used to frequent "back in the day." The name is different, but the inside is still the same. And, it brought back lots of crazy memories. And, boy did I feel old.

I haven't been out to a College bar, since, well, since College. So, I wasn't sure how to behave. Should I act like a civilized adult and quietly sip my drink and completely stand out and look like the ol' lady that I am, or should I be trying to relive the glory days and be singing along at the top of my lungs stalking the band guys and puking in the corner next to the crowd of hot frat boys.

Obviously I opted for Plan A and I quietyly sipped my vodka and soda while hanging out and enjoying the scenery. It is so much more fun to go to a College bar as an innocent bystander. You can really learn so much about people and the world by hanging out in a bar on a Saturday night.

I'll share with you some of the things that I learned on my recent outing. Here is my top ten list of what I learned on Saturday night:

10. Women will sacrifice anything for fashion. A bartended in 4" stiletto boots and women walking around in 11 degree weather with tank tops just wouldn't fly anywhere other than a bar.

9. Girls still hit on the guys in the band. (Even if they are so ugly that if they were mere accountants you wouldn't even give them a second glance.)

8. Boy bartenders put far more alcohol in your drink than girl bartenders do.

7. My neice is a hussy. I mean, having 2 different boyfriends show up at the same time and forcing them to sit next to each other and chat? Um, can you say Huss-Bag? (But, I am afraid that she could have learned this from me many, many years ago. I may have had a serious boyfriend or 2 when I met my future husband. Therfore, I still love her dearly and will not hold this against her. Actually, I am rather proud.)

6. A greasy slice of pizza at midnight is still the greatest snack in the whole-wide-world.

5. Even though I have wrinkles and my ass hangs off the side of the bar stools, men still hit on me. When I show them my wedding ring and they still don't get the hint, I show them my mini-van keys. That usually does the trick.

4. The song Jenny Jenny (867-5309) is still pretty darn cool. Especially when the lead singer of the band is looking right at you making the "call me" sign.

3. The band 10 Man Push is really just 2 guys. And, thankfully they are not strippers.

2. There is no way I can take a man drinking a glass of white wine in a College bar seriously. I don't care how cute he is.

and the number one thing that I learned on my big night out??

1. I am soooooo thankful that I got that scene out of my system many years ago.

I did have a really good time. The band was good, and I was out with a fun group of Girlfriends. Hey, I even managed to stay up past 11. But, I am so thankful that I had Paco waiting at home for me. The best part about going out? Coming home to someone I love. Cheesy, but true.

Lent

2009-02-26T05:46:00.001-08:00

As a Catholic, I am currently involved in the season of Lent. This is the time of year when we are supposed to participate in prayer, fasting, and self-denial to commemorate the 40 days of temptation that Jesus spent in the desert before his death and resurrection. So, what that boils down to is basically not eating any meat on fridays and for me, giving up chocolate.

I said, GIVING UP CHOCOLATE. Ok, now do you get it? For me, that is HUGE! (Normally I give up something easy like sex, but as we all know, that is seriously out of the question this year.)

This morning, I was giving my niece a ride to work and she handed me a delicious looking brownie smothered with frosting. I politely declined (well, I think I said, "You thoughtless, God-less heathen, don't you know I gave up chocolate for Lent?" or something like that.) She looked at me a bit frightened and said, "Aren't you worried that you are going to be an even bigger Bitch than normal????? I mean, we NEED chocolate."

She totally gets me.

I figured if anything was going to help fat girl shed a few pounds, it would be by eliminating chocolate from the diet. And, boy, was I right. Now, all I have left to eat in the house is brown rice and strawberry slim-fast. I should be a size 2 by next wednesday.

However, I may be doing the whole fasting thing a bit wrong. I really wanted to start the Holy Season off right this year, so I tried to be very symbolic with my food choices on Ash Wednesday. I drank only red wine ("blood of Christ") and ate only bread ("body of Christ.")

My Mom had to pop my bubble by telling me that 3 loaves of italian bread smeared with olive oil and butter and 2 bottles of wine was really overdoing the whole sacred ritual thing. She proceeded to tell me "now Jenny darling, you have been drinking too much wine lately. I understand that a glass of red wine does have some healthy benefits, but, sweet pea, I have seen your recycle bin, and I am quite certain you are overdoing it a bit. Just because you refer to it as the "blood of Christ" really doesn't make it holy and it certianly isn't okay to drink by the gallon."

You know, I always like to think if you are going to do something, you should really give it your all.

Anyway, I wanted you all to be aware that for the next 40 days I may be a bit edgy. Anyone coming near me with brownies, hershey kisses, or the faint smell of cadbury mini eggs should fear for their lives. According to my estimates, I should pull through this Holy Season a good 40 pounds lighter. Pray for me . . . no really, pray for me . . .

Fountain of Youth

2009-02-26T05:46:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning with another wrinkle. It runs from the corner of my eye down my cheek. It is a long wrinkle and runs perpendicular to my other wrinkles. Seriously, this is getting friggen ridiculous. I understand that I am getting older and all, but I have been moisturizing religiously since I was 15. I have tried every cream, lotion and potion know to man, but nothing seems to be slowing these suckers down a bit.

I have to confess that I purchased a very expense bottle of "miracle cream" recently. This was the most I have ever spent on lotion by far, and I was quite suprised at how small the bottle was. I think there must be liquid gold inside. I thought for sure there would be an armed guard to escort me out of the store, but the clerk didn't seem to think it was a big deal. Apparantly they sell a lot of this stuff. Anyway, this was guaranteed to give you younger looking skin or you would get your money back. So, it has to work? Right?

Well, I guess you could say I have younger looking skin. I have broken out like a pubescent teenager. I haven't had this many zits since 9th grade. Perhaps this is what they were refering to as the guarantee to make you look younger. The acne is hiding my wrinkles, I guess.

I am not at the point yet where I would pay for botox or anything, I'm still to cheap for that. But if someone was handing out free samples, you bet your booty I would be the first one in line. Anyone know any plastic surgeons I could be good buddies with?

Jennifer is now friends with Patrick Dempsey

2009-02-25T05:38:00.000-08:00

I have a slight addiction to Facebook. If you aren't on Facebook just sign up already. I'll totally be your friend. And if you don't know what facebook is, um, where have you been???? No, seriously, it's like an online yearbook of sorts. You can reconnect with anyone and everyone you have ever known. But, you have to approve them first before you can be "friends." So, there is very little risk of getting cyber stalked. And, you can deny friendship at any time. It's very cool. And, if I can do it, anyone can.

I signed up to Facebook last fall to look up a potential job candidate at the store. I had no clue that you had to be approved to look at their info. So much for try to do some anonymous snooping. I filled in the least amount of info as possible to get the account up and running, and literally within 24 hours I had 41 friend requests. Yeah! I have friends! I'm still totally popular.

Well, about a month ago, I was feeling all nostalgic (Ok so I was pretending that I was 19 again) and I went back on Facebook to look up old friends. I even downloaded some pictures. (It may have taken me three days and my profile picture MAY be a picture of me from last summer that deceptively makes me look thin and wrinkle free, but hey, it IS me, and my ass may be the size of the titanic but my face is still thin. Therefore, only head shots please.)

So, I have been busy looking for friends all over the country. And, once they approve your friend request, you can look at all their info and pictures. So you can totally snoop without them even knowing. It's so cool. I was dying to know who had gotten fat and who was going bald. But, as far as I can tell, I am the only fat and bald person I have come across. Bummer.

Facebook will also make suggestions of "people you may know." It's usually the younger brother of a high school friend or someone who went to the same college or something. But, a couple of weeks ago Patrick Dempsey popped up my "people you may know." What?? Patrick Dempsey? Could it really be? Upon closer inspection it certainly was a picture of McDreamy in some sort of racing suit. Weird, eh?

The funny thing is I actually met Patrick Dempsey about 10 or 15 years ago. (Sorry, I can't remember how old I am anymore so dates are really irrelevant to me.) It was at a restaurant in LA called Joan's on third which was right down the street from where I worked. We were both in line at the counter, and when I looked at him, I had that feeling of "don't I know you?" So, I kept discreetly looking at him trying to figure it out. However, he is an eye contact maker, so I was busted immediately. He attempted to make some small talk because the line was like 10 miles long. But, when he talks to you, he looks you right in the eyes, and it's kind of intimate in a weird way. I really don't know how to explain it. But, you literally can't take your eyes away.

As we continued to chit chat, I realized that he was the lawnmower guy from Can't Buy Me Love. I totally used to have a crush on him! He looked pretty much the same, but his hair wasn't as curly. Wow, now we are chatting in the deli line. How cool is that. He came in with a much older woman who was saving them a table outside. I was trying to be all cool and conversational now because I remembered who he was. So, I made the observation that it was so nice of him to take his mom out to lunch. He smiled and informed me that the woman was his wife. (He wasn't wearing a ring because I had already checked that.) "You're so funny" I say. I'm clearly being flirty Gerty at this point. Maybe he'll offer to buy my lunch or something. "No, that really is my wife" he says while staring right in my eyes. "Um, ok, sorry" I say as I start chewing on my shoe so I can put my foot in my mouth. She had to be at least 50. How should I know?

Needless to say, I bought my own lunch that day. But, maybe he remembers me from that day. Perhaps I am the girl from Joan's that he has never forgotten. We had 2 Facebook friends in common, so maybe we are meant to reconnect. Naturally I clicked on the "people you may know link" and sent him a friend request. He doesn't have to accept it right?

Within 12 hours I had a message that "Patrick Dempsey has confirmed your friend request." So, now we are pals. I'm certain he must be checking out all my info, regretting that he let me get away that day. But, I have already made it very clear to him that I am happily married now. You snooze, you lose McDreamy. Sorry 'bout that.

But, I have one person that has denied my friend request, and seriously, my ego is bruised. He was my first real boyfriend in high school, but, we like broke up in 11th grade. Um, what's up with THAT? He is friends with everyone else from High School. He is happily married with like a gazillion kids. I'm happily married with a gazillion kids. I mean, it's Facebook for crying out loud what the heck does he think I am looking to do?? I am just trying to rack up as many friends as I can. I thought we were friends. DENIED. Ouch. But, I'm over it already. After all, I have Patrick Dempsey.

So, in the spirit of Elle Woods, I am championing you all to be my friend on Facebook. It's super fun!

Going to hell

2009-02-24T08:25:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell.

Last week, the kids were off from school for a winter break. Unfortunately, it was too freakin' cold to send them outside to play, so they stayed inside climbing the walls, and literally driving me INSANE. So, to say that I was looking foward to Monday is a gross understatement.

I literally found myself a bit giddy on Sunday night, and I started counting down the hours 'till they were back at school.

So, at 12:03 am on Monday morning when I found myself holding Ace's head over the bathroom sink while he expelled his mac'n'cheese, well, I was just a little bit depressed. Of course one of the kids would have to be sick on the first day back. Of course. Heaven forbid I should actually feel sorry for my poor child that is wretching 3 weeks worth of food out of his system. Instead, as I held a cool cloth on his forehead, I couldn't help but feel just a tinsy bit sorry for myself. Yes, I know, I'm very bad.

I called on Paco for reinforcement. Since Ace was still half asleep, I couldn't quite get him over to the toilet and he managed to plug the sink. And, for those of you without kids, well, mac'n'cheese looks exactly the same on the way down as it does on the way out. So, Paco had the lovely task of scooping out noodles from the bathroom drain while I got the ginger ale.

I prepared a puke bucket, got a glass of ginger ale, and got Ace all snug and settled back in his bed. I finally crawled back into bed at 1 expecting to have a very long night.

Miraculously, I didn't hear another peep from Ace for the rest of the night. He slept all night long, and woke up Monday morning in a great mood.

Ace tends to be a bit dramatic, so I was fully expecting the sad face and the tales of woe. I naturally assumed that he would want to stay home.

However, he started getting around like he normally does, and got himself dressed and brushed his teeth. When he went in to make his bed, he saw the puke bucket on his nightstand and asked me if he had been throwing up.

"Um, what honey? We're you sick? Do you remember being sick?" I ask in my sweet Mommy voice.

"No. But, why is the puke bucket by my bed. I think I dreamed that I was puking." He replies.

"Oh, well, maybe it's there from the last time you were sick or something. Dreaming of puking sounds more like a nightmare don't you think?" I say.

(Technically, I did not lie. It was his idea really, and I just, well, went along with it. Maybe he DID dream about throwing up. And, the puke bucket COULD have been there for a while, even though I had just put it there the night before. It COULD have been there longer. Really, it could have.)

He ate a full breakfast, wasn't running a temperature, and seemed to be fine, so off to school we went.

I dropped them off at school at 7:49, and went off on my merry way.

I fully expected a call from the nurse's office. But, to my relief, no call ever came.

When I picked him up at 2, he was fine and full of energy.

He had did his home work, had dinner, took a shower, and was in bed by 7:30.

Woooo-hoooo! Crisis averted. God will fogive me this one, right? I'm not that bad of a person, right? I mean, technically, I really didn't do anything wrong. He seemed ok, so it could've been a one time thing.

Wrong.

At 10:30 Ace came out of his room and started vomiting again. Fortunately for Paco, this time he made it to the toilet. But, Seriously????? AGAIN???!!!!!

We got him settled back into his bed with the puke bucket and ginger ale yet again. And, miraculously, he slept through the night for the second time.

I went into his room at 5:15 to check on him, and since he was sleeping soundly, I decided to clean up his room a bit and I removed the ginger ale can and the puke bucket. We wouldn't want him to wake up to a messy room, now would we?

He woke up at 6:05 got himself dressed, brushed his teeth, made his bed, and even made his own breakfast. I was walking on pins and needles waiting for him to mention last night's episode.

Nothing. He didn't say a word. And, since, he didn't mention anything, I didn't feel it really necessary for me to bring anything up either.

I am quite certain this gives me a one-way ticket on Satan's express. However, as I sit here at work, sipping hot coffee, listening to soothing music and checking out all the latest the internet has to offer, I feel that maybe, just maybe, it could be worth it.

Sven Again

2009-02-20T10:03:00.000-08:00

Boy is Sven pissed at me. I signed on today, and apparently it has been 9 days since my last Wii Workout, and, um, I kinda gained 3 pounds. (This may or may not be directly related to the 2 bags of Cadbury mini eggs I polished off in the last 3 days, but, in my defense, they only come out at Easter time and I am giving up chocolate for Lent, so my window in which I can savor these chocolate wonders is very small, therefore, I have been inhaling them by the truckload.)

Anywhoo . . .

I log onto the Wii Fit, and the nice little machine informs me that I have taken a step back and that the only way to see results is to stay focused yada yada yada. It made my Wii person even fatter, and I think she split her pants too.

Then Sven comes on. (His pony tail still freaks me out) Sven starts to lecture me about the importance of fitness, and how I really need to stay commited, and he's there for me, blah blah blah. But, I swear when I turned my back I heard him call me a fat cow. Ouch. Some guys just can't take rejection very well.

I put in a good 20 minutes of arm shaking, and now Sven is all back in love with me telling me how great I did, and that I'm back on track.

I'm a little concerned about the 3 pounds I gained. After all, I only have another week left of Cadbury mini-eggs. I've been thinking and I figure if I cut my hair, trim my nails, shave EVERYTHING, take off all my jewelry have a healthy BM, empty my bladder and strip down to my skivvies that I should be back to my fighting weight. I'll let you know how that goes.

Itchy Pittsy

2009-02-19T11:08:00.000-08:00

I have been having a problem lately with itchy armpits. I'm not sure if it's the weather, my water, my deodorant, or all of the above. So, I have been dabbling with various experiments to see what might be the cause.

I've tried not shaving, and that lasted 10 minutes. Can't do pitt hair. Sorry

I've tried not using deodorant. Sven even commented that I was a little gamey during my last workout. So, that's no good.

I've tried using moisturizer after I get out of the shower. I think it actually made me more itchy.

Today I tried using a different deodorant. I used Paco's deodorant, as that was the only other kind in the house. I think it's adidas fresh action or something like that. Very manly.

Every now and then I'll be doing something and I get a subtle whiff and I get that feeling that I'm standing too close to a very attractive man. The smell is masculine and spicy, and, um, I'm kind of turning myself on.

Weird . . .

Mourning a loss

2009-02-19T08:51:00.000-08:00

My blogging will be sporatic for a while. I am mourning the loss of my beloved lap top. I will inform you all about the services when I know more.

Thanks for your patience and understanding.

The Potty Wagon

2009-02-17T07:56:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. I drive a mini-van. Yes, I know. I used to be the person who picked on those who drove the “family wagons” and the “grocery getters.” However, I have been forced to humble myself to the fact that my sporty car days are over and a mini-van is going to be my ride of choice for the next 10 years.

I shudder every time I have to get into the darn thing. But, I must admit it is quite handy. I can fit 17 kids, 2 dogs, a weeks worth of groceries, and 2 circus clowns with absolutely no problem. However, I just can’t escape the feeling that when I drive down the road that there is a large neon sign attached to the top of the car saying “I am a mom, hear me roar!”

At least my hubby allowed me to get the upgraded van with the leather heated seats and the DVD player, so at least I can think I’m a bit sporty while I’m driving. But, the stickers stuck on the inside of the windows and the fruit snacks mashed in the carpet really don’t help much with that.

And, if it’s not bad enough that I drive a minivan, I have been driving a very dirty minivan with 2 large dents in it. (One from the darned grocery cart boy at Sam’s Club, and the other from my inability to see a large 25’ steel girder. Oopsie) I am so numb to the fact that I drive a minivan that I often don’t really look at the darn thing. I kind of hide my face and get inside as quick as possible. It is because of this that I missed the words written on the side of my van until after I had driven it around for several days.

You see, my boys are obsessed with potty humor. They think burps and farts are quite possibly the funniest things on the earth.

My middle son, Kade is especially transfixed with all things potty. He is quite a brilliant child, and as a kindergartener, he can already read at a 4th grade level. And, he can write. As evidenced by the words etched in the dirt on the side of my van.

I first noticed this as I came out of my Dr’s office, and I noticed an older gentleman standing by my car door. He shook his head, smiled, and walked away. I wondered what could wrong with my car, so I took a closer look. And that is when I saw this . . .

I was a bit mortified. But what could I do? It is really quite fitting that not only do I drive a mini-van, but a potty wagon. Perfect. The circle of life is now complete.

On a side note, Paco saw a pick-up truck drive by him this morning with the words “fart” “fart” “fart” “fart” “fart” written all over the side. It is so nice to know that we are not alone . . .

Friday the 13th

2009-02-13T05:34:00.000-08:00

I am having one of those days, and I’m sad to say, it is only 6:59 am.

I have already faced packing 54 valentine goody bags, icing 60 heart cookies, chasing 1 naughty dog, tripping over 1 ginormous dog and spilling coffee down my front, 1 child mini-meltdown, 1 husband mini-meltdown, 1 spilled houseplant, burnt toast setting off the smoke alarm, and one major child melt-down.

I would like to take the time to wonder if perhaps I am really trapped in another dimension, and living in the twilight zone. But sadly, this is not anything other than the average day in my life.

However, I did a Mommy No-No this morning, and I feel like the most horrible person on the planet. My head is hung low, and I am wallowing in shame. I have crossed the forbidden threshold of really bad parenting. (I usually just hang around the doorway, but today I actually walked through.) You see, I made my son cry.

Let me explain . . .

My day began at 3 am with the arrival of my son Trey into my bedroom. He had a coughing fit and woke himself up, so naturally, he needed to sleep in my bed. Well, this child has the weirdest sleeping habits, and he actually burrows himself all the way under the covers at the foot of the bed. I always wait for him to fall asleep then I have to dig down and pull him out so he doesn’t suffocate. Then, he will usually burrow himself in my side and continue sleeping like a champ.

However, what I realized at 3:14 am is that my son really needs his toenails trimmed, and I now have Freddy Kruger markings running down the length of my body.

Needless to say, I never went back to sleep.

At 4:45, I gave up and went out to make the coffee and finish getting all the kids Valentine goodies together. In the span of 15 minutes, I had half my morning chores completed. Ooh, I feel Mother of the Year coming on.

By 5:15, hubby and I were enjoying a hot cup of coffee while watching the morning news. We chatted, exchanged pleasantries, and he kindly offered to take the kids to school for me today. I was off to a wonderful start.

By 6 am the kids were dressed, and heading into brush their teeth and make their beds.

My oldest son was singing “I have to go pee pee” to the tune of “You down with O.P.P.” because he has a bad habit of getting song lyrics incorrect.

By 6:30, they were all sitting down to enjoy a hot breakfast, courtesy of Mother of the Year.

By 6:45, all hell had broken loose.

My oldest son threw his football into my houseplant (it was intercepted he said) and spilled it from one end of the kitchen to the other. On my way over to assess the damage, I tripped over my dog Sally, and spilled hot coffee all down the front of me. As I was cleaning the coffee and potting soil, another son knocked over the tray of iced heart sugar cookies that I had been up to 11 pm decorating and smashed them to smithereens all over the floor.

As I swept up my culinary masterpieces and tossed them in the trash, I sent the boys downstairs to get their coats and shoes on. 5 minutes later, I go down to find 1 boy wearing summer sandals and a bike helmet, and 2 boys whacking each other with light sabers, without any coats or shoes on.

To say I was frustrated is an understatement. At this point, I was waiting for my head to start spinning and projectile vomiting.

I helped all the children get their coats and shoes on, and was trying to usher them out the door. Two made it to the car. But, my middle son, Deuce, wasn’t moving. Apparently, I had tightened his shoelace too tight, and he was sure his foot was going to fall off. I took the shoe off, did a 10 point inspection, and re-tied it three times, and still he wasn’t satisfied. Exasperated, I told him he was just going to have to deal with it today because he was going to be late. He told me I was the worst Mom in the whole world.

I opened the door, handed him is backpack, and told him that if he didn’t like the way I did things, then he could find somewhere else to live. I shut the door behind him, and immediately started cleaning up the stray coats and toys that seem to have exploded all over the room.

3 Minutes later, the door opens, and my handsome hubby is standing in the doorway with a sobbing 6 year old giving me the look. Crocodile tears are streaming down Deuce’s face, his eyes are bright red, and he is crying so hard that his shoulders are shaking.

“What happened?????” I say. I am naturally assuming some sort of physical pain from a fall on the ice or a stray football.

“Deuce is hurt because you don’t want him anymore.”

Oh . . . ugh . . . oh . . .ah . . . CRAP. This is all my fault. I did this. I AM the worst mother in the whole world.

I try to explain that I was frustrated, and that of course I love him no matter what. That seems to do the trick, and off they go. But not before the ‘ol hubby gives me another look over his shoulder. Thanks for that sir. We all know that you are perfect. (Eye twitch)

So, here I sit, in a quiet house, feeling like the lowest form of parent on the planet, wondering if I should go out and buy him the four-wheeler that he has been asking for for 3 years, when it dawns on me. Today is Friday the 13th AND it is a full moon. So . . .

It doesn’t count. My Bad Mommy spell doesn’t count! It really wasn’t me. It was a WereMom acting up from deep inside. I AM in the twilight zone. Wooo-hoooo! It wasn’t my fault! I am being influenced by the supernatural. I knew it.

So, now, I am off to scavenge a sugar cookie from the floor to enjoy with my coffee. (Hey I spent a LOT of time on those, so SOMEONE should enjoy them, right?) Happy Friday the 13th.

If I were President

2009-02-11T07:39:00.000-08:00

OK, so the conversation I had with Paco about him running for office has really gotten me to thinking. (I know, you can see the smoke. Ha, ha.) I think I would make an excellent politician. I would be brutally honest, up front, and make logical decisions. I’ve run a business; I know how the sum of all parts makes up the whole. I think I’m fair and reasonable. I think I would totally rock a Presidential wardrobe. I could easily be the President of something, right?

If you had the power of the President, what would you do? Seriously? I have been putting quite a bit of thought into this and I have compiled a list of what I would do as President. (Everyone could still call me Mrs. P. Isn’t that cute?)

1. I would make an application process for parenthood. I don’t think everyone should be allowed to reproduce. You have to jump through hoops and get a complete background check to get a business license, but anyone can have a kid? (Someone like me for instance, may have their application flagged.)

2. I would make all insurance, gas, and utility companies be not-for-profit. Don’t understand why they are making money at our expense.

3. I would have all rapists and child molesters get sterilized. If you can use it like you’re supposed to then you don’t need it, right?
4. I think anyone receiving public assistance should also be given mandatory birth control.

5. I think birth control should be free and available to all. (It ticks me off that Viagra is covered under my prescription drug plan, but I had to jump through hoops to get my birth control covered even though I am taking it for medical reasons. OK, and for my sanity.)

OK, so let me explain a little bit here because obviously you can sense my bitterness. I am a little a P.O. ed about the Dr. in California that treated a single mother of 6 (that has no job and receives public assistance) for infertility and thus she has just had another 8 babies. I feel that since the Dr. took it upon himself to think that this was appropriate medical care, then he or she can also pay for the family’s medical bills and care. Why should this be a taxpayer expense? This woman clearly has issues and now she and her 14 children are going to be on public assistance for the next 20 odd years.

I personally know a woman who abuses public assistance and keeps having children so she can get a bigger tax refund. And it makes my blood boil. Oh that reminds me. . .

6. You should not be able to get a tax refund unless you actually work for any continued period of time.

7. You should not be given a tax refund greater than what you actually paid in taxes. Um, I think I know what might be wrong with our economy. People that are paying in $2500 in taxes are getting $8000 back. Hello???? Does this make sense to anyone? Why are you profiting from paying taxes? And, why doesn’t it ever work in my damn favor????

Yes, I know. I am Bitter Betty. But, I know that my husband and I are educated people with three kids and JOBS. We pay taxes out the wazoo. We (ok, so I) clip coupons to save money. And the government thinks we are ok and they never offer to help us with anything.

But someone with 3 kids, no husband and no job can get free housing, free food, free utilities, free health insurance, free medication, and child support to boot. Nice. She can sit home all day watching a 60” flat screen TV, drinking soda and smoking cigarettes, and use her tax refund to by a Coach purse and Jimmy Choos, and then have the nerve two months later to ask her baby’s daddy’s sister if she has any boots that would fit her son because he doesn’t have any. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

So, anyway, going on . . .

8. I would also create a Politician Security System. (Kinda like Homeland security, but just for politicians.)

I don’t know why someone hasn’t done this already. Doesn’t anyone else wonder where they get all their money? State senators & Congress Reps make around 166K a year. So why doesn’t anyone question the fact that they travel in private jets, own 2 or 3 million dollar homes, have expensive condos in DC and all sorts of investment companies and properties? And remember the guy with 90K in cash hidden in his freezer? I think public officials should be held to a higher level of scrutiny, after all, they are setting an example, right?

9. I would make every telemarketer give you their home phone number when calling you.
10. I would reinstate operators and receptionists and outlaw digital answering systems. When you called somewhere you would speak to a person who would then connect you to another person. No press 2 bull crap. REAL people. Hey, this would create jobs too. See, I’m on to something.

11. I would make any person that has been convicted of road rage have to drive a hot pink car that blares Abba music. (And you know they’re all men so this would really do wonders I think.)

12. I would install breathalyzers as a standard feature in every car. If you’re not sober, you can’t start it. No more drunk driving. Period.

13. I would insist that bills and laws be written in plain, everyday English. No legalese. So the average person could read them and understand them. Then perhaps we wouldn’t be voting to use $6 million of tax stimulus money to fund the preservation of wooden toy arrows. (Oh, yes, that DID happen. I watch me some CNN every day.)

14. I would make EVERY 13 year old boy and girl go through a pregnancy and child care simulator that reflected 12 hours of back labor with no pain medication and the three weeks post delivery with a colicky baby. If that doesn’t turn them off to sex, nothing will.

15. I would also make every husband poop out a red-hot bowling ball with no pain medication. Perhaps they might think again when relaying stories of childbirth as “easy” and “everything went really smooth.”

Oh, there is so much I would do, I could go on all day. And, I don’t want to bore you will all the details. There is just so much crap in politics and government that doesn’t make any sense to me.

We need a woman’s perspective in the President’s seat. And, sorry Hilary, I secretly think that you have a pair of cohonies tucked up under your skirt so you don’t really count. So, vote for me.

Seriously, I don’t have the ambition to run for the phone, let alone any public office. But, if anyone wants my opinion, ya’ll know that I’m happy to share.

The Fabulous Bangs

2009-02-10T07:54:00.000-08:00

Here is the picture of the fabulous bangs, as I promised. My husband informs me that when I have my hair up and my glasses on that I look like Sarah Palin. So, I will have to post a picture of that next . . .

The New Nancy Kerrigan

2009-02-09T06:35:00.000-08:00

We had a wonderful weekend of mild weather here in Central NY. It was in the high 40's, and the snow melted and created a wonderful world of mud and ice.

For those of you that are not lucky enough to experience the wonderful winters of NY, I will tell you that this year has been unusually bad. We have had several weeks of brutal cold. So, our little warm spell this weekend was much appreciated.

That was until I attempted to walk to my car this morning. . .

The temperature dropped again, so I was rushing to start the car so it could have time to warm up. I ran out in my jeans, my bra, and my slippers. (I live on a country road, so I had no worries about anyone seeing me, and I was only going to be a minute, right?)

Well, I noticed that the driveway was icy, so I was being extra careful. I didn't quite dawn on me that my slippers could be considered weapons of mass destruction on the ice, so I just trudged along very carefully.

I was about 3 feet from my car door when I attempted a triple-sow-cow-double-toe-loop combo, and landed ass-over-teacups with a loud thud.(Honestly, I'm surprised it didn't register on the Richter scale.) One slipper flew clear across the yard, and I landed about 20 feet behind my van, on my stomach. I'm quite sure I may have set a world record with the amount of in-air rotations that I was able to complete. However, I failed to nail the landing.

At first, I laid still to assess the extent of damage. Everything began to hurt at once, so I wasn't quite sure where to begin. I decided to get up very carefully and see if I was alright.

It was at this point that I remembered I was wearing only a bra, because my stomach had started to adhere to the ice. I yanked myself away very quickly, and gave myself a hickey-looking road rash across my stomach. (How will I explain THAT to the hubby?)

I carefully crawled on my hands and knees back inside the house. And, after a thorough inspection of all my parts, I am assured that they are all still there. However, in the process, I have managed to pull every single muscle in my body. Even my toenails hurt.

So, I am here at work, popping Advil like m&m's, moving like Mr. Roboto, pondering my entry in the next winter Olympics. Perhaps ice-slipper-flipping is better suited for the x-games, but none-the-less, I am sure it will be a big hit.

Covert Ops

2009-02-09T06:17:00.000-08:00

So, my husband says to be the other day, "um, honey, you're not using our real names on your blog, are you?"

"Well, buttercup, yes I am," I reply.

"That's probably not safe, don't you think?" He replies.

"Um, babe, I think we are pretty safe from the 17 women that read my blog. I have all their addresses on the Christmas card list." I say.

"Well, I forwarded your blog link to some of my friends and family, so I think that you should not use our names any more, just to be safe."

Woah - back the truck up - "Excuse me, Mr. Wonderful, but did you just say that you emailed my blog to your, um, family?"

"Yeah," he replies innocently.

"Um, did you actually, READ my blog before sending it to everyone you know?" I ask between clenched teeth.

"No. I don't have time to read." He tells me matter-of-factly.

"Well, stud muffin, I'm sure your parents were very interested in the part where I talked about our sex life."

"You didn't . . " he deadpans.

"Oh yes, buttercup, I went THERE. Perhaps you might actually want to read it before you forward it on next time."

I won't bore you with the details of the next 20 minutes of tongue lashing that my husband laid on me. The gist of it is that privacy is important, he has a reputation to uphold, he is a serious community member, blah, blah blah. I kindly told him that he reputation is still intact, if anything women might look at him with twinkles in their eyes because they know what a stallion he is. And, if he ever DOES decide to run for president, he will certainly get all my Girlfriends votes. (Party at the White House - Wooooo Hoooooo!) Seriously, we did discuss the repercussions of my blog if he were to ever to run for President. Wouldn't I be a superfun First Lady? Imagine the shoes and purses . . .

Anywhoo, the end result of all this is that I will now be referring to my family and friends with assumed names. Code names, if you will.

My first son will now be referred to as Ace.
My second son will be referred to as Deuce.
Son #3 will be Trey. (I couldn't very well call them all Oops, although I did consider it.)

My loving hubby will be Paco, and he will speak with a Latin accent. (Hey, a girl can dream . . .)

My Mother will still be Mother. It's generic enough.

If any of my Girlfriends have special names they would like to be referred to, please let me know before I assign you something terribly exotic.

I haven't decided on my new name yet. I am still working on that one. Oh, the power of a name. I just can't decide. What fun!

Anyway, that is the news for now. I have to go alter all my old posts so that we can run for office . . .

Fitness is bad for your, er, my health

2009-02-05T09:25:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had one of THOSE days? Ya know, where absolutely nothing goes right? Well, my life seems to be a string of THOSE days.

Take for instance, this morning . . .

I was up at 5. I went out to check on the boys, only to find Ace and Duece already dressed with their beds made. Wow. That NEVER happens. So, I am optimistic that this is going to be a great day. (I ignored the fact that their clothes didn't match whatsoever because, hey, the were dressed, and that means that I don't have to do it.)

I go put on a pot of coffee and start getting breakfast around. We're out of cereal and creamer, so I'm a little defeated, but I'm still optimistic. It's going to be a great day. I can feel it.

I get the food on the table, Paco heads out the door for work, and it's still early. I have 12 full minutes of shower time. That NEVER happens. See, I know it's going to be a great day.

I savor the extra hot shower and enjoy every second.

I get out, dry off, and start getting dressed for the day. It's 7 below today, and I have a bunch of running around to do this morning. So, I am going to dress warm.

I get my bra and undies on, and I see the new sports bra I bought laying on top of my dresser. (You see, my "girls" are so insanely large that I need to wear 2 bras when I jog on the treadmill so I don't get black eyes.) I decide that I will wear the sports bra too for an extra layer, and then I'll be ready to hit the treadmill when I get home after work. And, if it doesn't work, I can take it back to the store while I'm out this morning.

This is where it all starts to go down hill . . .

I bought the sports bra in a size 38DD. My bra size is 36G (Zoiks! I know . . .) But, I thought the 38DD would be close enough. Clearly I don't have enough expertise with sports bras because I was wrong. Very wrong.

Somehow, while sliding the sports bra over my head and down my slightly dewy body, I managed to get the darn thing twisted so tight that it was practically acting as a tourniquet on my armpits. I've got the bra around my chest, below my armpits, but above my boobs. And somehow I've managed to slide it around in such a way that I can't put my arms down all the way either. My arms are stuck over my head, and this damn sports bra is starting to cut off my circulation.

Now, what's a girl to do? I'm literally tangled up in this damn thing, and I can't wiggle it up back over my head. So, I call for back up.

"Um, Ace, can you come help Mommy for a minute?" Silence. "Ace, mommy REALLY needs your help can you please get in here right away?"

A few seconds later I hear the pitter patter of little feet across the hard wood, and I see Ace trudge through the door. "What Mom?"

"um, honey, I'm stuck, can you help me pull this thing off?"

Before I get the words out of my mouth, he tears out the door. The next sound I hear sounds like a herd of cattle running across the hard wood, and suddenly I see three sets of eyes in my room. And, naturally, they are all pointing and laughing.

"Boys, this is not funny. Mommy is stuck. Please help me pull this over my head."

Duece is laughing, and he tells me that he can see my "shakelies." (Boobies to the normal person.) "No you cant!" I yell. "Uh huh" he says. I look in the mirror and see that one of my girls has somewhat fallen out of her harness, I guess with all the tugging and all. And, at the moment, there is nothing I can do about it.

"Stop looking" I yell. "And help me get this thing off!"

So, Ace and Duece are trying to pull the damned bra back over my head, when I feel a thwack on my side and hear a big giggle. I look down and Trey is hitting my muffin top with his hand and watching it wobble. "Mom, you've got jigglies!" he says. "Leave my jigglies alone," I snarl.

But, before you know it, all three boys are swatting at the extra rolls that are protruding from my sides. I can't help but to do the ol' laugh/cry at this point. The boys are tee-heeing and having a blast swatting my jigglies while I am about to lose my arms from lack of blood flow.

Finally, they settle down enough to help me get out of the bra. It takes several good tugs, and all three boys pulling to get it back over my head.

My underarms are bruised, and I feel like I've been power lifting. I don't think I could wave right now I am so sore.

Needless to say, the sports bra has been returned. And, I am waiting for the teachers to start calling me at work. I can only IMAGINE what the boys are saying this morning. I'm sure I have scarred them all for life.

And how is YOUR day?

Ode to Otis

2009-02-04T13:16:00.000-08:00

My dog Otis is naughty. Very naughty. If it weren’t for the fact that he is so friggen’ cute, I’m quite sure I would have given him away by now. (Actually I’ve tried to give him away but no one will take him.) He is a black and white Lhasa Apso, and we have had him for a year and a half. So, he should really know better by now. But, he doesn’t . . .

I put a lot of research into getting another dog. After much thought and careful consideration, I decided on a Lhaso-poo, or a Lhasa Apso/Poodle mix. They were small, kid-friendly, non-shedding, and non-yippy dogs. And he could travel with us. Perfect. I looked for months, and never saw one listed. Ever. Apparently they are very hard to come by. But, one day, my Mom came across an ad for a Lhasa Apso. There was only 1 puppy in the litter, and he was ready to go. So, we decided to take a look.

It was love at first sight. He was the cutest black and white ball of fluff I had ever seen. His fur was so soft and silky, and he was perfectly snuggly. Wow, the perfect puppy. A pure Lhasa couldn’t be that much different from the mixed breed, right?

WRONG.

I can’t tell if Otis is a stupid dog, or if he is such a smart dog that he knows how to just act stupid. For instance, if he does something naughty, oh say like knock over the outside trash can and rip through 2 weeks of garbage and spread it all over the deck, well, the minute you see him, he hangs his head, tucks his tail, and acts like he has done something very, very bad. (And he has the best puppy dog eyes.) If you start to walk towards him, he very slowly rolls over on his back. And, if you yell at him, he pees all over himself. (Like that isn’t just making it worse.)

Otis also likes to run off at the most inconvenient times. Like this morning, when I was loading up the kids for school, he decides to break loose and head for the neighbors. And, he KNOWS this is bad. And I know he knows because he started out slow like he was walking out to his pee tree, and then he looked back at me, looked down at the neighbors, looked back at me, and then bolted off like a bottle rocket. So then I had to trounce through 200 yards of 14’ snow drifts in subzero temperatures to get him back. As I get closer to him, he stops, slinks low to the ground, and hangs his head. I walk up to grab him, and he rolls over and pees himself. Nice way to start the morning.

Otis also has a very bad chewing habit. He likes to chew anything and everything. His favorite snack is $7 Star Wars figures with the occasional $12 Power Ranger for dessert. He has a whole bin of his own toys, but he much prefers the more expensive kind that he actually has to get off the shelves. Out of desperation I bought a book on Lhasa Apsos and how to train them, but I am not kidding you when I say he chewed that too. He has chewed cookbooks, magazines, newspapers, and some of Anthony’s homework. Yes, really, the dog did eat his homework Mrs. Teacher.

And if that alone doesn’t make him a naughty dog, it gets even worse. He thinks that Rick’s 70” TV is his personal pee post. If we leave him alone longer than he likes, he will raise his leg and pee all over Rick’s big screen. And, if he’s in the mood, he’ll also leave a nice, steamy pile of pooh right in front of it too. A double delight! He has peed so much in the same spot that it has actually absorbed into the wood and started to buckle at the seams. Nice, eh?

We tried leaving him in the bathroom while we were gone. But, he chewed through all the molding around the door, ate a hole in the sheetrock, and scratched a hole in the wood door. Seriously, he is a very naughty dog.

Oh, and he gets car sick too. I have a huge pile of dog vomit that is forever imbedded in the carpet in my van. I’ve tried and tried, but it’s still there. Dried chunks and all.
He’s a humper too. We haven’t had his kibbles’n-bits snipped yet, so he uses every opportunity he can to let pinky come out and play. He will hump any stray dog, child, or stuffed animal that crosses his path. And he likes to lick himself too. But, I won’t go into detail there.

And he snores. LOUD. Like louder than Rick. I thought it was a practical joke at first. But, I can assure you since he sleeps on my side of the bed, that it is NOT a joke. Apparently, dogs can have deviated septums too. Who knew?

Oh, and if you haven’t heard enough, I’ll tell you about the time he ran away and we had to PAY to get him back. It was this fall, and as I was taking Otis out to pee, he ran off. You know, the usual. Normally he comes back after 15 or 20 minutes, but this time he didn’t come back. So, I got in the car and went driving to look for him, and still no Otis. When Rick got home, he too went out and looked for him. No luck. We called the SPCA and left our information, and then we started making posters. Naturally, the boys were heartbroken at the thought of their precious Otis being away from the house for the night. We had to tuck three teary –eyed kids into bed that night.

The next afternoon, we got a call from the SPCA. Otis had been found about a mile and a half away. The homeowners called the SPCA because apparently Otis was trying to hump their male basset hound, and it didn’t go over to well. And, we have to make the 30 minute drive up to the SPCA to get him. If it’s not bad enough that my dog had to spend the night in the clink, the SPCA made us pay $15 to get him back. Oy.

So, why do we still have our naughty, gay dog? ‘Cause he is cute. Too friggen cute for his own good. For all the times he’s naughty, he’s equally adorable. He really is the cutest dog I have ever seen. He has an under-bite that makes him look really adorable. And, he thinks he is ferocious. If another dog comes in our yard, he will run right up and start barking and acting tough. Like he can take ‘em. It’s really quite funny to watch because usually the other dogs backs away thinking they don’t want to mess with the crazy dog.

And every time Otis comes in the living room, he will grab a toy out of his bin and play with it.

He loves to snuggle too. He will curl up by your feet, and lay contentedly for hours.

He may not be perfect, but he’s OURS. And imperfect seems to fit us quite nicely.

Sven my love, it's over.

2009-02-03T06:08:00.000-08:00

As many of you already know, I am not such a big fan of exercise. The only time I run is if someone is chasing me. The thought of doing it for "fun" makes me laugh until I pee myself. I mean, THAT -IS-FUNNY! Running, for FUN?? Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee, hee. Oh, I am wiping the tears from my eyes.

In an effort to make my workouts more fun (or to trick myself into working out without knowing it) I purchased the Wiifit. Oh, yes, I head heard such wonderful things, and as you all know from my Sham-Wow purchase, I am such a sucker.

I conveniently waited until I was home alone to begin my first session. I really didn't want my family to see me stuffed in my sausage suit, because the boys have a tendency to point and laugh. I decked myself in my finest spandex and my new nikes and began the tedious process of making my Wii person. On the Wiifit, there are also some balance and coordination tests, a BMI test, and the dreaded weight test.

As I was attempting some of the balance and coordination tests, a large sign popped up on the screen asking me if I fall down a lot. Hardy, har, har, har. EXCUUUUUUUUUUUUSE ME?? Um, I paid for you, and I could totally skip the sarcasm part. Thanks. So, I continue on and a few minutes later, another sign pops up and asks me if I have trouble walking. Nice, eh? If it's not bad enough that I am doing my best to emulate Jane Fonda, I am here, making an attempt to work out, and I am totally being picked on. BY A MACHINE!!!!!!!!

So, after finishing up all the requisite tests, a cute little Wii person appears on the screen. She is supposed to be the cartoon version of me. She tells me that I am obese, uncoordinated, and quite pathetic really. She estimates my Wii age to be 55. And if that's not bad enough, she gets fat . . . right before my eyes. She goes from this cute cartoony little girl, to a fat, rolly-polly weeble. I think she even got some wrinkles. Ouch.

The good news? My weight makes me eligible to be a linebacker for the Buffalo Bills.

I start out easy doing some aerobics. You follow along with the Wii people, and it's actually pretty easy. I am doing so well that I am awarded a bronze medal for my efforts. Nice. It's great to finally be recognized for my hard work.

I do a few more rounds of aerobics, really stepping it up this time. I accidentally catch my foot on the end of the board, trip, and knock over the end table. Oops, I guess this is why it said to give yourself lots of room. I am scolded on screen and reminded to follow along with the Wii people to keep pace. Ok, I get it.

I slow back down to a more normal pace, and I manage to score a silver medal. Woo-hoo! (My darned hubby has the gold and I am nowhere near his scores, so I give up even trying.)

I move onto some strength training, and it is here that I meet my trainer Sven. (I named him Sven because I envision him to be a part time masseuse slash yoga trainer, and I totally add a swedish accent when I read his onscreen posts.) I decided to go with Sven as my trainer, because I knew that I would totally resent Kitty in her tight spandex with the cute butt. Not the best motivation for me, ya know.

So Sven is sweet-talking me, and I can totally tell he's into me. We start working out together, and he turns to the side and I see what looks to be a 1980's era rat tail hanging down his neck. Ewwwwww. It may just be a stubby pony tail, but still, Ewwwwwwwwwww. I am totally over Sven now. I bet he has B.O. His flirting is just annoying now. I tell him I must go and I log off. I just can't get over the bad do. He's supposed to be all new-agey and yet he is still stuck in the 80's. Oy.

Life gets in the way, and it's a while before I can get log on again. I am reminded of this right of the bat as my trainer yells that it has been 6 days since my last work out. Thanks for keeping track I reply. My trainer also reminds me that obese women are twice as likely to die early. Thanks for that. I appreciate it. Let's make the fat girl run, and maybe I can just die now. You'd love that, wouldn't you Sven? I remind him that he is a video game, and I can unplug him at any moment. Oh, yeah, back off Sven.

I start off with a light jogging exercise. It's a bit easy, so I start picking up the pace. My Wii trainer kindly tells me to keep pace and stay behind my trainer. But, that's just a bit too easy, so I attempt to pass my trainer, and my fat Wii person falls flat on her face. Nice. Even in cartoons I'm completely uncoordinated.

I switch back to aerobics, and because I've been doing so well, I've unlocked a new level. Now, I get to do clapping along with my aerobics. It doesn't sound like much, but somehow manage to trip, fall, land on the dog, and send the little Wii remote clear across the room. I guess it's a sign for me to quit for awhile.

I log on the next day, because I don't want to be yelled at. In a stroke of brilliance, I figured out that if I hold the Wii remote when I walk on the treadmill, I can totally double dip and get lots of Wii credits. Sven is practically salivating because I am walking at a marathon pace. And, I am thinking of how brilliant I am for tricking the damn machine. Yeah me!!

(Oh, I also figured out that if you just stand still and shake the Wii remote up and down, you can fool the machine into thinking you are running. I have unlocked almost everything now that I am working out at a Lance Armstrong pace.)

The good news? I have lost 4.6 pounds, and my right arm is totally getting toned from all the er, running.

The bad news? I have had to break it off with Sven. But, he keeps calling me. . .

Cupcakes and caffeine

2009-02-02T07:34:00.000-08:00

I apologize for not writing sooner. I had a very hectic bunch of days as my middle child celebrated his 6th birthday. I was so busy with parties, cupcakes, cakes, presents, and the like that I didn't even have a minute to sit down. I am so thankful for the love and support, and the phone calls at home to check on me were greatly appreciated. I will do my best to let you know ahead of time next time I will have a long lapse in my blogging . . .

Friday was Deuce's birthay celebration at school. So, I was up until midnight Thursday making cupcakes for him to take to school. He wanted Dallas Cowboy cupcakes, so I did my best to make Dallas helmets on each of the cupcakes. I was tired, and it was 100 degrees in the kitchen, so my frosting began to melt. So, what I ended up making looked like grey blobs with a pathetic star on the side. (They were so bad that my mother asked if I had let the kids decorate them.) But, I did make them from scratch, so at least they were yummy grey blobs.

Friday was also pajama day in his class. (Which I conveniently remembered at 11:45 as I was finishing up the cupcakes). Since Deuce sleeps in his undies, I had to scramble to find his Christmas jammies, which of course, were dirty. So, at 11:55, I am now doing laundry because I couldn't febreze away the chunks of food on the front of the jammies.

So, friday morning, I am getting Deuce dressed in his jammies for school, and naturally Trey had to wear jammies too. At this point, I am chugging coffee because I am working on less than 4 hours sleep. However, I manage to get them all dressed, backpacks packed, and on to school on time.

I went back home after dropping the kids at school, finished decorating the cake and assembling the 15 goodie bags for the kids at Deuce's birthday party on friday night. Friday was also Deuce's snack day and I was volunteering in his classroom. So, I managed to get myself dressed, and I styled my fabulous new bangs, and I was out the door 15 minutes early.

Naturally at this point I was feeling like Mother of the Year. I'm driving along, thinking about all that I had accomplished in the last 12 hours. I was just about to pin the medal on my chest when I realized I left the cupcakes at home, and I had to turn back and go get them.

Needless to say, I showed up to Deuce's class 5 minutes late, minus the Mother of the Year badge.

The time in his class went great. The kids in his class are so friggen adorable. One young boy, Arthur, even commented on my hair. "Mrs Jen, your new hair is great. You look beautiful." Obviously, I completely swaggered out of the class room at the end of the day. My hair must be fabulous if 5 and 6 year olds notice.

So, I go back home, get all the supplies for Deuce's party loaded and packed neatly in the car. I call Papa Johns and order the pizzas so we can pick them up at 4:30. I am so organized. I have everything ready so that at exactly 4 pm, we can leave for Deuce's party, which is being held at a large indoor playground in Ithaca. (I even put a few beers in the cooler, since it WAS friday night!)

Like clockwork, we are ready to go at 4. We load up in the mini van (yes, I know, I drive a soccer wagon. I still cry every time I turn the ignition.) and off we go. We pull into Papa Johns at 4:20, and I hand Paco and handful of coupons and send him in to get the pizzas. By 4:30, he is still not back. At 4:40 he walks out and tells me the pizzas aren't ready. I kindly tell him to explain to the pizza people that I called in our order at 3 pm, so that it would be ready by 4:30. I told him to tell them if they didn't pull some pizzas out for us PRONTO, that I would be coming in to make a scene.

At 4:45, Paco walks out with the pizzas. Clearly, my reputation proceeds me.

We make it to the ball pit as the parking lot is beginning to fill up with other mini-vans filled with happy 5 and 6 year olds. Nothing is as classy as showing up late for your own party, I say.

The party is a huge success, as the kids get to run around and yell and scream and play. After an hour, I get the kids sat down for cake and ice cream, and I pass out party favors. Suddenly, the room is vibrating from the sounds of 17 kids all blowing party horns at once. What WAS I thinking? After confiscating all 17 horns and "accidentally" throwing them away, I am glad to declare that overall, the evening was a lot of fun. The kids played so hard that they all fell asleep on the way home, and I got to chat with a bunch of cool parents. And Deuce got more presents from his "pretend birthday" that he declared it was "so much better than Christmas!"

Saturday, I took Ace to a play date, Deuce to a birthday party, and Trey to a birthday party. (I still managed to sneak away to buy a case of wine.) Saturday night, we went over to some friends house for game night, and I finished a whole bottle of wine within 1 1/2 hours. Needless to say, we never got around to the games. But, we had a great time. We didn't get home until almost 11, and the kids were completely wiped out.

Sunday, I woke up at 6, and started getting things ready for Deuce's "official" birthday. Since his birthday happened to fall on Superbowl Sunday, I decided just to invite family over for a bunch of munchies. And since I had to go into work for a while on Sunday, I wanted to make sure all the food was ready before I left.

So, I chopped, diced, breaded, and broiled to create a menu of : Chili, breadsticks, onion dip, sausage dip, spinach and cheese dip, sliders (mini cheeseburgers), stuffed mushrooms, chicken wings, onion petals, and bean dip. (all homemade of course). I have timed everything to be ready at exactly 5 pm, when all my family starts to arrive. The food is great, and we finish off with ice cream cake. By the time the national anthem starts, everyone is gone and the kids are in the tub. I get the kids tucked into bed and I settle in to watch the game.

I am snoring by halftime. I wake up just as the game ends with my husband screaming because with the Steelers touchdown, he just won $200. I stumble into bed, only to have my 4 year old join me shortly thereafter. He kicked and talked so much, that I managed to snag a whopping 2 hours of rest.

So, today, I am using toothpicks to hold my eyes open. I am on my fourth pot of coffee, and I don't think I even like coffee. I forgot to put make-up on this morning, and my new $12 "no rise" underwear have risen so far up that I can now taste my wedgie. I am pretty certain that I am actually sleep-typing right now.

And the good news? There's no school tomorrow because of state testing.

I am off to get another case of wine . . .

Happy Pills

2009-01-28T12:20:00.000-08:00

About 8 weeks ago I had a Dr's appointment. It was supposed to be a "well" visit. But, after having to get on the scale to have my weight checked, my blood pressure registered 152 over 101. And, I guess that's not good because they made me sit in the office for another half an hour so they could check it again. (I had explained that it was so high because I was shocked at my weight. But I don't think they bought it.) So, after resting for awhile, it came down to 149 over 90. Which, still didn't make my Dr. very happy.

Anyway, I convinced the Dr. that I really think it is stress more than anything. (A house, 3 kids, a business . . . .hellooooo???!) So, she suggested that I try some anti-anxiety pills for a while. I kindly explained to her that when she put me on Lexapro after my father died, I thought I looked like a supermodel and was so happy to spend money that I maxed out my credit card buying craft supplies. So, I was very hesitant to go that route. But, she suggested a combination of a daily happy pill, and a different happy pill (Xanax, how FUN!!) that I take when I get really stressed. (OK, so 2 daily happy pills??)

So, I have been taking these happy pills for about 8 weeks. And, I can say they are working because I'm a lot less stabby, and I haven't hurt any of the kids. However, they have made me really, um, well, um amorous. (In other words, I am hornier than a bag full of Rhinos.) Seriously, I just can't get it enough. My husband thought this was great . . . at first. Now he mumbles things like "stalker", "stop violating me", "nympho", and "hotline" or something like that.

What he fails to realize is that after 12 years of marriage and 3 children, he is the FRIGGEN LUCKIEST MAN ON THE PLANET to be dealing with such a problem. All he has to do is walk in the room and I am instantly turned on. The sight of him in his ripped boxer briefs and stained college t-shirt actually makes me swoon. When he came home from basketball the other night and saw the candles and heard the mood music, I think he actually started crying and screamed "AGAIN???????"

I guess you can call this a healthy dose of my own medicine. I mean, we have always had a very healthy relationship in that way. (We have 3 lovely "accidents" as proof.) But, I have been guilty of few "not tonight," "I have a headache," "I'm too tired," and "If you touch me again I'll stab you." So, now I can totally relate, and I will make an honest effort going forward to be more mindful of his feelings in this area. (Yeah, right.)

So, I was sharing this story with some of my Girlfriends, and naturally, they all have appointments to see their Dr's for the same pills. (Not that any of us need help in this area, but, a positive mental well being is so good for everyone. And hubby's that get it more frequently are so much less cranky.)

One Girlfriend has a sister that is a pharmacist, so she called to get the dirt on my miracle happy pills. Honest to god, the warnings for my pills are "causes weight gain and decreased sex drive." Ok, so I can blame the pills for my fat fanny (even if it was technically fat before the pills), but the decreased sex drive?? HUH???? Am I a freak or something? (I will know soon enough because 2 Girlfriends just got their scripts filled.)

To take my mind off of my need for luvin', I read. A LOT. Like a book a day. (To my credit, I am a fast reader.) I will read anything and everything that someone gives me. And, I will re-read it if I don't have another book handy. It is because of my sudden reading obsession that I was introduced to the Twilight series. And can I just say . . .

I love Edward Cullen. I mean, I pink puffy heart LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE Edward Cullen.

For those of you have haven't read Twilight, it is a tweenie book about vampires. But not the blood sucking scary vampires. Yummy, good-looking, school-boy vampires. And, if you haven't read it, go out and buy it and read it otherwise you will never, ever get my obsession with Edward Cullen. And, currently, I am obsessed. Don't we all need a good-looking vampire in our lives?

I'm so crazed, I even went to see the movie. I haven't been to the movies since Titanic, so needless to say it was a big deal. I didn't catch on to the Twilight craze until after the movie had been out for a while, so my niece and I had to drive an hour away to an ancient theatre to watch the movie. The theatre barely held 40 people, but the tickets were only $3. The only bad part was that the seats were so narrow, that neither me nor Heather could fit our fat behinds in them, and we weren't able to move for the entire movie. Seriously, we both got stuck in the seats. (We also had to wait until everyone left before we could get up because we weren't sure if the chairs were coming with us or not.) But, the boy playing Edward Cullen in the movie was so yummy, that it was completely worth hip bruising and numb feet.

This week I am reading a bunch of books by Jen Lancaster, which a Girlfriend let me borrow. She is so snarky and bitter that I am sure we are long lost soul sisters. However, she doesn't have children, so she might not get me. I was reading "Bright Lights, Big Ass" last night, and there is a part in the book where she calls Rachel Ray "Tittie McHighBeams." And, I am STILL laughing about it. I actually snorted. I thought I was the only one who found Rachel Ray to be highly annoying. But, to my surprise, there are others out there. (Titty McHighBeams. . .hee, hee, hee, hee, hee)

So, the moral of my blog today is that ya'll better start sending me some books or I might be in jail for spousal abuse. . .

Girlfriends

2009-01-28T06:44:00.000-08:00

Before I begin, I have to aplogize for my offensive language used in previous blogs. When my lovely mother joined us for a gourmet mac-n-cheese dinner last night she brought it to my attention that I was using "garage talk." "Now Jenny, when you are flogging," (Isn't she adorable?), "you really shouldn't use potty mouth." Huh? What did I say? "Jenny honey, you can call it making potty or going pee, but you really shouldn't use the (low whisper) piss word. It's just not very lady like." Isn't it cute that my mom still thinks I'm a lady? I kinda thought she would've caught on by now. "And, Jenny sweetheart, don't go flogging about me tomorrow." Oh, mother, I would never do such a thing . . .

Oh, and the mac-n-cheese I made last night totally rocked so I will post the recipe at the end of this blog. (Um, it was DIET mac-n-cheese)

So, onto my Girlfriends. I have to show you all love for the wonderful support you all have shown me over the years. Honestly, I don't know what I would do without you all. (I am quite certain I would have stabbed someone by now, but we all know I have a little stabby problem.) I have the most wonderful crew of Girlfriends: some that have been my Girlfriends since birth; some that have been my Girlfriends since Elementary School & High School; some that have been my Girlfriends since college; some that have become Girlfriends after working with me; some Girlfriends that I have met through my kids; some that have been forced to be Girlfriends because they are related to me; some Girlfriends I met through my bad golf game; some Girlfriends I have met through other Girlfriends; some Girlfriends I have met through my gay Boyfriends; and Girlfriends I have yet to meet but know that we will be close someday. You are all the best.

My Girlfriends are the type that would not only tell me that I have something stuck in my teeth, but they would also totally lie and tell me how great I look when they know I have gained 10 pounds and have had to leave my pants unbuttoned. My Girlfriends are the type to forgive me for not staying in touch as often as I'd like, and when we do connect, we just pick up where left off. So, to you my Girlfriends, I salute you with a toast of my baileys and coffee. (Hey it's another snow day and the kids are home, so I am starting early.)

I had the pleasure of going out with a few of my Girlfriends this weekend for a much needed night out. We started out having dinner and martini's at another Girlfriend's fabulous restaurant. Our waitress too was a Girlfriend, so our 2 1/2 hour dinner was tons of fun, needless to say. After our wonderful dinner we decided to go to our local bar. Actually, it is the ONLY bar in town, and it is what most folk would refer to as, well, a dive. They have Pabst on tap, and many patrons actually arrive on snowmobiles or tractors. So, I think you get the picture. It is a bar that everyone is my hometown is familiar with, and of course, we all have crazy stories.

My story began many moons ago when I was a bartender at this bar. It was my first bartending job, and I was so excited to learn how to bartened because I had heard all the stories about how much money you could make. Little did I know that the most exotic drink I would ever make would be a screwdriver. But, it was a fun place, and the locals tipped pretty well. And, since I was still legally unable to drink, it was a great place for me and my friends to get drunk.

I chose to go there Saturday night for the sole purpose that if I drank too much, I could always have my mom come and pick me up. (It wouldn't have been the first time, unfortunately.) For a big girl, suprisingly, I am a pretty cheap date. I am the life of the party after just a few coctails.

Upon entering my old stomping ground I was suprised to see that absolutely nothing had changed. Except the patrons. I was concerned that many in the crowd were up well past their bed time. They all looked 12. And, of course, they ALL turned to look at us as we walked in the door. Naturally, I yell something like "the FUN has arrived." (In the same tone as Rosie O'Donnell in the Tarzan movie.) And, I head to the jukebox to play $5 worth of old songs that we can sing along to at the top of our lungs. (Obviously, I am getting old, because $5 only gets you 9 songs nowadays. What a rip-off!)

So, my Girlfriends and I find seats at the end of the bar. (Actually I had to move chairs and coats, but I figured no one would dare mess with me on my old turf.) As we sit down to enjoy our $3 citron-and-sodas- with-a-splash-of-lime-juice (yes, another great reason to visit your local dive bar - top shelf liquor for $3 a drink!!!!! Wooooohooooo!), I can see that a small group of youngen's at the pool table keep looking over at my group of Girlfriends.

Naturally I assume that they are all looking at my fabulous new bangs thinking how amazing my hair looks and how young it makes me, so I don't give it much thought. After a few minutes one of the cute boys at the pool table starts walking right towards me.

I'm smiling to myself. Thinking "hey, even with an ass (oops butt, sorry mom) that hangs over the sides of the bar stool, you STILL got it girl. oooooooooh, these bangs are bangin' and so are you! you are one hot mama!" As you can tell, I am able to think a lot of things in a short amount of time. But, hey, a cute boy is heading right towards me!

"I know who you are." this cute boy says to me. Wow, my reputation proceeds me. I must be a legend here. I am so honored. "You are Mr. Paco's wife." Ugh, nothing like having the wind taken right out of your sails. "um, yes I am." I humbly reply. "He was the best counsellor ever. He's one of my favorite people!" mr cutie-pants gushes. "um, that's so nice. I'll be sure to tell him." And, I kindly spin my fat-bootie back around to face my Girls.

Ok, so I am in MY old stomping ground, with MY Girlfriends, listening to MY sing-along songs on the jukebox, with MY fabulous new bangs and STILL my ever perfect hubby has to come into play. Ugh! The joys of being married to a local legend.

But, true to the nature of a real Girlfriend, one says to me, "he was totally flirting with you." Exactly what I needed to put some air back in my sails, even if it was a blatant lie.

So, anyway, several other Girlfriends join us and we have a FABULOUS time. So much fun, that I think it should be a weekly ritual. I forgot how much I LOVE the song Ice Ice Baby. Good times.

So, the moral of the story here is (I'm not sure there really is one, but . . .) THANK YOU all for being my Girlfriends. (Or my special Boyfriends - you know who you are.) You make every day as a crazy wife, mother, business-owner, scatter-brained wackadooo seem, well, NORMAL. So, thanks. I never knew how many people have gone to work with 2 different shoes or scraped toothpaste off a ceiling, so it is so wonderful to know that I am not alone. I love you all.

Now, for my fabulous gourmet mac-n-cheese recipe. (I consider anything that involves chopping and doesn't come out of a bag or box gourmet. ) If any of you are Food Network junkies like I am, you will totally get it.

I call it Barefoot Paula Mac-n-cheese

Pour 2 cups white wine if your favorite glass. Sip. If you are going to cook, you should always have wine . . .

Boil water and add a box of pasta. Whatever you have on hand will do. I happened to use mini-penne because it's so darned cute.

While the pasta is boiling, melt 1/2 stick of butter in a sauce pan. Add about 1/2 to 1 cup chopped vidalia onions and sautee until they turn clearish. (You don't taste the onions for you onion-haters)

Add 2 cloves chopped garlic and stir for a minute.

Add about 1/4 cup flour and mix well for 1 minute.

Add 2-3 cups milk (or whatever is left in the jug as I did) and whisk well for a minute or so.

Add a few shakes of salt, a pinch of dry mustard, several grinds of pepper, and a large splotch of dried parsley.

Stir well.

Add one brick of chopped Gruyere cheese. (Or swiss if like me you are too cheap to splurge on a $7 hunk of cheese. ) Probably around 8 oz's.

Add several good hunks of velveeta cheese, probably another 8 oz's.

Add about 2 cups of mozzarella or an italian blend cheese.

Mix well.

To the boiling pasta add 3/4 of a bag of frozen peas, and about 2 cups of chopped ham. Let cook another minute or 2.

Drain pasta mixture and mix with cheese mixture.

Put into a pam-sprayed casserole dish, or a bunch of small ramekins or small casserole dishes so everyone can have their own dish.

Melt the other half of the stick of butter and mix with about 2 cups of panko or other bread crumbs. (I happen to LOVE panko). Spread over the top of casserole.

Bake in the oven at 350 for about half and hour. Until bubbly.

And, it is so friggen yummy. The kids finished every bite. I'm not a big fan of swiss cheese, but you can't taste it. I promise. Enjoy.

Oh, and refill your wine glass already.

Amost Famous

2009-01-27T05:51:00.000-08:00

For approximately 26 hours this weekend, I thought I was going to the Grammy's. You know, the big music award show with the big red carpet and all the fabulous musicians. Yes, Me, There. Or, so I thought . . .

My dear favorite niece Heather (who is more like my little sister for those of you who don't see us constantly together) actually won tickets for 2 people to go to the Grammy's on a local radio station. She even won airfare and hotel accommodations. Naturally, I was the first person she called screaming to tell me the awesome news, and when she came over to my house later in the morning, we jumped up and down screaming while she yelled "we're going to the grammy's!!!!!!" Then she backed my car into a snowbank and got it stuck, but hey, how friggen excited was I????????? I kinda thought she might take me since A: We are superclose, and she asked me to be her maid of honor B: I used to live and work in LA and I totally know my way around C: I would look awesome walking down the red carpet D: I would totally max out my visa and pay for everything.

However, there had to be some DRAH-MA. My sister-in-law (Heather's Mom) decided that she wanted to go to. (she thinks the black eyed peas are a vegetable - so you get the picture.) Somehow, what should have been an awesome and exciting time for my niece turned into a nightmarish decision of playing favorites. Me - the superfun aunt with the high-limit credit card, or her Mom - the-wouldn't-know-Justin-Timberlake-if-he-was-dry-humping-her-leg-country-music-fan. (I really don't want to be mean because I totally used to love my sister-in-law, but I'm feeling slightly bitter and homicidal at the moment.) So, it turned into this competition of who is more deserving and who makes more sense, and anyone and everyone was offering their opinions and before long, Heather was bawling her eyes out saying she wished she'd never won.

In my defense, I sent her an email stating that I was busy that day and couldn't go. I mean, this is SUPPOSED to be FUN!!! A once-in-a-lifetime trip. But secretly, every fiber in my body was screaming "pick me, pick me!"

Well, naturally Heather had to go all Switzerland, and she decided to take her friend from high school, Amanda. (How much hatin' do you think I have for Amanda right now?) I can totally understand her decision and I wish her tons and tons of fun.

The problem here is that in the 26 hours that I thought I was going I managed to A: order $400 worth of new clothes that I must now return because they are not PTA appropriate B: Spent $40 to download every grammy song to my ipod so that I could be well prepared (who knew the Eagles were still makin' music?) and C: I got a fabulous red-carpet worthy new hair-do that includes drastic highlights and BANGS!!

Now what am I supposed to do with these things? The last time I had bangs was in the 9th grade when I used to take extra strength aqua net and blow-dry "wings" off the side of my head. I feel so out of place. I look like a cross between lady ga-ga and cher. Don't get me wrong, the new do is super glamorous and fun. But, i constantly feel like a pack of spiders is sprinting across my forehead and I can't quite get used to it.

One of my dear girlfriends feels my pain so she is hosting an I-hate-the-grammy's party for me. I am going to get all dressed up in an old bridesmaid dress (so what if I can't zip it, that's what duct tape is made in colors for!) and I will get to wear my fabulous hair do and walk the seagrass area carpet through her front door. (She did tell me to bring a paintbrush because she picked out her living room paint, but still, its all about me, me, me.) So, I will be having a fun evening after all. Justin Timberlake will just have to be patient and wait for me.

Truly I do wish heather tons of fun and a fabulously wonderful good time. However, I wish Amanda an in-grown toenail and a big zit on the end of her nose, but, hey, I'm still bitter.

Oh, and on a side note, it has been brought to my attention by several people in the know that it was NOT my fault that the Cowboys lost this year as my husband has so frequently accused me. Jessica Simpson jinxed the team early on and anything I contributed was moot at that point. So, technically, I am off the hook.

Mondays are EVIL

2009-01-26T07:02:00.000-08:00

For the record, I HATE mondays. I didn't used to hate them, but now they are evil. Mondays are the day that my children all regress to the terrible twos, and we need a minimum of 20 extra minutes to make it out the door. Inevitably there are forgotten snowpants, missing gloves, scattered papers, and lots of tears. (Usually mine.) And today was no exception.

I awoke at the normal time of 5:10, and instead of hearing the usual hum of my hubby running on the treadmill, I hear him cursing and stomping downstairs. I naturally assume that the treadmill is broken. (I figure it has died from the strain of hauling my fat ass . . .) So, I call down and ask if he is ok, and the from the profanity laced string of responses I get, I am able to piece together that A: The kids did not pick up the video games from yesterday . . . B: the dog peed and pooped downstairs. . .C:the dog peed and pooped on the video games that the kids didn't put away yesterday.

And of course, the is somehow ALL MY FAULT. (It is also my fault that the cowboys lost in the playoffs because I dared to ask my husband if he wanted a blanket in the third quarter, therefore completely altering the earths rotation and the outcome of the game. So, to all Cowboy fans out there - I humbly apologize.) I will admit that I was completely lax with the kids playing with the Wii yesterday, but in my defense, it was my father's deathiversay, and it is the one day a year where I traditionally lay around, feel sorry for myself, eat like a pig, watch sappy chick flicks, be bitter and bitch all day. (However, I also managed to make a gourmet dinner, dust the dining room walls, bake 3 dozen cookies - of which I only ate 1 dozen- wash said cookie making dishes, scrub the toilet, and finish 2 chapters of the book I'm reading. Yet somehow, that has all been conveniently overlooked . . .)

So, before I had even had one sip of coffee, all hell had broken loose at my house. and, unfortunately, it only got worse. Upon entering Kade & Derek's room, my loving husband also managed to walk into a 4 gallon pile of dog piss conveniently left there by our 100 pound lap dog, Sally. So, now it is 5:35, and all the kids are up, the dogs are cowering in the corner- fearing for their lives, my husband is stomping around mumbling something about dogs and murder, and I can barely even keep my eyes open.

So, I attempt to tackle the 4 gallons of pee on the boys carpet. I spray it with as much dog pee smell remover that I have left in the bottle, and I do my best to soak it up. Let me just tell you that Sham Wows are the biggest waste of money EVER. After doing the irish jig on top of the sham wow, there was barely a damp spot on the damn cloth. But, my socks were soaking wet. (Sorry, during one of my sleepless nights I became a sucker for Vince's charming sales pitch. And hey, I got the second set FREE!)

So, 2o minutes and 2 rolls of viva later, (and completely reeking of dog piss), I am finally able to sit down to my first cup of coffee. It is at this point my husband tries to sneakily pull a "reverse psychological moment" on me. (My husband is a very talented counsellor, and he is currently taking online courses to complete his administrative degree. Because he is type A and a complete perfectionist, he is spending no less than 30 hours per week on papers and prep work for 2 classes. - this in addition to working 45 hours a week at his job, jogging 1 hour every day on the treadmill, and playing bball one night per week - So, needless to say he is busy and stressed.) So, he uses the old "I am going to drop my class because I just can't keep up with the school work and the housework, and it's making me physically sick." Ooouuucch, zinger right in my gut. Ok, so he was legitimately sick this weekend, but could it not have something to do with the fact that he works in public education and he is exposed to all the nasty winter bugs that are making the rounds? I just couldn't help to think that the speech was more prompted by my lack of effort on the house cleaning and laundry this weekend. I will admit that I was a pathetically lazy bum this weekend, but it was well-deserved. I totally kicked ass scrubbing the bathrooms, dusting, and vacuuming LAST weekend. Does that not count for anything? Is it all MY fault that my children are discusting heathens that are capable of getting toothpaste on a 8 foot tall ceiling?

So, I use my nice wifey voice and politely say "oh honey, don't quit your class. I will take care of all the household stuff and you can concentrate on your class." eye twitch - eye twitch. "I know that I didn't do much this weekend, but I will have it all taken care of." lip quiver, eye twitch, lip quiver.

Needless to say, I am home spot -botting dog piss, scraping toothpaste from 8' ceilings, making ANOTHER gourmet dinner, scrubbing all non-porous surfaces with bleach, organizing toys into color coded bins, dead-heading all the plants, reorganizing the pantry by best use by date, matching up all the Tupperware to it's lid, sweeping up 34 pounds of dog hair (which I will weave into a sweater tonight), and alphabetizing the recycling.

Perhaps upon completion I will be redeemed for causing the dogs to extricate on the floors, for allowing the kids leave all the video game equipment out, for causing the cowboys to lose their division, for my contribution to global warming, and for McDonald's getting rid of the strawberry shake

At least I got the kids to school on time.

Working it . . .

2009-01-23T05:29:00.000-08:00

I am attempting a new fitness regimen. I should correct that and say A fitness regimen, since I didn't really have one before. (Does shopping count???) And since I have absolutely no shame, I shall share all the gory details . . .

I've started out very simple with brisk walks on the treadmill. But, It hasn't been without drama. I have learned three very important lessons about the treadmill. #1 being that the emergency cut-off cord is there for a reason, and you should really use it. #2 - if you turn around to yell at your kids while walking on the treadmill, you are very likely to fall off in a very non-graceful way. (And if you fail to use the emergency shut-off cord, the treadmill will continue to run and burn your skin right off.) And, #3, a fat girl should NOT wear cotton pants on the treadmill.

To elaborate more on the third most important rule of the treadmill, I will explain that after 30 minutes of brisk walking on the treadmill in my totally-cute chocolate brown cotton yoga pants, I actually created so much friction between my thighs that my pants pilled and two small holes were burnt onto the inside of each thigh. Honestly, I thought I was going to catch my pants on fire. Now I really understand the meaning behind "feel the burn." I guess my fire-starting capabilities could come in very handy in an emergency. Perhaps I should join the girl-scouts. To solve this problem, I dediced to invest in the very glamorous spandex work-out pants all the fitness queens wear. One major problem though . . . since the world only thinks that skinny chicks are worthy of cute work out wear, I was only able to find the spandex pants in size XL. But, since, they are stretchy, I figured I could make them work.

I have since renamed the spandex pants my "sausage suit." Use your best imagery and picture my fat ass stuffed into a tight, black sausage skin, and well, you get the picture. NOT PRETTY. But, it did solve the friction problem, and hopefully I won't be starting any fires in the near future.

On the plus side, I bought myself some rockin' new Nikes so my footwear is completely stylin'. . .

Another tale from the world of Jen . . .

2009-01-22T08:01:00.000-08:00

I think it is so funny that I am officially a "blogger". This word has always made me think of a bloated jogger, so I always visualize a fat woman in sweat pants when I hear the word. I guess I fit the part pretty darn well . . .

so, today, come hell or high water I was sending the kids to school. Derek has a mild case of coughing up a lung, but the nose ooze has slowed to a slow trickle. Kade too started hacking and wheezing, but since neither were running a fever, I felt it safe to send them.

I must admit I was a bit giddy getting ready for work. Just the thought of getting out of the house was a bit, well, exciting. So, I had the usual hullaballoo of getting the boys prepped and ready, bags packed, car warmed, etc.

As we were driving to school, Derek informs me that he hates school and he is not going. I use my very best nice mommy voice and explain to him that his friends and his teacher miss him very much, and he will certainly have a great day. So, we fat-ass jeans. How very depressing.

Anywhoooo . . . that's not even the best part. So, I stop by Wal-mart to kill some time before work and bargain hunt. And, as I am walking in I notice that I am waddling like a penguin. My back has been bothering me, so I don't give it much thought. As I walk into the store, I hear "squish, click, squish, click." I realize it is coming from my shoes, so I look down to see what the problem is. Only in my world could someone walk out the door with two completely different boots. Oh yes folks, that's right, two completely different boots. In my defense, they are both black, and again I only had minimal sleep. However, one boot has a thin 3 inch heel with a square toe, and the other has a belt detail, with a 2 inch flat heel with a round toe. So different that even a man would notice. I am very thankful that the shoe police don't seem to be patrolling Wal-Mart today. I am Klassy with a capital K.

But, on the plus side, it's like I will be using the stair stepper all day. I am totally counting this towards my work-out.

Again, please pray for me. . . .

What happiness a sick child can bring . . .

2009-01-21T13:06:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I am home yet again with a sick child. I have time on my hands to be productive, however, I feel the need to share the last two days with you instead . . .

I was home yesterday with 2 sick children. So, not only was I stalked by a 4 year old with a smokers cough and green sludge oozing out his nose, but I was also able to watch all the Presidential hoopla on TV with my 8 year old. So, it wasn’t all bad. And I must say that I was moved. I am truly excited about President Obama, and I can’t wait to see what he brings to the table. Just having a strong, black man leading our country is so inspiring.

Last night I was inspired by Barak Obama and the inauguration so I broke out the good china and made a "presidential dinner." I know it's cheesy, but with kids, you do what works. So, I made meatloaf in cupcake molds and I even attempted to do some pathetic eagle looking emblem on top with ketchup. It looked like a dead bird, but hey, I tried. The boys named them Barak balls. They totally didn't get the true humor there, but they were feeling patriotic also. I made "white house" mashed potatoes, and yes, we even shaped them to look like a white house. And, we had Barak-oli as a vegetable. Aren't I good? And, we had pudding in fancy wine glasses for dessert. So chic.

So, we sipped our water out of wine glasses and ate on fine china, and My 5 year old proudly declares that our presidential dinner is the same as what they are having at the white house. Somehow I can't imagine meatloaf being served last night, even with the fancy emblem and all, but hey, the kid has a fabulous imagination. And they all cleared their plates which was wonderful. So, I totally played it up.

Well, while I spent four hours handwashing my beautiful dishes that I insisted on using, I had time to ponder the meaning of life. Suddenly, last night after my wonderful patriotic dinner, I felt the need to declare myself mother-of-the-year. Clearly my clever dinner was worthy of such a nod, right? Or perhaps it was the 2 glasses of wine I drank while making dinner. Who knows? But, I suddenly felt like I was an some incredible miracle woman. I mean, I write checks and pay bills. I own a home. I buy groceries and make food. I have 3 CHILDREN! Really, how did this all come about. I really felt like there should have been applause in the background. I mean, wow, I can do what my mother did and I’m still just a kid, right?

I guess my point is, or my question rather, does anyone else feel this way? Like “how in the world did they let me do all this?” (They being some invisible parental advisory board in heaven or something.) I guess, even though I’m 36 – or am I still 35?- when do you feel like a grown-up? I still feel like a bit of a kid I guess, and I really had this wonderful sense of amazement last night at all that life has brought. I have CHINA!!!! Seriously, who would have thunk it????????

Do I need prescription meds or is this normal? I attempted to ask my husband if he ever has these feelings. But, he declared that he is simply too busy to think. (eye twitch – eye twitch).

And this is the same husband who conveniently slept through the 14 trips I made to tend to a hacking 4 year old and a whiny dog with $200 worth of “harmless” fatty tumors. I made so many trips to Dereks room with medicine, puke buckets, tissues, vapor rub, and gingerale, that I finally gave up and laid on the floor at the end of his bed. When at 3:58 am, when I was finally preparing a child-sized portion of Nyquil (hey – I was desperate!) – my loving husband comes out of our wonderfully cozy bed and declares in his sweetest voice . . .”honey, I’m wide-awake, I’ll take over from here. You go get some sleep” (eye-twitch, eye-twitch). I admit my eyes scanned for the butcher block of knives next to the stove, but I was honestly too tired to do the whole stabbing thing. (The irony here is that we get up at 5 am. So this “sleep” he referred to was more of a nap.)

Anywhoo, as I laid in my wonderfully cozy bed and tried to sleep, I was awakened by a groggy 4 year old that walked past the snoring man on the couch to crawl into bed with me. (He really took over, eh???) The stalker, as I lovingly refer to him, put his face 1” from mine on my pillow, and proceeded to pass out within seconds while blowing his germs right into my nasal passage. Good times, good times.

So, as I get up and go about getting things ready for the day . . . making coffee, packing lunch, getting homework and papers ready to go . . . I mention to the wonderful hubby that I really need to get into work, and maybe he could stay home with Derek. You would have thought I asked him to scale the empire state building naked by the initial look he gave me. But, I think he saw my eyes scan the knife block, because he waited a few seconds before replying “why don’t we send him in to school and if he doesn’t do well, I’ll take a half a day and come home with him at 11:30.” Eye twitch- eye twitch, damn my eye. OK, I’ll send a sick kid to school to infect everyone just so that he gets it again in two weeks. But, the true irony is that derek’s class runs from 8 to 11-45. So, my hubby would be sparing him from 15 minutes of school.

Needless to say, I am home today. I do love my husband, and I don’t mean to make him out to be a bad guy, because he isn’t. But, this is a true story, and I stand by my words.

I guess I am just really tired, and I needed to vent. The 14 minutes of sleep I had last night just don’t cut it.

I am off to have another mocha vodka valium latte.

Pray for me.

2009-01-21T12:59:00.000-08:00

Since I am running low on xanax and wine, I thought I would look to a different form of therapy to get me through my days. So, I am taking out my frustrations here . . . in print. So I can relive every fabulous moment day after day after day. And so I can share my humiliating and deprecating stories so other harried working moms out there realize that "we are all in this together." Or at least we can pretend to be. Please enjoy my rants and remember not to be too critical. I am usually functioning on less than 2 concurrent hours of sleep.