National Lampoon's Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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????

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

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

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

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 . . .