First and foremost, let me tell you that I am not a big fan of April Fool’s Day. I am gullible 365 days of the year, so I really don't need a full day to celebrate it. (Can you say "Sham Wow?"?) And, the only thing I could sucker someone into believing is that I am pregnant again, and, well, that JUST. . . ISN'T . . . FUNNY.
So, in honor of today being April Fool's Day and all, I am going to list all the things that may or may not have happened to me yesterday. It is up to you to decide which ones are April Fools . . .
While enjoying my morning coffee I may or may not have heard on the news that my Sham Wow pal Vince was arrested for beating up a hooker. . .
While attempting to do my hair with the new curling iron I bought to replace the one I may or may not have dropped on the floor after burning my forehead, I may or may not have realized too late that the barrel was smaller, and therefore, I may or may not have been sporting 80's bangs and a mild Jerry-curl (and coincidentally, another burnt forehead). . .
While driving into work I may or may not have heard on the radio that Justin Timberlake was in town filming a music video and I may or may not have said a silent prayer that for the first time in weeks I had my hair down and I was not wearing my spandex sausage suit but rather a black suit that may or may not have made me look flabulous. (Flabby yet FABULOUS). . .
I may or may not have posted on my Face Book site that Justin Timberlake was stalking me again. . .
I may or may not have entertained the idea for more than 20 minutes that Justin Timberlake could actually be in town before realizing it was an April Fool’s Joke . . .
I may or may not have spent far too much time at work gossiping with everyone about Justin Timberlake . . .
I may or may not have left work to pick up the kids at 2 to only realize that on Tuesdays they do not get picked up until 3 . . .
I may or may not have used the extra hour I had to go to Taco Bell and the Liquor Store. . .
I may or may not have been seen in the Liquor store with taco meat on my shirt and lettuce in my hair . . .
I may or may not have been really embarrassed when the sales clerk at the Liquor Store pulled a band-aid sized piece of lettuce from my hair at the checkout . . .
I may or may not have a drinking problem and that is why I am continually seen at the liquor store . . .
I may or may not have been too lazy to cook and fed the kids popcorn, Easter Eggs, and carrot sticks for dinner and said we were having a “movie picnic” . . .
I may or may not have taken a picture of “the money I could be saving on Geico” and considered posting on this blog . . .
I may or may not have had 2 glasses of “the body of Christ” for my dinner . . .
I may or may not have fallen asleep on the couch at 8:15 and missed most of American Idol . . .
I may or may not be going to hell because I may or may not have made the comment to Paco that I am surprised the blind guy didn’t sing a Stevie Wonder song for Motown week . . .
I may or may not want to hit the blind guy with a baseball bat because his voice may or may not make me really crazy and violent. . .
I may or may not be telling the truth and all of the above actually happened yesterday. April Fools???
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Fashion Police
Clinton and Stacey really need to make a trip to Ithaca. Today, I saw a woman driving a Volvo wearing a life preserver. A big, orange, puffy, life preserver. I panicked when I first noticed her. Perhaps she knew of an impending apocalypse, or perhaps she was preparing for the melting of the polar ice caps. But, as she drove closer to me, I noticed that her life preserver happened to have a fur trimmed hood. Then it hit me. This woman dressed this way on purpose! She thinks that actually looks good.
I swear to you all right now that if I had lights and sirens in my mini-van I totally would have pulled her over. Seriously, after several fleeting glances I feel it safe to say that this woman needs a bit of a fashion intervention.
I can't say that I am the most fashionable person at all times. Usually at any given moment you can find some sort of stain on me. I affectionately refer to my hooters as crumb catchers, so you get the idea. But I do my best to color coordinate and I am ALWAYS well accessorized.
However, the idea of someone using a boating aid as a piece of avante garde fashion is very unsettling to me. Clearly if she can afford a Volvo, then she can afford to shop somewhere other than Bob's marina. I can only assume that she is single and friendless, because no one that really loves her would let her out of the house like that.
I hereby give each and every one of you the authority to "arrest" me should I ever commit such a fashion offense. I can't promise you that my two-ton thunder thighs will always look fabulous stuffed into various ensembles. But, I solemnly swear that said thighs will be supported by fabulous shoes and hidden behind marvelous purses that more than make up for it.
I swear to you all right now that if I had lights and sirens in my mini-van I totally would have pulled her over. Seriously, after several fleeting glances I feel it safe to say that this woman needs a bit of a fashion intervention.
I can't say that I am the most fashionable person at all times. Usually at any given moment you can find some sort of stain on me. I affectionately refer to my hooters as crumb catchers, so you get the idea. But I do my best to color coordinate and I am ALWAYS well accessorized.
However, the idea of someone using a boating aid as a piece of avante garde fashion is very unsettling to me. Clearly if she can afford a Volvo, then she can afford to shop somewhere other than Bob's marina. I can only assume that she is single and friendless, because no one that really loves her would let her out of the house like that.
I hereby give each and every one of you the authority to "arrest" me should I ever commit such a fashion offense. I can't promise you that my two-ton thunder thighs will always look fabulous stuffed into various ensembles. But, I solemnly swear that said thighs will be supported by fabulous shoes and hidden behind marvelous purses that more than make up for it.
Monday, March 30, 2009
When is too much vomit ENOUGH??
Last week was rough. We played "sick rolls down hill" and the cootie bug worked it's way from Paco, to me, to Ace, and then Deuce. Luckily, Trey missed getting sick this time. (However, he didn't escape completely unharmed.) The rest of us, well, we all took turns worshiping the porcelain god.
Paco was first in line. And, I must say that Paco is quite possibly the worst sick person EV-VER. Men just don't know how to be sick gracefully. They have to let you know that they are sicker, pukier, and more feverish than anyone else ever was. I mean, how could anyone that has given birth to three children even have a remote clue as to the level of pain that illness can bring? He even dared utter the phrase "you have no idea how sick I am right now." Suddenly we are competing in the battle of the sick-os. AND, he feels it necessary that I personally tend to his every need. (And even when he is sick, he thinks he has those needs. "OK, puke-breath, back-off. My pills don't make me that happy. Brush your teeth and then we'll talk.")
As a matter of fact I DID know how sick he was because within a matter of hours, I was going through the exact same thing. And, while sick, I still managed to do two loads of laundry, make dinner, bathe the kids, and empty the dishwasher. All I needed was a little ginger ale to keep me going. (And yes, I did call Paco at work and make him stop and get me some more ginger ale, therefore, he feels that he is single-handedly responsible for my speedy recovery.)
However, the boys, well, they seemed to get the worst of it. I think they both puked more than twice their body weight worth of liquid. I dealt with so much vomit over the course of 3 days that I am now an Expert Vomitologist.
And, as an Expert Vomitologist, I feel compelled to warn you all of the dangers of allowing a sick child to sleep in the top bunk. My precious son Deuce woke up in the middle of the night needing to vomit. Instead of using the puke-bucket I had lovingly placed by his head, he decided to lean over the side of the bunk bed and let it all loose. However, we have those fancy T-shaped bunk beds, and the stream of bile managed to land square on top of a sleeping Trey. You see, Trey likes to squish all the way down in the covers and sleep at the very bottom of the bed. So, Deuce's vomit was a direct missile onto Trey's head. (and neck, and arms, and chest, and the sheets, blanket, comforter, rug, etc. . . )
So, Paco is trying to pull down the puking kid from the top bunk and I am trying to comfort the half-asleep 4 year old that is screaming "stop puuuuuuuking on me broller." Hmmm, there isn't anything about comforting a sleepy child covered in his brother's vomit in the parenting manual, so I am forced to wing it. I decide to remove Trey's pajamas, give him a quick wipe down, and put both kids in bed with us. I shut the door to their room and decide that I will deal with the mess in the morning.
Needless to say, morning came much too fast, and I had quite a clean-up job ahead of me. I scrubbed, steam-cleaned, disinfected, and washed every stitch of bedding in the house.
I am proud to say that we are all healthy at the moment, and we are looking forward to our upcoming trip to Myrtle Beach. I can only hope that we are able to leave the puke-buckets behind . . .
Paco was first in line. And, I must say that Paco is quite possibly the worst sick person EV-VER. Men just don't know how to be sick gracefully. They have to let you know that they are sicker, pukier, and more feverish than anyone else ever was. I mean, how could anyone that has given birth to three children even have a remote clue as to the level of pain that illness can bring? He even dared utter the phrase "you have no idea how sick I am right now." Suddenly we are competing in the battle of the sick-os. AND, he feels it necessary that I personally tend to his every need. (And even when he is sick, he thinks he has those needs. "OK, puke-breath, back-off. My pills don't make me that happy. Brush your teeth and then we'll talk.")
As a matter of fact I DID know how sick he was because within a matter of hours, I was going through the exact same thing. And, while sick, I still managed to do two loads of laundry, make dinner, bathe the kids, and empty the dishwasher. All I needed was a little ginger ale to keep me going. (And yes, I did call Paco at work and make him stop and get me some more ginger ale, therefore, he feels that he is single-handedly responsible for my speedy recovery.)
However, the boys, well, they seemed to get the worst of it. I think they both puked more than twice their body weight worth of liquid. I dealt with so much vomit over the course of 3 days that I am now an Expert Vomitologist.
And, as an Expert Vomitologist, I feel compelled to warn you all of the dangers of allowing a sick child to sleep in the top bunk. My precious son Deuce woke up in the middle of the night needing to vomit. Instead of using the puke-bucket I had lovingly placed by his head, he decided to lean over the side of the bunk bed and let it all loose. However, we have those fancy T-shaped bunk beds, and the stream of bile managed to land square on top of a sleeping Trey. You see, Trey likes to squish all the way down in the covers and sleep at the very bottom of the bed. So, Deuce's vomit was a direct missile onto Trey's head. (and neck, and arms, and chest, and the sheets, blanket, comforter, rug, etc. . . )
So, Paco is trying to pull down the puking kid from the top bunk and I am trying to comfort the half-asleep 4 year old that is screaming "stop puuuuuuuking on me broller." Hmmm, there isn't anything about comforting a sleepy child covered in his brother's vomit in the parenting manual, so I am forced to wing it. I decide to remove Trey's pajamas, give him a quick wipe down, and put both kids in bed with us. I shut the door to their room and decide that I will deal with the mess in the morning.
Needless to say, morning came much too fast, and I had quite a clean-up job ahead of me. I scrubbed, steam-cleaned, disinfected, and washed every stitch of bedding in the house.
I am proud to say that we are all healthy at the moment, and we are looking forward to our upcoming trip to Myrtle Beach. I can only hope that we are able to leave the puke-buckets behind . . .
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Stupid People
I don't want to start off sounding like I have some sort of God complex, because that certainly isn't the case. However, I have had my fill of stupid people this week. (And it's only wednesday. ugh) And, I'm not talking mildly stupid, I am talking the person that see's you in a boat, on a lake, with a fishing pole in your hands and asks you if you are going fishing. That kind of stupid. (Here's your sign kind of stupid)
It started on Sunday, when I was pulling into the parking garage at work. All the gates were up, and there was a large sign on the toll booth that said "free parking evenings and weekends". However, a lovely woman from NJ was holding up the entrance because she couldn't "get the damn machine to spit her out a ticket."
"Um, lady, it's free today. That means there are no tickets. " So she gives me a dirty look and speeds away. Uh, you're welcome.
Monday I get a phone call at work from some automated woman telling me that my auto warranty was due to expire.
It was the third call in like 15 minutes, so I figured I'd wait to talk to someone to get the number removed from their call list. Our work van is so old that the warranty expired in like 1982. So, after hitting 44 buttons I finally get through to a cheery person that asks "Are you ready to extend your auto warranty?" I try to be funny and tell her that my van is older than dirt and I really don't need to worry about a warranty, and I just want to be removed from their calling list. She cheerily informed me that their warranty program does cover classic cars. My beater van is a classic? I never looked at it that way. I politely say "no thanks, please just remove this number from your calling list."
She proceeds to ask me if I have the funds to pay for an engine replacement out of pocket. Or, a new transmission. Because those repairs are covered under their plan. She clearly isn't taking now for an answer. So, I played along. She went down her list and asked me a series questions. After about 10 minutes, she says "ma'am I really think that this plan makes sense for you. For only $1999 you can have complete piece of mind." Hello Dolly, um, "that is more than I paid for the darn van. Please just remove me from your calling list."
And, I swear to God, this woman says "well, thanks for wasting my time" and hangs up the phone on me. Hmmm, now I wasted HER time. Interesting concept.
That should have met my stupid people quota for the week, but there's more. Unfortunately.
I went to Wal-Mart to buy a bunch of clearance Valentine merchandise. I was getting some frames, candles, and a bunch of shiny foil hearts to use at the store next year. I counted that I had 32 shiny foil hearts. I even double counted, and yep, 32 shiny foil hearts. I told the woman at the check out that I had 32 shiny foil hearts. And do you know what she did? She scanned each one individually. Really. And when they wouldn't scan, instead of just using the bar code from another one, she would enter the numbers manually on the keypad. 14 minutes and 2 fistfuls less of hair later, I finally was able to pay and leave the store.
But the stupidest person of all????? That would be the lady at Home Depot looking at door knobs for 10 minutes and pulling her hair out and finally asking a 17 year old clerk why all the packs come with two knobs because she only needs one. "Ma'am, um, that is just one knob. One goes on the inside of the door, and one goes on the outside of the door." The woman turned 14 different shades of red, grabbed the first knob she could find, and ran from the store. That woman would also happen to be me. Yes, I really thought I was much smarter than that. Here's MY sign . . .
Monday, March 23, 2009
Paco's Coming Out
We had a very unique crisis in my household the other day. Somehow in the midst of acting like a 6 year old and playing "you can't find me" with the kids, my dear 39 year-old hubby Paco managed to lock himself in the closet in one of the kid's room. Somehow the knob fell off but the mechanism remained inside.
I happened to be hiding in the bathroom, on the phone with a Girlfriend while this was happening, so, I was blissfully unaware of all the commotion in the other room.
My youngest, Trey, did come into the bathroom and start screaming something and waving a golden orb at me, which I assumed was a broken toy or something, however, I quickly ssshhhhed him and told him to get out. A few minutes later he came running back in hollering and waving his arms. This time I may have said something like "if you don't be quiet and get out of here right now I am going to rip off your arm and beat you with it!" Or something along those line.
About 5 minutes later my oldest son comes running in with a powerdrill in his hand. "Mom, I'm not joking. We're having an emergency. Dad is stuck in the closet."
OK, so now he has my attention. "So what do you mean Dad is stuck in the closet?" I ask.
"Come here and see" he says as he starts dragging me out of the room. I quickly say "goodbye" to the Girlfriend and go to investigate.
Upon entering the kid's room I see the floor is covered with various tools. There are scissors, pliers, hedge trimmers, a steak knife, wire cutters, a phillips head screwdriver, a plastic hammer, and a bag of fruit snacks scattered on the floor. (Trey thought Daddy might be hungry so he was feeding him fruit snacks through the small hole.)
Clearly, my kids were ready for action. However, my first reaction was to prolong the incarceration and drag this out and really torture my dear Paco. So, I lean up next to the door and whisper "Hey handsome. Why you hiding in the closet? Are you stuck?" I purr dermurely.
I hear a muffled "yes" come through the door.
"I'm sorry pookie-bear, what did you say? I am having a hard time hearing you."
I hear another grunt and a mumbled "yes" come through the door.
"What sweetie? I didn't get that." I say
"YES I AM STUCK IN HERE!" He yells at me.
"Is it dark in there?" I ask.
"Yeeesss" he retorts very sarcastically.
"Well then, maybe you should have installed those lights the last 14 times I asked you." (Hey I had a captive audience and I had to get my point across. However, I am quite sure the lights will be installed in the closet by this weekend.)
I pass a 2' long screwdriver in to Paco and he manages to pry the door away from the frame and push it out enough that the door finally pops open.
Slowly a very embarrased 39 year old man with his head wagging low begins to emerge from the closet wearing his tattered t-shirt and boxer briefs.
Naturally I say "Nice to see you finally coming out of the closet, dear."
That should be enough punishment for one day, but of course I have to take it one step further and remind the kids to tell their teachers that Daddy finally came out of the closet this weekend.
I'd like to see how he explains that one.
I happened to be hiding in the bathroom, on the phone with a Girlfriend while this was happening, so, I was blissfully unaware of all the commotion in the other room.
My youngest, Trey, did come into the bathroom and start screaming something and waving a golden orb at me, which I assumed was a broken toy or something, however, I quickly ssshhhhed him and told him to get out. A few minutes later he came running back in hollering and waving his arms. This time I may have said something like "if you don't be quiet and get out of here right now I am going to rip off your arm and beat you with it!" Or something along those line.
About 5 minutes later my oldest son comes running in with a powerdrill in his hand. "Mom, I'm not joking. We're having an emergency. Dad is stuck in the closet."
OK, so now he has my attention. "So what do you mean Dad is stuck in the closet?" I ask.
"Come here and see" he says as he starts dragging me out of the room. I quickly say "goodbye" to the Girlfriend and go to investigate.
Upon entering the kid's room I see the floor is covered with various tools. There are scissors, pliers, hedge trimmers, a steak knife, wire cutters, a phillips head screwdriver, a plastic hammer, and a bag of fruit snacks scattered on the floor. (Trey thought Daddy might be hungry so he was feeding him fruit snacks through the small hole.)
Clearly, my kids were ready for action. However, my first reaction was to prolong the incarceration and drag this out and really torture my dear Paco. So, I lean up next to the door and whisper "Hey handsome. Why you hiding in the closet? Are you stuck?" I purr dermurely.
I hear a muffled "yes" come through the door.
"I'm sorry pookie-bear, what did you say? I am having a hard time hearing you."
I hear another grunt and a mumbled "yes" come through the door.
"What sweetie? I didn't get that." I say
"YES I AM STUCK IN HERE!" He yells at me.
"Is it dark in there?" I ask.
"Yeeesss" he retorts very sarcastically.
"Well then, maybe you should have installed those lights the last 14 times I asked you." (Hey I had a captive audience and I had to get my point across. However, I am quite sure the lights will be installed in the closet by this weekend.)
I pass a 2' long screwdriver in to Paco and he manages to pry the door away from the frame and push it out enough that the door finally pops open.
Slowly a very embarrased 39 year old man with his head wagging low begins to emerge from the closet wearing his tattered t-shirt and boxer briefs.
Naturally I say "Nice to see you finally coming out of the closet, dear."
That should be enough punishment for one day, but of course I have to take it one step further and remind the kids to tell their teachers that Daddy finally came out of the closet this weekend.
I'd like to see how he explains that one.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Back to the Gym
After dealing with sick kids for what seemed like centuries, I finally made it back to the gym. And, oh what a welcoming committee was there to greet me!
Not only was Kitty there in her SKINNY jeans and Farrah Fawcett hair, but she was joined this time by two blond co-eds that I have affectionately named Tawny and Bambi. And, also joining the crew today was Fitness Frank. I can only assume that he is the owner because for an older, bald man with a bit of a pot belly, he seems to be the center of attention. They are all standing behind the counter which I have dubbed "the ring." Any smart comments from a single one of them and you bet your booty that I will jump right in their ring and hurt someone. I am soooooo sleep deprived that I am borderline psychotic today.
There is only one other person in the gym today beside my welcoming committee, and that is Crazy Mike. He is the toothless-tattooed wonder that thinks hitting on fat girls is an Olympic sport for which he is training. Wow, can a girl get any luckier??? I give him the finger right off the bat today so he doesn't even THINK about trying to chat me up.
I grab my towel and head for my throne in the corner. I get myself situated with my ipod and my book and I start pedalling away. This bike used to be my favorite machine in the world. But for some reason, today my thighs feel like they could spontaneously combust and any moment. It's so bad that I see Kitty standing by with a fire extinguisher. I can only think that when I did my tanning parlor squats the other day that I must've used some muscles that haven't seen action in a while. But at any rate, I am pedaling in pain. This is going to be a very long 30 minute ride.
About 12 minutes into my session I see everyone in the ring watching me. At this point I am the only one in the gym, so they all get to focus their attention on me. A few seconds later Tawny starts walking toward me. Oh great. I pause the Ipod and see what she needs.
"Hi there!" she chirps in her I'm-so-happy-I'm-a-hot-size-4 voice. "We couldn't help but notice that aren't getting the most out of your workout today. You really need to slide your seat back a notch so that your legs fully extend as you are pedalling."
"Thanks, but I'm comfortable this way." I shoot back. And I give her a look that clearly says "if your bony little butt even tries to tell me one more thing I am going to strangle you with the wires of my Ipod." What I really wanted to say to her was "well, Tawny, at least I'm not on the couch eating a box of ho-ho's. Something is better than nothing."
I didn't realize I was being patrolled by the Fitness Police. Is this a free service or do I have to pay a monthly fee? I wouldn't be surprised if they start handing out tickets soon. That is just how my luck is going lately.
As a side note, I have to add that there are 3 televisions in this gym. They are all 12" TV's that are bolted to the ceiling. They have the sound off but closed captioning on so that you can read what is going on on the screen. But the funny part is that due to the locations of these TV's, you would need binoculars to read anything on the screen. For some reason I find this extremely humorous. I think tomorrow I will bring binoculars just to see what happens.
I finish my tour-de-france on the bike and I do a few rounds of sit-up thingys on a weird looking machine. (I'm sure I'm doing that wrong too but they wouldn't dare correct me today.)
I toss my towel in the bin by the door and shout goodbye to the crew in the ring. And, I literally shouted goodbye because I had my Ipod on super loud and I didn't realize it. Oops.
I can only imagine the talk in the ring after I left. They probably don't have another client that is as bitter about working out as I am. Or as bitchy. But, hey, what would they have to talk about if I hadn't been there today?
Not only was Kitty there in her SKINNY jeans and Farrah Fawcett hair, but she was joined this time by two blond co-eds that I have affectionately named Tawny and Bambi. And, also joining the crew today was Fitness Frank. I can only assume that he is the owner because for an older, bald man with a bit of a pot belly, he seems to be the center of attention. They are all standing behind the counter which I have dubbed "the ring." Any smart comments from a single one of them and you bet your booty that I will jump right in their ring and hurt someone. I am soooooo sleep deprived that I am borderline psychotic today.
There is only one other person in the gym today beside my welcoming committee, and that is Crazy Mike. He is the toothless-tattooed wonder that thinks hitting on fat girls is an Olympic sport for which he is training. Wow, can a girl get any luckier??? I give him the finger right off the bat today so he doesn't even THINK about trying to chat me up.
I grab my towel and head for my throne in the corner. I get myself situated with my ipod and my book and I start pedalling away. This bike used to be my favorite machine in the world. But for some reason, today my thighs feel like they could spontaneously combust and any moment. It's so bad that I see Kitty standing by with a fire extinguisher. I can only think that when I did my tanning parlor squats the other day that I must've used some muscles that haven't seen action in a while. But at any rate, I am pedaling in pain. This is going to be a very long 30 minute ride.
About 12 minutes into my session I see everyone in the ring watching me. At this point I am the only one in the gym, so they all get to focus their attention on me. A few seconds later Tawny starts walking toward me. Oh great. I pause the Ipod and see what she needs.
"Hi there!" she chirps in her I'm-so-happy-I'm-a-hot-size-4 voice. "We couldn't help but notice that aren't getting the most out of your workout today. You really need to slide your seat back a notch so that your legs fully extend as you are pedalling."
"Thanks, but I'm comfortable this way." I shoot back. And I give her a look that clearly says "if your bony little butt even tries to tell me one more thing I am going to strangle you with the wires of my Ipod." What I really wanted to say to her was "well, Tawny, at least I'm not on the couch eating a box of ho-ho's. Something is better than nothing."
I didn't realize I was being patrolled by the Fitness Police. Is this a free service or do I have to pay a monthly fee? I wouldn't be surprised if they start handing out tickets soon. That is just how my luck is going lately.
As a side note, I have to add that there are 3 televisions in this gym. They are all 12" TV's that are bolted to the ceiling. They have the sound off but closed captioning on so that you can read what is going on on the screen. But the funny part is that due to the locations of these TV's, you would need binoculars to read anything on the screen. For some reason I find this extremely humorous. I think tomorrow I will bring binoculars just to see what happens.
I finish my tour-de-france on the bike and I do a few rounds of sit-up thingys on a weird looking machine. (I'm sure I'm doing that wrong too but they wouldn't dare correct me today.)
I toss my towel in the bin by the door and shout goodbye to the crew in the ring. And, I literally shouted goodbye because I had my Ipod on super loud and I didn't realize it. Oops.
I can only imagine the talk in the ring after I left. They probably don't have another client that is as bitter about working out as I am. Or as bitchy. But, hey, what would they have to talk about if I hadn't been there today?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
A Happy Marriage
Warning: This post is not for the prissy, prude, or weak of stomach. If you do not have a dirty sense of humor, then please do not read any further.
OK, so you are still reading. You have been fairly warned.
First, I have to admit that I never made it to the gym yesterday. Even though I was wearing my spandex finest, I never made it. However, since my thighs are still aching from my ballet squats at the tanning parlor, I am totally counting that as a workout. So technically I am off the hook.
I want to tell you all the my dear dog Otis has not had any "accidents" in the house since my last post about him. Perhaps he is finally catching on. Whatever it may be, I am thrilled and Rick's TV is finally losing the urine smell.
However Otis is not without his flaws. He is still a humper. We haven't had the chance to get him fixed yet, so he still tries to mount any poor pooch that enters our yard. And, he particularly LOVES the leg of one of my Girlfriend's son. (I think he can smell their German Shepard and he goes absolutely nuts. I feel bad for the poor kid because he is probably scarred for life. He doesn't even want to come over any more.) Otis' snippage is on my to-do list.
We have a large chaise that sits in front of a big picture window. And Otis loves to jump up and sort of sit on my shoulder and look out the window. It's really quite cute, and the kids call him Otis the Parrot. (And I may make stupid pirate sounds.) The only problem with this is that his canine cohones always seem to end up stuck to my neck or right in my face.
Naturally Paco thinks this is hysterical, so any time someone sits in the chaise he will call the dog up. I however get truly grodied out and I usually end up whizzing Otis right at Paco's head. (OK, so I don't really throw the dog . . . it's more like a gentle love toss. Ahem, sure.)
So the other night Otis jumps up on the couch and lays at my feet. He is laying with his butt facing me, and naturally his kibbles-n-bits are staring me right in the face. Otis is not a big dog. So, his cohones stick out quite prominently. I think they might even wave a flag that says "hello, here I am, look at me!" It certainly seems that way.
Well his big orbs were there . . . in my face. Seriously, I couldn't escape them. They were like everywhere. It was like when you know you don't want to look, but you can't help looking every few seconds. Very disturbing.
They are pink with black-ish speckles. (or hair, who knows, I certainly don't look that closely.) So, me, thinking that I am quite possibly the funniest person ever, make the comment to my dear hubby Paco that the round knobs protruding from Otis's hind quarters look like speckled Candy Easter Eggs.
And Paco says "No, honey, that is the money you could be saving with Geico."
So I totally laughed myself 'till I peed. And that friends is why I am still blissfully happy (90% of the time) after 12 1/2 years of marriage.
OK, so you are still reading. You have been fairly warned.
First, I have to admit that I never made it to the gym yesterday. Even though I was wearing my spandex finest, I never made it. However, since my thighs are still aching from my ballet squats at the tanning parlor, I am totally counting that as a workout. So technically I am off the hook.
I want to tell you all the my dear dog Otis has not had any "accidents" in the house since my last post about him. Perhaps he is finally catching on. Whatever it may be, I am thrilled and Rick's TV is finally losing the urine smell.
However Otis is not without his flaws. He is still a humper. We haven't had the chance to get him fixed yet, so he still tries to mount any poor pooch that enters our yard. And, he particularly LOVES the leg of one of my Girlfriend's son. (I think he can smell their German Shepard and he goes absolutely nuts. I feel bad for the poor kid because he is probably scarred for life. He doesn't even want to come over any more.) Otis' snippage is on my to-do list.
We have a large chaise that sits in front of a big picture window. And Otis loves to jump up and sort of sit on my shoulder and look out the window. It's really quite cute, and the kids call him Otis the Parrot. (And I may make stupid pirate sounds.) The only problem with this is that his canine cohones always seem to end up stuck to my neck or right in my face.
Naturally Paco thinks this is hysterical, so any time someone sits in the chaise he will call the dog up. I however get truly grodied out and I usually end up whizzing Otis right at Paco's head. (OK, so I don't really throw the dog . . . it's more like a gentle love toss. Ahem, sure.)
So the other night Otis jumps up on the couch and lays at my feet. He is laying with his butt facing me, and naturally his kibbles-n-bits are staring me right in the face. Otis is not a big dog. So, his cohones stick out quite prominently. I think they might even wave a flag that says "hello, here I am, look at me!" It certainly seems that way.
Well his big orbs were there . . . in my face. Seriously, I couldn't escape them. They were like everywhere. It was like when you know you don't want to look, but you can't help looking every few seconds. Very disturbing.
They are pink with black-ish speckles. (or hair, who knows, I certainly don't look that closely.) So, me, thinking that I am quite possibly the funniest person ever, make the comment to my dear hubby Paco that the round knobs protruding from Otis's hind quarters look like speckled Candy Easter Eggs.
And Paco says "No, honey, that is the money you could be saving with Geico."
So I totally laughed myself 'till I peed. And that friends is why I am still blissfully happy (90% of the time) after 12 1/2 years of marriage.
Only In My World
Seriously folks, I can not make this kinda stuff up. Crazy things always happen in my world. All I can think of is the old Hee-Haw song "if it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all . . ."
So, I recently bought a one month tanning package to prepare for our April trip to Myrtle Beach. Yes, I know, someone who had a cancerous mole removed 6 years ago really shouldn't be tanning. But, I don't care what anyone says, fat and wrinkles both look better tan. So, there you have it.
Anyway, I buy this one-month package and I manage to get 1 session in before Trey gets sick. So, in two weeks time I've managed to go exactly twice.
I made a conscious effort to go tanning this morning before work. Since the place doesn't open until 9, I killed time by stalking Wal-Mart for clearance items. (And lucky me snagged a supercute shirt for the hubster for $3. Woo-hoo.)
At 9:05 I enter the tanning place and got myself signed in. (The young lady behind the counter was crying and I totally should have taken that as a sign and left.)
I get in my room and get busy lotioning up every ounce of my skin. I am so looking forward to my 7 minutes of Vitamin D. I take my time and really lotion up nicely.
Um, I wasn't wearing underwear today (which is in itself a long story that I may or may not share with you at another time. In the meantime, just use your imagination.) so I rigged my spandex sausage pants (I planned on going to the gym afterward so I was dressed in my best Buns Of Steel ensemble.) into a sort of loin cloth. I was quite proud of myself actually for my amazing problem solving skills.
I am one of those people who always wear my bra and undies (or a swimsuit) while tanning. In my mind everyone else does too. The thought of laying in someone else's butt juice will get me hyperventilating. I know they clean the beds between tanners, but still . . . So, I have convinced myself that everyone tans in their panties. My butt has never seen the light of day and is a glorious shade of snow white.
Anywhooo, I finally get myself lotioned up, loin-clothed, and tucked into the bed. (Oh, and I had a cute hot pink barette with a monkey on the bed pulling back the ever-fabulous bangs.) I put my little hot pink gogglettes on and I attempt to turn on the tanning bed. As I tried to turn on the bed I turned my head just enough to have one of my goggles fall off my face, land on the tanning bed, and ricochet out of the bed. I only had 1 minute before the tanning bed turned on by itself so I hurried to search for my lost goggle.
I am on my hands and knees searching when I realize that the goggle has slid under the 1" gap in the wall partition and is now in the hallway. And it is about a 1/2" away from the tips of my fingers.
Great, now I have to open the door and step outside my private room to retrieve the goggle. I realized that I wasn't dressed to pull that off without major problems, so I threw on my knee-length black raincoat and I carefully opened the door.
I did the whole CIA/Spy maneuver and looked cautiously in both directions. I figured if I ran out really quickly no one would even be the wiser. I mean the place just opened, how many people could be there already?
The coast was clear so I quickly ran out and grabbed the goggle. As I bent over to pick it up, my makeshift loin cloth just happened to fall down around my ankles. So, now I have to do a careful squatting maneuver to pick up the loin cloth because if I attempt to bend over, all my girly parts will be on display.
So now I am attempting a ballet-style plie squat to get my loin cloth. And, as I do this, I also manage to drop the goggle again, and this time it slides under another partition into a room with a closed door and the glowing blue light coming out from underneath.
I again try to do the graceful squat maneuver to retrieve the goggle from under the door. And, just at that moment a very cute college boy exits the bathroom and starts heading down the hall toward me.
This must look really good. A half naked woman squatting in a rain coat with a pair of pants around her neck and her hand under someone elses door. Can you say "psycho stalker?"
Naturally the cute college boy has to make a smart comment and he smiles and says "oh, are you a flasher?"
"I'm sorry son, I don't feel like scarring anyone for life today. I just dropped my goggle." I say and run back into my room.
At this point the tanning bed has already been on for 2 minutes and I only have 5 minutes left to get my glorious tan. I wear the one goggle that I have and keep switching it back and forth so I don't get pirate-eye syndrome.
After my 5 minute escape, I quickly redress and hide in my room until the person across the hall leaves their room and I can retrieve my goggle.
I get my goggle and bolt for the door. I really hope they don't have surveillance cameras. Because if that is the case then I can never go back.
And, as I sit here sharing this story with you it has come to my attention that my make shift loin-cloth may not have been the best idea either. I clearly missed a good portion of my snowy white butt that is now a wonderful shade of hot-pink, and causing me a bit of misery.
The truly sad part? I will be back tomorrow for more.
So, I recently bought a one month tanning package to prepare for our April trip to Myrtle Beach. Yes, I know, someone who had a cancerous mole removed 6 years ago really shouldn't be tanning. But, I don't care what anyone says, fat and wrinkles both look better tan. So, there you have it.
Anyway, I buy this one-month package and I manage to get 1 session in before Trey gets sick. So, in two weeks time I've managed to go exactly twice.
I made a conscious effort to go tanning this morning before work. Since the place doesn't open until 9, I killed time by stalking Wal-Mart for clearance items. (And lucky me snagged a supercute shirt for the hubster for $3. Woo-hoo.)
At 9:05 I enter the tanning place and got myself signed in. (The young lady behind the counter was crying and I totally should have taken that as a sign and left.)
I get in my room and get busy lotioning up every ounce of my skin. I am so looking forward to my 7 minutes of Vitamin D. I take my time and really lotion up nicely.
Um, I wasn't wearing underwear today (which is in itself a long story that I may or may not share with you at another time. In the meantime, just use your imagination.) so I rigged my spandex sausage pants (I planned on going to the gym afterward so I was dressed in my best Buns Of Steel ensemble.) into a sort of loin cloth. I was quite proud of myself actually for my amazing problem solving skills.
I am one of those people who always wear my bra and undies (or a swimsuit) while tanning. In my mind everyone else does too. The thought of laying in someone else's butt juice will get me hyperventilating. I know they clean the beds between tanners, but still . . . So, I have convinced myself that everyone tans in their panties. My butt has never seen the light of day and is a glorious shade of snow white.
Anywhooo, I finally get myself lotioned up, loin-clothed, and tucked into the bed. (Oh, and I had a cute hot pink barette with a monkey on the bed pulling back the ever-fabulous bangs.) I put my little hot pink gogglettes on and I attempt to turn on the tanning bed. As I tried to turn on the bed I turned my head just enough to have one of my goggles fall off my face, land on the tanning bed, and ricochet out of the bed. I only had 1 minute before the tanning bed turned on by itself so I hurried to search for my lost goggle.
I am on my hands and knees searching when I realize that the goggle has slid under the 1" gap in the wall partition and is now in the hallway. And it is about a 1/2" away from the tips of my fingers.
Great, now I have to open the door and step outside my private room to retrieve the goggle. I realized that I wasn't dressed to pull that off without major problems, so I threw on my knee-length black raincoat and I carefully opened the door.
I did the whole CIA/Spy maneuver and looked cautiously in both directions. I figured if I ran out really quickly no one would even be the wiser. I mean the place just opened, how many people could be there already?
The coast was clear so I quickly ran out and grabbed the goggle. As I bent over to pick it up, my makeshift loin cloth just happened to fall down around my ankles. So, now I have to do a careful squatting maneuver to pick up the loin cloth because if I attempt to bend over, all my girly parts will be on display.
So now I am attempting a ballet-style plie squat to get my loin cloth. And, as I do this, I also manage to drop the goggle again, and this time it slides under another partition into a room with a closed door and the glowing blue light coming out from underneath.
I again try to do the graceful squat maneuver to retrieve the goggle from under the door. And, just at that moment a very cute college boy exits the bathroom and starts heading down the hall toward me.
This must look really good. A half naked woman squatting in a rain coat with a pair of pants around her neck and her hand under someone elses door. Can you say "psycho stalker?"
Naturally the cute college boy has to make a smart comment and he smiles and says "oh, are you a flasher?"
"I'm sorry son, I don't feel like scarring anyone for life today. I just dropped my goggle." I say and run back into my room.
At this point the tanning bed has already been on for 2 minutes and I only have 5 minutes left to get my glorious tan. I wear the one goggle that I have and keep switching it back and forth so I don't get pirate-eye syndrome.
After my 5 minute escape, I quickly redress and hide in my room until the person across the hall leaves their room and I can retrieve my goggle.
I get my goggle and bolt for the door. I really hope they don't have surveillance cameras. Because if that is the case then I can never go back.
And, as I sit here sharing this story with you it has come to my attention that my make shift loin-cloth may not have been the best idea either. I clearly missed a good portion of my snowy white butt that is now a wonderful shade of hot-pink, and causing me a bit of misery.
The truly sad part? I will be back tomorrow for more.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Our night at the Dentist's
We have settled into our room at the hospital. We have a nice private room with views of the lake. Trey is put into bed and the nurse shows him how to use the remote and how to move the bed up and down. So naturally we spend the next 30 minutes listening to the bed go up and down and watching the channels change.
The nurses here are great. They are really doing their best to chat up my little man. They take him into another room to do the blood work and insert his IV. Since he is so dehydrated, they are having trouble with the IV, and after poking 14 holes in his right arm, they have to call in someone else. He's crying and I'm bawling.
The next nurse gets the IV in after just a few tries. Naturally it is painful and Trey is crying crocodile tears. So, they give him a stack of stickers and send us back to our room.
We get him settled back into bed and he spends another 15 minutes playing with the up and down buttons. The poor guy was just a human pin cushion so I am letting him do whatever makes him happy at this point.
The nurse comes in and hooks up his bag of IV fluids and explains that he is getting a solution of 10% sugar. "It's like an IV bag of kool-aid," she explains. "Is that legal?" I ask. I mean seriously folks, sugar in the kids IV? Isn't that just asking for trouble? She politely explains that his body needs the energy to fight the infection in his blood.
"Well, can I get an IV bag of coffee please?" I ask. (It doesn't hurt to try . . .)
Trey's lunch tray arrives a few minutes later. He is less than impressed with his assortment of chicken broth and jello. I have to laugh because they also included a mug of hot tea. For some reason I just don't see this being a popular choice with 4 year olds. After struggling for 10 minutes trying to get him to eat I give up and send Paco to the vending machine. He has lost 3 pounds in the last week and he looks like a twig. My thought is that the poor kid has been through so much, let's just give him whatever is going to make him happy. So Paco comes bag with a variety of bags and Trey is happy to munch on some doritoes. Naturally, the nurse catches us red-handed.
God bless the nurse because she pretends she doesn't see it. She says that Trey has been through enough and if he wants to nibble on some chips, well at least he is eating something. My hero. I am so sending her a thank you card when this is over.
Now Trey is starting to get calls from friends and family and he tells everyone that he is at the Dentists. I thinks it's kinda cute, so I don't bother correcting him. However dear Paco aka the pronunciation police has to tell him that he is at the "hospital." And when Trey pronounces in HOPS-pital, Paco spends the next five minutes sounding out hos-spit-tal.
Oh Paco, the poor kid is sick and in the hospital. Can't you give him a break?
Trey is really starting to catch on to being the center of attention. He has figured out that the nurse will give him anything he really wants. She asked if he was thirsty and he said he wanted orange juice. Within seconds he was sipping on an ice-cold cup of OJ. So, when I was busy ready People, he pressed the call button for the nurse. When she enters the room asking "what do you need little guy?" He promptly replies "a tuna sandwich." Apparently the jello and broth just aren't cutting it.
After kindly explaining to him that he can't have normal food right now she returned seconds later with a Popsicle. Crisis averted.
Trey really started to perk up right away. The fluids were definitely helping. He went through an entire bag and was on his second bag before he had to use the bathroom. The nurse said that he really needed some fluids and that this was a good sign. However, getting a four year old to pee in a "hat" is not a task that should be taken lightly. You see, the first stream of urine naturally ricochets up and out, and in this case, veers to the right and directly into the face of the sleep-deprived mother that was holding on to the IV pole.
We get the little man tucked back into his bed, and again we spend the next 15 minutes listening to the bed move up and down until he finds the perfect position. After we are settled, the stream of gifts start to arrive . . .
Trey gets two balloon bouquets, 2 stuffed animals, and a bag full of candy and toys. He is starting to really like this hospital stuff.
Trey finally passes out at 6, and Paco decides to go home to "work on his paper." Sure, he is coincidentally going home to "work on his paper" right as March Madness begins and Syracuse is playing. Uh-huh. He must really think that because I am looney with the lack of sleep that I have become a COMPLETE moron. But, I smile and wave. I'll get him back later. Oh, you bet I will.
I hunker down for a wonderful night of sleep on a stained chair made of concrete and cardboard. I feel bad for Trey because the nurses have to come in every few hours and wake him to check his vitals. But, he takes it all in stride. God bless him.
By 6 am the next morning, I am starting to petrify and I'm in major need of caffeine. So, I find get Trey to the potty, find Sponge Bob on TV, get Trey situated with drinks and candy, and explain to him how to use the call button if he needs the nurse. I head out in search of coffee. As I am at the nurses station telling them that I am going to get coffee, I see that Trey has already hit the nurses call button. I walk behind the nurse and I hang outside the door.
"My Mom went to get coffee. So, do you you want to hang out with me?" Trey says. Naturally she sits down beside him and I head for the cafeteria.
I'm not gone long. After I get back and start enjoying my coffee, Trey's breakfast tray shows up. I don't know who put this together, but somehow I can't really see a 4 year old getting too excited for chicken broth and jello for breakfast. Oh, and they included a steaming hot cup of coffee this time. FOR A FOUR YEAR OLD. I pulled out a bagel with cream cheese from my purse and let him munch away. That's what mom's are for.
Paco shows up shortly after with a piping hot cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee. OK, so now maybe I'll forgive him for ditching us for basketball. Maybe.
The Dr. comes in and examines Trey. He is marvelled at how well he is doing now, and says that if Trey can eat a normal meal and have a normal bowel movement than we should be able to go home in 6 or 8 hours. Woo-hoo!!!
When Trey's lunch of mac-n-cheese arrives we immediately start cheerleading to get him to eat. Paco says "If you eat all your lunch then we can go home!"
"I like it here!" Trey responds.
Um, not the right thing to say to motivate a 4 year old who thinks the hospital is better than a hotel.
Trey did a good job of eating, and I may have accidentally told the nurse that he had a BM when he really didn't. But the end result is that we were able to go home. Ahhhh, HOME.
The nurses here are great. They are really doing their best to chat up my little man. They take him into another room to do the blood work and insert his IV. Since he is so dehydrated, they are having trouble with the IV, and after poking 14 holes in his right arm, they have to call in someone else. He's crying and I'm bawling.
The next nurse gets the IV in after just a few tries. Naturally it is painful and Trey is crying crocodile tears. So, they give him a stack of stickers and send us back to our room.
We get him settled back into bed and he spends another 15 minutes playing with the up and down buttons. The poor guy was just a human pin cushion so I am letting him do whatever makes him happy at this point.
The nurse comes in and hooks up his bag of IV fluids and explains that he is getting a solution of 10% sugar. "It's like an IV bag of kool-aid," she explains. "Is that legal?" I ask. I mean seriously folks, sugar in the kids IV? Isn't that just asking for trouble? She politely explains that his body needs the energy to fight the infection in his blood.
"Well, can I get an IV bag of coffee please?" I ask. (It doesn't hurt to try . . .)
Trey's lunch tray arrives a few minutes later. He is less than impressed with his assortment of chicken broth and jello. I have to laugh because they also included a mug of hot tea. For some reason I just don't see this being a popular choice with 4 year olds. After struggling for 10 minutes trying to get him to eat I give up and send Paco to the vending machine. He has lost 3 pounds in the last week and he looks like a twig. My thought is that the poor kid has been through so much, let's just give him whatever is going to make him happy. So Paco comes bag with a variety of bags and Trey is happy to munch on some doritoes. Naturally, the nurse catches us red-handed.
God bless the nurse because she pretends she doesn't see it. She says that Trey has been through enough and if he wants to nibble on some chips, well at least he is eating something. My hero. I am so sending her a thank you card when this is over.
Now Trey is starting to get calls from friends and family and he tells everyone that he is at the Dentists. I thinks it's kinda cute, so I don't bother correcting him. However dear Paco aka the pronunciation police has to tell him that he is at the "hospital." And when Trey pronounces in HOPS-pital, Paco spends the next five minutes sounding out hos-spit-tal.
Oh Paco, the poor kid is sick and in the hospital. Can't you give him a break?
Trey is really starting to catch on to being the center of attention. He has figured out that the nurse will give him anything he really wants. She asked if he was thirsty and he said he wanted orange juice. Within seconds he was sipping on an ice-cold cup of OJ. So, when I was busy ready People, he pressed the call button for the nurse. When she enters the room asking "what do you need little guy?" He promptly replies "a tuna sandwich." Apparently the jello and broth just aren't cutting it.
After kindly explaining to him that he can't have normal food right now she returned seconds later with a Popsicle. Crisis averted.
Trey really started to perk up right away. The fluids were definitely helping. He went through an entire bag and was on his second bag before he had to use the bathroom. The nurse said that he really needed some fluids and that this was a good sign. However, getting a four year old to pee in a "hat" is not a task that should be taken lightly. You see, the first stream of urine naturally ricochets up and out, and in this case, veers to the right and directly into the face of the sleep-deprived mother that was holding on to the IV pole.
We get the little man tucked back into his bed, and again we spend the next 15 minutes listening to the bed move up and down until he finds the perfect position. After we are settled, the stream of gifts start to arrive . . .
Trey gets two balloon bouquets, 2 stuffed animals, and a bag full of candy and toys. He is starting to really like this hospital stuff.
Trey finally passes out at 6, and Paco decides to go home to "work on his paper." Sure, he is coincidentally going home to "work on his paper" right as March Madness begins and Syracuse is playing. Uh-huh. He must really think that because I am looney with the lack of sleep that I have become a COMPLETE moron. But, I smile and wave. I'll get him back later. Oh, you bet I will.
I hunker down for a wonderful night of sleep on a stained chair made of concrete and cardboard. I feel bad for Trey because the nurses have to come in every few hours and wake him to check his vitals. But, he takes it all in stride. God bless him.
By 6 am the next morning, I am starting to petrify and I'm in major need of caffeine. So, I find get Trey to the potty, find Sponge Bob on TV, get Trey situated with drinks and candy, and explain to him how to use the call button if he needs the nurse. I head out in search of coffee. As I am at the nurses station telling them that I am going to get coffee, I see that Trey has already hit the nurses call button. I walk behind the nurse and I hang outside the door.
"My Mom went to get coffee. So, do you you want to hang out with me?" Trey says. Naturally she sits down beside him and I head for the cafeteria.
I'm not gone long. After I get back and start enjoying my coffee, Trey's breakfast tray shows up. I don't know who put this together, but somehow I can't really see a 4 year old getting too excited for chicken broth and jello for breakfast. Oh, and they included a steaming hot cup of coffee this time. FOR A FOUR YEAR OLD. I pulled out a bagel with cream cheese from my purse and let him munch away. That's what mom's are for.
Paco shows up shortly after with a piping hot cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee. OK, so now maybe I'll forgive him for ditching us for basketball. Maybe.
The Dr. comes in and examines Trey. He is marvelled at how well he is doing now, and says that if Trey can eat a normal meal and have a normal bowel movement than we should be able to go home in 6 or 8 hours. Woo-hoo!!!
When Trey's lunch of mac-n-cheese arrives we immediately start cheerleading to get him to eat. Paco says "If you eat all your lunch then we can go home!"
"I like it here!" Trey responds.
Um, not the right thing to say to motivate a 4 year old who thinks the hospital is better than a hotel.
Trey did a good job of eating, and I may have accidentally told the nurse that he had a BM when he really didn't. But the end result is that we were able to go home. Ahhhh, HOME.
Florence Nightengale
Please forgive me for my lack of posts. I have been busy playing nurse for the last 11 days. And today I am so pathetically tired that this post may or may not make any sense whatsoever. So, in advance, please forgive me. . .
It is that time of year - sick kids everywhere. And naturally, my kids are all taking turns getting sick so they can prolong my torture.
It started last Thursday evening with my youngest Trey. He started throwing up and running a temperature of 103.1. Let me explain to you first that Trey is quite possibly the worst puker to ever walk the earth. He is what I would call a puke-talker. He has to do a running commentary while green bile is shooting out of his mouth. “Mom” cough – spit – “ I am “ cough – spit – vomit – “so sick” – cry – cough- spit – vomit – “I’m puke” cough – spit- vomit –cry – “puuuuuking” – vomit – cough – “I can’t go to” – cry – cough – vomit – spit – “pre-k.”
He had to make it very clear to me that since he was sick he needed to stay home. He loves school, but he loves being stuck to me 24/7 even more. And when he is sick, I am the one who really suffers. Naturally, he knows hows to work me, and in his most pathetic voice he would completely order me to satisfy every whim. (He thought he was too sick to hold his own cup of water so I had the pleasure of performing every sip.)
Within minutes (well it seemed like it anyway) he had the 3 pack-a-day cough, constant vomiting, and a fever that was hovering between 102 and 104. It seemed like he was getting sicker by the minute.
By Friday afternoon he was delirious and telling me he couldn’t find his helmet. Whaaaaaaaaaat? So, I made an appointment at the Dr’s. I didn’t want him to have to suffer through the weekend. Or, perhaps I didn’t want to suffer through the weekend. But, in either case, he was off to the Dr’s.
My dear hubby Paco volunteered to take him since I was functioning solely on caffeine and absolutely no sleep. I rattled off the checklist of things he needed to discuss with the Dr. and I sent him on his way. (I even made a point to tell him that he needed to tell the Dr. that this is our THIRD child, and we really know how to tell when he is sick-sick or just sick. And this time I knew he was sick-sick.)
So, what does Paco call and tell me is the problem?????? It's a VIRUS, and it needs run it's course. Oh, and this one is a 5-day VIRUS, so he will be like this for five FREAKIN' days. "And if he's not better in 5 days, do call us and schedule an appointment to be seen again. Thank you, that will be 5 hundred dollars please."
The Dr. that saw him is a bit, well, crunchy. (As in yoga doin', no-armpit-shavin, "let your body heal itself" kinda crunchy.) Paco said she was in the room for no more than one minute performing her exam. So, this diagnosis should have been expected. But, it still ticked me off. All she had to do is send us home with a bottle of tylenol with the words "miracle medicine" written in magic marker across the front and I would have felt sooo much better. Just something to make me feel like she actually gave a damn and I wasn't completely over-reacting. But, nope, nothing. Just a "call us if he's not better in 5 days" send-off. Thanks for that.
So for 5 glorious days I cleaned puke off of every orifice in the house. (He even managed to get puke on the dog. I can't quite get over that one.) I dispensed so much tylenol and advil that I decided I should buy stock in them. I wiped 300 butt-loads of diarrhea and did laundry 24/7. And, I even managed to be nice. (Which under the circumstance deserves both a trophy AND a trip to the spa.)
Somewhere in the midst of this Ace also started puking and needed motherly supervision. He seemed to recover much more quickly though.
So, by day six when Trey's fever topped out at 105, I think I may have actually been swearing when I called the Dr's office to make appointment #2. The call may have gone something like: "Good Morning, such-and-such pediatrics. How can I help you today."
"You can help me by giving me some friggen' ANTIBIOTICS already! We are on day 6 of the 5-day virus and my son is WORSE!!!!! He hasn't slept in 6 days, he has puked and diarrhead more than double his body weight, and now he has greenish-yellow slime oozing from his nose now. Can you tell me why that is possible, huh, can you, CAN YOU???" I scream in the phone.
"Um, well, how soon can you get here?" She says ever so sweetly.
Needless to say I was there in 15 minutes.
I insisted on seeing his regular pediatrician. He performed a very thorough exam and sat me down for the news . . .
He has pneumonia and a raging ear infection. The ear infection is so bad that the Dr. can see puss. Wonderful. (The word puss actually makes me gag, so it was quite a miracle that I didn't start vomiting too.) It will be 5 more days of antibiotics and nebulization every 4 hours before he will be back to normal.
Great. This 5 day virus is turning into a 10 day party. Woo-hoo. Lucky me.
So, he sends us to the hospital for blood work and chest x-rays, and tells me that we should start seeing some mild improvement, and to come back tomorrow.
We head home, perform all the required tasks, and I'm back at the Dr's the next day.
Trey's fever has finally broke so that is a positive sign. And, his ears are looking much better. (I didn't bother to mention that I used half a box of q-tips cleaning out the goo. I am a mother after all and the thought of puss in my sons ear made me gaggy. So, I waited 'till he was asleep and went to town cleaning them out. At least I felt a little better.)
The Dr. was happy with his progress and we were given the usual "If he doesn't get better in a couple of days, give us a call and we'll have you come in again."
That night, I nebulized, medicated, watered, and tucked-in Sir Trey and headed for bed. My dear hubby Paco volunteered to sleep on the couch and be on sick-patrol so that I could get some much needed rest. What a super duper guy.
At exactly 12:02 am my dear precious Trey climbed into bed with me and immediately started puke-talking. "I don't have a good feeling about this" puke-cough-spit-sputter-"Mom, I'm SIIIIIICCCCCKKK"puke-cough-spit. Somehow, this precious little 4 year old managed to get vomit on my comforter, 2 shams, 1 pillow case, 1 pillow, the top sheet, the blanket, the bottom sheet, and in my hair. It was after had stripped the bed and screamed a stream of cuss-words that dear-'ol Paco wanders in and says "when did he come in here?" Oh, Paco, Paco . . . I could just feel my hand squeezing my imaginary knife. That man has no idea how lucky he is to still be breathing.
The next morning, Trey's puking and diarrhea intensified, so at exactly 8:30 am I was on the phone with the Dr's office. "Good Morning, such-and-such pediatrics. How can I help you today?"
"He has had 2 doses of antibiotics and he is STILL puking! He is not getting any better. You said he would be getting better!!!!!!!!"
"Good Morning, Mrs. P. How soon can you be here?" I didn't even have to give my name this time. Imagine that.
45 minutes later we were back at the Dr.'s and 30 minutes after that, we were headed for the hospital. Apparently the Dr. wasn't happy with Trey's progress either, and he wanted to get him on IV meds.
You can only imagine what I might look like after 9 days of sick children and no sleep. I imagine that my odor wasn't terribly wonderful either. My hair was looking kinda like Amy Winehouse's and my clothes were stained. I think I may have scared the nurses.
Perhaps it worked in my favor because we were given a private room. . . Good times. . .
It is that time of year - sick kids everywhere. And naturally, my kids are all taking turns getting sick so they can prolong my torture.
It started last Thursday evening with my youngest Trey. He started throwing up and running a temperature of 103.1. Let me explain to you first that Trey is quite possibly the worst puker to ever walk the earth. He is what I would call a puke-talker. He has to do a running commentary while green bile is shooting out of his mouth. “Mom” cough – spit – “ I am “ cough – spit – vomit – “so sick” – cry – cough- spit – vomit – “I’m puke” cough – spit- vomit –cry – “puuuuuking” – vomit – cough – “I can’t go to” – cry – cough – vomit – spit – “pre-k.”
He had to make it very clear to me that since he was sick he needed to stay home. He loves school, but he loves being stuck to me 24/7 even more. And when he is sick, I am the one who really suffers. Naturally, he knows hows to work me, and in his most pathetic voice he would completely order me to satisfy every whim. (He thought he was too sick to hold his own cup of water so I had the pleasure of performing every sip.)
Within minutes (well it seemed like it anyway) he had the 3 pack-a-day cough, constant vomiting, and a fever that was hovering between 102 and 104. It seemed like he was getting sicker by the minute.
By Friday afternoon he was delirious and telling me he couldn’t find his helmet. Whaaaaaaaaaat? So, I made an appointment at the Dr’s. I didn’t want him to have to suffer through the weekend. Or, perhaps I didn’t want to suffer through the weekend. But, in either case, he was off to the Dr’s.
My dear hubby Paco volunteered to take him since I was functioning solely on caffeine and absolutely no sleep. I rattled off the checklist of things he needed to discuss with the Dr. and I sent him on his way. (I even made a point to tell him that he needed to tell the Dr. that this is our THIRD child, and we really know how to tell when he is sick-sick or just sick. And this time I knew he was sick-sick.)
So, what does Paco call and tell me is the problem?????? It's a VIRUS, and it needs run it's course. Oh, and this one is a 5-day VIRUS, so he will be like this for five FREAKIN' days. "And if he's not better in 5 days, do call us and schedule an appointment to be seen again. Thank you, that will be 5 hundred dollars please."
The Dr. that saw him is a bit, well, crunchy. (As in yoga doin', no-armpit-shavin, "let your body heal itself" kinda crunchy.) Paco said she was in the room for no more than one minute performing her exam. So, this diagnosis should have been expected. But, it still ticked me off. All she had to do is send us home with a bottle of tylenol with the words "miracle medicine" written in magic marker across the front and I would have felt sooo much better. Just something to make me feel like she actually gave a damn and I wasn't completely over-reacting. But, nope, nothing. Just a "call us if he's not better in 5 days" send-off. Thanks for that.
So for 5 glorious days I cleaned puke off of every orifice in the house. (He even managed to get puke on the dog. I can't quite get over that one.) I dispensed so much tylenol and advil that I decided I should buy stock in them. I wiped 300 butt-loads of diarrhea and did laundry 24/7. And, I even managed to be nice. (Which under the circumstance deserves both a trophy AND a trip to the spa.)
Somewhere in the midst of this Ace also started puking and needed motherly supervision. He seemed to recover much more quickly though.
So, by day six when Trey's fever topped out at 105, I think I may have actually been swearing when I called the Dr's office to make appointment #2. The call may have gone something like: "Good Morning, such-and-such pediatrics. How can I help you today."
"You can help me by giving me some friggen' ANTIBIOTICS already! We are on day 6 of the 5-day virus and my son is WORSE!!!!! He hasn't slept in 6 days, he has puked and diarrhead more than double his body weight, and now he has greenish-yellow slime oozing from his nose now. Can you tell me why that is possible, huh, can you, CAN YOU???" I scream in the phone.
"Um, well, how soon can you get here?" She says ever so sweetly.
Needless to say I was there in 15 minutes.
I insisted on seeing his regular pediatrician. He performed a very thorough exam and sat me down for the news . . .
He has pneumonia and a raging ear infection. The ear infection is so bad that the Dr. can see puss. Wonderful. (The word puss actually makes me gag, so it was quite a miracle that I didn't start vomiting too.) It will be 5 more days of antibiotics and nebulization every 4 hours before he will be back to normal.
Great. This 5 day virus is turning into a 10 day party. Woo-hoo. Lucky me.
So, he sends us to the hospital for blood work and chest x-rays, and tells me that we should start seeing some mild improvement, and to come back tomorrow.
We head home, perform all the required tasks, and I'm back at the Dr's the next day.
Trey's fever has finally broke so that is a positive sign. And, his ears are looking much better. (I didn't bother to mention that I used half a box of q-tips cleaning out the goo. I am a mother after all and the thought of puss in my sons ear made me gaggy. So, I waited 'till he was asleep and went to town cleaning them out. At least I felt a little better.)
The Dr. was happy with his progress and we were given the usual "If he doesn't get better in a couple of days, give us a call and we'll have you come in again."
That night, I nebulized, medicated, watered, and tucked-in Sir Trey and headed for bed. My dear hubby Paco volunteered to sleep on the couch and be on sick-patrol so that I could get some much needed rest. What a super duper guy.
At exactly 12:02 am my dear precious Trey climbed into bed with me and immediately started puke-talking. "I don't have a good feeling about this" puke-cough-spit-sputter-"Mom, I'm SIIIIIICCCCCKKK"puke-cough-spit. Somehow, this precious little 4 year old managed to get vomit on my comforter, 2 shams, 1 pillow case, 1 pillow, the top sheet, the blanket, the bottom sheet, and in my hair. It was after had stripped the bed and screamed a stream of cuss-words that dear-'ol Paco wanders in and says "when did he come in here?" Oh, Paco, Paco . . . I could just feel my hand squeezing my imaginary knife. That man has no idea how lucky he is to still be breathing.
The next morning, Trey's puking and diarrhea intensified, so at exactly 8:30 am I was on the phone with the Dr's office. "Good Morning, such-and-such pediatrics. How can I help you today?"
"He has had 2 doses of antibiotics and he is STILL puking! He is not getting any better. You said he would be getting better!!!!!!!!"
"Good Morning, Mrs. P. How soon can you be here?" I didn't even have to give my name this time. Imagine that.
45 minutes later we were back at the Dr.'s and 30 minutes after that, we were headed for the hospital. Apparently the Dr. wasn't happy with Trey's progress either, and he wanted to get him on IV meds.
You can only imagine what I might look like after 9 days of sick children and no sleep. I imagine that my odor wasn't terribly wonderful either. My hair was looking kinda like Amy Winehouse's and my clothes were stained. I think I may have scared the nurses.
Perhaps it worked in my favor because we were given a private room. . . Good times. . .
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Synchronized Snoring
My husbands ability to snore rarely ceases to amaze me. However, his antics last night were absolutely blog-worthy.
Paco has been a consistent snorer since we were married. However, it seems to be gotten worse through the years. Now his snores have actually started to crack the sheetrock on the ceiling in our room from all the vibrations. Seriously, it is quite bad. I constantly have to roll him over when he is sleeping so he will stop. Yet he is still in denial that he snores. (I have video taped him several times to prove my point but he thinks that I am making the snoring sound because it is so exaggerated. Hellooooo - McFly - that is the lovely snorking sound you make on a regular basis!!!!!)
Out of sheer desperation I bought a product for him called Snore-Stop. (Actually is was free with a rebate so I figured it was worth a shot.) So I put the box on his dresser so he would be sure to see it. He comes home last night, sees the box, and asks me "who is that for?"
"You, numnuts" I say.
"But I don't snore" Paco says.
"Um, yes, you really do." I reply.
"Well, it can't be that bad because I've never noticed it." He states matter of factly.
Ya THINK?????? Perhaps you haven't noticed it because your FREAKIN' SOUND ASLEEP?????!!!!!?????
I was grabbing my imaginary knife and clenching my teeth when I sweetly replied, "maybe you could just try it tonight for my sake. Kay?"
I think he grunted something but I was too busy running from the room to avoid having to go all spousal abuse on him.
Neither one of us has had much sleep for the last few nights, as we have had a steady stream of coughing kids wake us up. So, to say that we are tired is a mere understatement.
Paco and I finally got settled on the couch a few minutes after 8. He had the remote (as usual) so he was switching back between American Idol and some show on discovery about a swamp monster. He's got the remote in his hand, aimed at the TV, and he is scrolling through the channels to see what else is on. One second he is clicking on Ghost Hunters and the very next second he is snoring. It happened so quickly that I thought he was faking, but upon further inspection (OK, so maybe I stuck my fingernail up his nose) I found that he was truly sound asleep. He still had his arm up pointing at the TV and he was snoring like a lumberjack.
I quietly reach over to grab the remote so I can watch something other than Alligator Man and as my hand is within 1 inch of the remote, Paco suddenly opens his eyes and starts clicking through the channels. He never even skipped a beat.
"Dude, give me the remote, you were zonked out and snoring again." I say.
"No I wasn't." He says.
"Yes you were."
"No I wasn't." He repeats.
"I gave you a wet willy and you didn't even flinch. I can assure you that you were asleep. So give me the friggen remote!" I say as fire blows out from my nose.
He grudgingly hands me the remote. And before I am back to the other couch, he is already snoring again. You have got to be kidding me. This has to be some sort of record. Does anyone have a copy of the Guiness Book of Records handy? Every once in a while he would do a snort/choke snore and I would think that for sure that would wake him up. But, he never even cracked an eyelid.
I click through the channels and I settle on Ghost Hunters. I watch long enough to get my blood pressure up enough so that I am completely wide awake. So, I switch to CSI and try to get drowsy. Finally at 10 pm I round up the troops and head for bed.
Within minutes Paco was snoring again. Go figure. And apparantly it's contagagious because Otis was snoring right along in syncopation. Wonderful. Now the hubby has the dog snoring. (And, I should add that my spoiled dog not only sleeps with us in our bed, but for the last 4 nights he sleeps under the covers with his head on the pillow. MY pillow. Snoring in MY face. If he weren't so darned cute . . . .)
At 12:28 I am still wide awake. Paco and the dog are now snoring in unison. I nudge the dog and give Paco a hearty swat and that stops the insanity for a few moments. Just long enough for me to fall asleep.
My dreams were rudely interupted at exactly 3:36 when my precious son Deuce crawled into bed beside me. "Mom, I can't sleep in my bed." At this point I wouldn't care if Jeffrey Dahmer crawled into bed with me. I'm exausted. So, I tuck him in, give him a smooch, and try to fall back asleep.
Five seconds later Deuce, Paco, and Otis are all snoring. It's a symphony of snores now. Aren't I such a lucky girl to have my own personal lullably crew?
At 3:42 I grab my pillow and head for the couch.
Tonight, however, I will be force-feeding Snore-Stop to both the hubby and the dog before bed. A girls gotta do what a girls gotta do . . .
Paco has been a consistent snorer since we were married. However, it seems to be gotten worse through the years. Now his snores have actually started to crack the sheetrock on the ceiling in our room from all the vibrations. Seriously, it is quite bad. I constantly have to roll him over when he is sleeping so he will stop. Yet he is still in denial that he snores. (I have video taped him several times to prove my point but he thinks that I am making the snoring sound because it is so exaggerated. Hellooooo - McFly - that is the lovely snorking sound you make on a regular basis!!!!!)
Out of sheer desperation I bought a product for him called Snore-Stop. (Actually is was free with a rebate so I figured it was worth a shot.) So I put the box on his dresser so he would be sure to see it. He comes home last night, sees the box, and asks me "who is that for?"
"You, numnuts" I say.
"But I don't snore" Paco says.
"Um, yes, you really do." I reply.
"Well, it can't be that bad because I've never noticed it." He states matter of factly.
Ya THINK?????? Perhaps you haven't noticed it because your FREAKIN' SOUND ASLEEP?????!!!!!?????
I was grabbing my imaginary knife and clenching my teeth when I sweetly replied, "maybe you could just try it tonight for my sake. Kay?"
I think he grunted something but I was too busy running from the room to avoid having to go all spousal abuse on him.
Neither one of us has had much sleep for the last few nights, as we have had a steady stream of coughing kids wake us up. So, to say that we are tired is a mere understatement.
Paco and I finally got settled on the couch a few minutes after 8. He had the remote (as usual) so he was switching back between American Idol and some show on discovery about a swamp monster. He's got the remote in his hand, aimed at the TV, and he is scrolling through the channels to see what else is on. One second he is clicking on Ghost Hunters and the very next second he is snoring. It happened so quickly that I thought he was faking, but upon further inspection (OK, so maybe I stuck my fingernail up his nose) I found that he was truly sound asleep. He still had his arm up pointing at the TV and he was snoring like a lumberjack.
I quietly reach over to grab the remote so I can watch something other than Alligator Man and as my hand is within 1 inch of the remote, Paco suddenly opens his eyes and starts clicking through the channels. He never even skipped a beat.
"Dude, give me the remote, you were zonked out and snoring again." I say.
"No I wasn't." He says.
"Yes you were."
"No I wasn't." He repeats.
"I gave you a wet willy and you didn't even flinch. I can assure you that you were asleep. So give me the friggen remote!" I say as fire blows out from my nose.
He grudgingly hands me the remote. And before I am back to the other couch, he is already snoring again. You have got to be kidding me. This has to be some sort of record. Does anyone have a copy of the Guiness Book of Records handy? Every once in a while he would do a snort/choke snore and I would think that for sure that would wake him up. But, he never even cracked an eyelid.
I click through the channels and I settle on Ghost Hunters. I watch long enough to get my blood pressure up enough so that I am completely wide awake. So, I switch to CSI and try to get drowsy. Finally at 10 pm I round up the troops and head for bed.
Within minutes Paco was snoring again. Go figure. And apparantly it's contagagious because Otis was snoring right along in syncopation. Wonderful. Now the hubby has the dog snoring. (And, I should add that my spoiled dog not only sleeps with us in our bed, but for the last 4 nights he sleeps under the covers with his head on the pillow. MY pillow. Snoring in MY face. If he weren't so darned cute . . . .)
At 12:28 I am still wide awake. Paco and the dog are now snoring in unison. I nudge the dog and give Paco a hearty swat and that stops the insanity for a few moments. Just long enough for me to fall asleep.
My dreams were rudely interupted at exactly 3:36 when my precious son Deuce crawled into bed beside me. "Mom, I can't sleep in my bed." At this point I wouldn't care if Jeffrey Dahmer crawled into bed with me. I'm exausted. So, I tuck him in, give him a smooch, and try to fall back asleep.
Five seconds later Deuce, Paco, and Otis are all snoring. It's a symphony of snores now. Aren't I such a lucky girl to have my own personal lullably crew?
At 3:42 I grab my pillow and head for the couch.
Tonight, however, I will be force-feeding Snore-Stop to both the hubby and the dog before bed. A girls gotta do what a girls gotta do . . .
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Day 2 at the Gym
I gingerly walked my sore self into the gym for my official day number 2 of working out. I could barely lift my key chain to scan the barcode. But, there was a new cute skinny girl behind the counter today, so I did my very best to look fit and fabulous. (The pain meds have started to kick in and I am loosening up a bit.)
Today the gym is full of wonderfully skinny and fit people. Where did they all come from? I thought that by joining a gym located in the basement that there would be a smidgen of a chance for a little privacy in my workout. Clearly everyone else disagrees because there are at least 20 people that turn to stare at me when I walk in. I feel like I should raise up my arms like I am a celebrity or something. But, I think I'll save that for next week.
I scan the room to figure out where to begin. The only machine that doesn't have someone right next to it is the treadmill. But, unfortunately, the treadmills are located right in front of the stair-steppery things, and I really don't want the pressure of all the fit be-yotches staring at my swass.
I find my work out weapon of choice. It is a sort of bike thingy, with a full seat that you sit on while you sort of pedal out in front of you. It's perched high on a ledge in the corner, directly in front of a fan. So, I have the supermodel-wind-in-the-hair thing happening while I get the most fabulous view of everyone in the gym. And, I don't have to worry about anyone staring at my butt hanging out over the sides of the machine. I have officially dubbed this as MY corner.
I get on my bike and start pedalling like Lance Armstrong. The first two minutes are a bit painful, but once I have loosened up, it feels really great. It's actually kind of easy. (I must be coasting.)
I've got my I-pod cranked and I am just pedalling my heart out. This is wonderful. I feel like Jack LaLane. I must be fit as a fiddle. I am just zooming right along. I am actually starting to enjoy myself.
Apparantly, I was having such a wonderful time that I got a bit carried away. Before long a very large sweaty gentleman in a harley t-shirt covering his naked lady tatoos approaches my throne and says "ding ding."
I pull out my ear buds and politely say "excuse me?"
"Ding ding" he repeats.
"I don't get it. Is my time up or something?" I say.
"No, you kept singing 'you can ring my bell' so I came over to give it a ding."
This would be mildly amusing if the man didn't look like a serial killer and I didn't have sweat dripping from my fabulous bangs. However, I am a bit mortified that I was caught singing.
"Was I that loud?" I ask a bit shocked.
"Well, I was right in front of you. I assumed you were singing to me." He says and gives me a big grin that shows me his lack of teeth.
"Nope. I'm new to this and must've gotten carried away. Sorry." I say in my best leave-me-the-f-alone-and-let-me-finish-my-friggen-workout-in-peace voice. I put my earbuds back in and I resume pedalling like a fiend. I really wish at this point I could pedal right out of the building, but I have 10 more minutes on my program.
Seriously, I don't get men. I am wearing spandex pants and my "I drive a mini-van" tee and I have bobby pins in my bangs to keep them out of my face. My pits are soggy, my face is beet red, and I'm panting. Yet somehow this man thinks that I have come here to be a part of some social dating network. I would be flattered except it is quite obvious to me that this man has no taste whatsoever.
I finish my 40 minute bike ride and I do a quick upper body workout. (OK so I lifted 2 pound weights 20 times, but it's a start.) I've decided to call it quits for the day when I see Killer Man heading my way again.
I practically trip over myself trying to get out the door. I escape and press the button and wait for the elevator. (Yes, I know it very hypocritical that I take an elevator after working out. I'm not quite ready for stairs yet.)
The elevator in our building is a little different. And, it is quite possibly the slowest elevator in the entire world. If you get off the elevator on floors B, 1, or 2 the front doors open. But, if you get off the elevator on 1R, which is where the store is located, the back doors open. So, I entered the elevator in the basement, pressed 1R and walked in and faced the back of the elevator.
It never even crossed my mind that the elevator could possibly stop on the first floor. I just assumed it was a slow trip, and since I was still jamming to my I-pod I was blissfully unaware that the doors had opened and that everyone in the atrium on the first floor was looking at me shake my booty in the elevator. Somehow I missed the discreet coughs from the people outside waiting patiently to get in. But, when someone touched my shoulder, scared the pants off me and I screamed bloody murder, well, it all dawned on me quite suddenly.
I jumped 4 feet in the air and turned around to see a scary homeless-looking woman and Enrique Los Hot Pants standing there waiting to get in. (Enrique Los Hot Pants is the fictitious name we gave the super hot banker/trader guy in the office next to ours. He is like 6'2" and he is absolutely stunning. And since the wall of the store that faces his office is all glass, we get the pleasure of seeing him all day. Wonderful eye candy.)
NOW I am a bit embarrassed. Not only was I caught singing and dancing but it becomes evident to me when I enter the store and see myself in a full length mirror that I also have a wonderful streak of butt sweat down my spandex pants. Wow, what I sight I am.
I am just the classiest of all the class acts. I never cease to amaze myself. Perhaps tomorrow I will take the stairs after all.
Today the gym is full of wonderfully skinny and fit people. Where did they all come from? I thought that by joining a gym located in the basement that there would be a smidgen of a chance for a little privacy in my workout. Clearly everyone else disagrees because there are at least 20 people that turn to stare at me when I walk in. I feel like I should raise up my arms like I am a celebrity or something. But, I think I'll save that for next week.
I scan the room to figure out where to begin. The only machine that doesn't have someone right next to it is the treadmill. But, unfortunately, the treadmills are located right in front of the stair-steppery things, and I really don't want the pressure of all the fit be-yotches staring at my swass.
I find my work out weapon of choice. It is a sort of bike thingy, with a full seat that you sit on while you sort of pedal out in front of you. It's perched high on a ledge in the corner, directly in front of a fan. So, I have the supermodel-wind-in-the-hair thing happening while I get the most fabulous view of everyone in the gym. And, I don't have to worry about anyone staring at my butt hanging out over the sides of the machine. I have officially dubbed this as MY corner.
I get on my bike and start pedalling like Lance Armstrong. The first two minutes are a bit painful, but once I have loosened up, it feels really great. It's actually kind of easy. (I must be coasting.)
I've got my I-pod cranked and I am just pedalling my heart out. This is wonderful. I feel like Jack LaLane. I must be fit as a fiddle. I am just zooming right along. I am actually starting to enjoy myself.
Apparantly, I was having such a wonderful time that I got a bit carried away. Before long a very large sweaty gentleman in a harley t-shirt covering his naked lady tatoos approaches my throne and says "ding ding."
I pull out my ear buds and politely say "excuse me?"
"Ding ding" he repeats.
"I don't get it. Is my time up or something?" I say.
"No, you kept singing 'you can ring my bell' so I came over to give it a ding."
This would be mildly amusing if the man didn't look like a serial killer and I didn't have sweat dripping from my fabulous bangs. However, I am a bit mortified that I was caught singing.
"Was I that loud?" I ask a bit shocked.
"Well, I was right in front of you. I assumed you were singing to me." He says and gives me a big grin that shows me his lack of teeth.
"Nope. I'm new to this and must've gotten carried away. Sorry." I say in my best leave-me-the-f-alone-and-let-me-finish-my-friggen-workout-in-peace voice. I put my earbuds back in and I resume pedalling like a fiend. I really wish at this point I could pedal right out of the building, but I have 10 more minutes on my program.
Seriously, I don't get men. I am wearing spandex pants and my "I drive a mini-van" tee and I have bobby pins in my bangs to keep them out of my face. My pits are soggy, my face is beet red, and I'm panting. Yet somehow this man thinks that I have come here to be a part of some social dating network. I would be flattered except it is quite obvious to me that this man has no taste whatsoever.
I finish my 40 minute bike ride and I do a quick upper body workout. (OK so I lifted 2 pound weights 20 times, but it's a start.) I've decided to call it quits for the day when I see Killer Man heading my way again.
I practically trip over myself trying to get out the door. I escape and press the button and wait for the elevator. (Yes, I know it very hypocritical that I take an elevator after working out. I'm not quite ready for stairs yet.)
The elevator in our building is a little different. And, it is quite possibly the slowest elevator in the entire world. If you get off the elevator on floors B, 1, or 2 the front doors open. But, if you get off the elevator on 1R, which is where the store is located, the back doors open. So, I entered the elevator in the basement, pressed 1R and walked in and faced the back of the elevator.
It never even crossed my mind that the elevator could possibly stop on the first floor. I just assumed it was a slow trip, and since I was still jamming to my I-pod I was blissfully unaware that the doors had opened and that everyone in the atrium on the first floor was looking at me shake my booty in the elevator. Somehow I missed the discreet coughs from the people outside waiting patiently to get in. But, when someone touched my shoulder, scared the pants off me and I screamed bloody murder, well, it all dawned on me quite suddenly.
I jumped 4 feet in the air and turned around to see a scary homeless-looking woman and Enrique Los Hot Pants standing there waiting to get in. (Enrique Los Hot Pants is the fictitious name we gave the super hot banker/trader guy in the office next to ours. He is like 6'2" and he is absolutely stunning. And since the wall of the store that faces his office is all glass, we get the pleasure of seeing him all day. Wonderful eye candy.)
NOW I am a bit embarrassed. Not only was I caught singing and dancing but it becomes evident to me when I enter the store and see myself in a full length mirror that I also have a wonderful streak of butt sweat down my spandex pants. Wow, what I sight I am.
I am just the classiest of all the class acts. I never cease to amaze myself. Perhaps tomorrow I will take the stairs after all.
The Elephant In The Room
I officially broke off my relationship with Sven. His B.O. was starting to get to me and I was totally cheating on him anyway. Somehow in the process of my Wii-cheating, I gained back all the weight I had previously lost. I am back at the starting gate.
So, out of sheer deperation, I joined a gym. A real, true, brick and mortar gym where you actually pay to work out. (I still can't quite wrap myself around the fact that I am paying to be miserable and in pain.) But, I did it. I now have my own little bar code scanny thing and I am off and running. (Well, briskly walking)
Yesterday was my first official "day at the gym." And today, every ounce of my body hurts in such a way that typing this blog is causing me mild agony.
The morning started out with the normal paperwork, background check, fingerprinting, and drug test. (Seriously, do you have to know the exact brand of birth control I am on for me to walk on your treadmill?) The lovely woman working the counter looked so fabulous in her spandex and polar fleece, that I couldn't help but be nice and answer all her silly questions. (Apparantly when you have a low percentage of body fat, you get cold very easily. Thanks for that info. I will sleep so much better tonight.)
My wonderful employees chipped in last year and bought me a month-long membership to the gym that is in our building. Well, that was a over a year and a half ago according to Kitty. (I named the front desk lady "Kitty" because she never introduced herself and Kitty just seemed to fit better than Barbie.)
"What took you so long?" Kitty asks me in her very nice I'm-skinnier-than-you'll-ever-be voice.
"Well, I've been very busy," I reply ever so sweetly.
She looks me up and down with a sly smile on her face and I swear I am telepathic because I could hear her saying "yeah, busy eating oreos." But, her mouth never moved. Perhaps I am just bitter. Imagine that.
She proceeds to walk me around and show me all the various machines, and how they work. I really don't remember what any of them are called because in my mind, there are only two types of exercise machines - the elliptical, and anything that is not the elliptical.
I started off with a 30 minute brisk walk on the treadmill. (One of the friendly non-elliptical machines.) I was quite proud of my pace until a 70 year old woman with flame red hair got on the treadmill next to me and totally starting showing me up. And do you know how I know that she is 70? She told me. While - she - was - running. That ol' bitty can exercise and talk at the same time. She is my hero.
So, after the treadmill, I went to the bikes. (Another safe non-eliptical machine.) I pedaled like a maniac for a full 10 minutes, and then I had to move to another machine because the seat gave me an excruciating wedgie. (Can anyone tell me how to discreetly yank out a wedgie in a room full of mirrors without pulling a muscle? Enquiring minds want to know.)
I went to another non-eliptical machine called the orbital or something like that. (I really wasn't paying attention to all the names but I told Kitty that I hated the elliptical more than men in speedos, so she assured me that this was NOT an elliptical, but it was more like a stair climber, but without the pressure on the joints.)
Ok, so one of the first lessons I learned that day is that Kitty doesn't know what the hell she is talking about. I renamed that non-elliptical machine the "Flaming Thighs From Hell" machine. Non-elliptical my fanny. OK, so maybe there isn't the cross-country ski motion thing happening, but you still get the same feeling of going nowhere fast. All the while your thighs are creating so much heat that they are likely to set your pants on fire. I think I hate this machine even more than the elliptical.
But the sad part is that Flame-Haired Granny was again on the machine next to me and she was totally kicking my ass (while telling me all about the last episode of brothers and sisters.) I told myself that I could last the entire 10 minutes that I programmed in. Well, I lasted 7 minutes and 36 seconds. And, when I went to step off the machine, I literally couldn't feel my legs. I swear I was walking on two stacks of jello. My legs were actually jiggling in places I have never seen before. But, somehow, I managed to walk out the door. (And then I crawled to the elevator because no one was around to see me.)
Well, today there is a large, invisible elephant between my legs that is making it impossible for me to function. He literally is everywhere. I can't close my legs. I can't walk in a straight line. And, my thighs and calves have actually started to bend around the darn elephant so I am walking bow-legged. Even peeing is painful. I truly feel the sensation as though I am straddling a 2 ton elephant. (Not that I have ever straddled a 2 ton elephant, but this is how I have always imagined that it would feel.)
So, what's a girl to do? I certainly can't give up after one day. Kitty is expecting me at 8:15. She wants to follow up and see how my first day went. What do I do? Can I call in on my second day?
Well, I am having 2 vicodin and a xanax with my coffee. My plan is to strut bow-leggedly through the door and let Kitty's skinny little ass know that I am ready for day #2. I will keep you all posted. However, if Flame-Haired Granny tries to chat with me again today, there is a very good chance that you will find her treadmill-burned body in the dumpster out back.
So, out of sheer deperation, I joined a gym. A real, true, brick and mortar gym where you actually pay to work out. (I still can't quite wrap myself around the fact that I am paying to be miserable and in pain.) But, I did it. I now have my own little bar code scanny thing and I am off and running. (Well, briskly walking)
Yesterday was my first official "day at the gym." And today, every ounce of my body hurts in such a way that typing this blog is causing me mild agony.
The morning started out with the normal paperwork, background check, fingerprinting, and drug test. (Seriously, do you have to know the exact brand of birth control I am on for me to walk on your treadmill?) The lovely woman working the counter looked so fabulous in her spandex and polar fleece, that I couldn't help but be nice and answer all her silly questions. (Apparantly when you have a low percentage of body fat, you get cold very easily. Thanks for that info. I will sleep so much better tonight.)
My wonderful employees chipped in last year and bought me a month-long membership to the gym that is in our building. Well, that was a over a year and a half ago according to Kitty. (I named the front desk lady "Kitty" because she never introduced herself and Kitty just seemed to fit better than Barbie.)
"What took you so long?" Kitty asks me in her very nice I'm-skinnier-than-you'll-ever-be voice.
"Well, I've been very busy," I reply ever so sweetly.
She looks me up and down with a sly smile on her face and I swear I am telepathic because I could hear her saying "yeah, busy eating oreos." But, her mouth never moved. Perhaps I am just bitter. Imagine that.
She proceeds to walk me around and show me all the various machines, and how they work. I really don't remember what any of them are called because in my mind, there are only two types of exercise machines - the elliptical, and anything that is not the elliptical.
I started off with a 30 minute brisk walk on the treadmill. (One of the friendly non-elliptical machines.) I was quite proud of my pace until a 70 year old woman with flame red hair got on the treadmill next to me and totally starting showing me up. And do you know how I know that she is 70? She told me. While - she - was - running. That ol' bitty can exercise and talk at the same time. She is my hero.
So, after the treadmill, I went to the bikes. (Another safe non-eliptical machine.) I pedaled like a maniac for a full 10 minutes, and then I had to move to another machine because the seat gave me an excruciating wedgie. (Can anyone tell me how to discreetly yank out a wedgie in a room full of mirrors without pulling a muscle? Enquiring minds want to know.)
I went to another non-eliptical machine called the orbital or something like that. (I really wasn't paying attention to all the names but I told Kitty that I hated the elliptical more than men in speedos, so she assured me that this was NOT an elliptical, but it was more like a stair climber, but without the pressure on the joints.)
Ok, so one of the first lessons I learned that day is that Kitty doesn't know what the hell she is talking about. I renamed that non-elliptical machine the "Flaming Thighs From Hell" machine. Non-elliptical my fanny. OK, so maybe there isn't the cross-country ski motion thing happening, but you still get the same feeling of going nowhere fast. All the while your thighs are creating so much heat that they are likely to set your pants on fire. I think I hate this machine even more than the elliptical.
But the sad part is that Flame-Haired Granny was again on the machine next to me and she was totally kicking my ass (while telling me all about the last episode of brothers and sisters.) I told myself that I could last the entire 10 minutes that I programmed in. Well, I lasted 7 minutes and 36 seconds. And, when I went to step off the machine, I literally couldn't feel my legs. I swear I was walking on two stacks of jello. My legs were actually jiggling in places I have never seen before. But, somehow, I managed to walk out the door. (And then I crawled to the elevator because no one was around to see me.)
Well, today there is a large, invisible elephant between my legs that is making it impossible for me to function. He literally is everywhere. I can't close my legs. I can't walk in a straight line. And, my thighs and calves have actually started to bend around the darn elephant so I am walking bow-legged. Even peeing is painful. I truly feel the sensation as though I am straddling a 2 ton elephant. (Not that I have ever straddled a 2 ton elephant, but this is how I have always imagined that it would feel.)
So, what's a girl to do? I certainly can't give up after one day. Kitty is expecting me at 8:15. She wants to follow up and see how my first day went. What do I do? Can I call in on my second day?
Well, I am having 2 vicodin and a xanax with my coffee. My plan is to strut bow-leggedly through the door and let Kitty's skinny little ass know that I am ready for day #2. I will keep you all posted. However, if Flame-Haired Granny tries to chat with me again today, there is a very good chance that you will find her treadmill-burned body in the dumpster out back.
Monday, March 2, 2009
The Big Night Out
I had the rare opportunity to get out of the house this past Saturday night without the hubby and kids. I started off the evening by going to a Tastefully Simple party at a Girlfriend's house. I had never been to one before and I must say for over-priced, pre-packaged food, it is pretty darn yummy. And, it all only takes 1 or 2 ingredients for you to be able to qualify for "home-made" status. We started out with samples of garlic dip and beer bread. What is better than beer and garlic? Maybe a bacon cheese ball? Or chocolate pound cake? I'm drooling again.
Well, before I left, I managed to spend a week's worth of groceries on 2 dip mixes, 3 loaves of bread mix, and a cheese ball. But, it was tasty, so I'm not complaining. My fear is that I will become addicted to the stuff and can somehow justify a 7.95 cake mix on a regular basis.
Well, after 2 loaves of beer bread, I was feeling a slight buzz. So, I headed off to meet up with my Niece at a bar downtown. There was a band playing that she really wanted me to hear. (She had been inviting me for months and months, but with a name like 10 Man Push, I thought she was inviting me to a male stripper show. So, I kept politely declining. Sorry, I don't care how hot you are, but lubed up men hanging out in banana hammocks shaking their willies in my face just don't do it for me. I can get that at home for free.)
Well, they were playing at a Downtown Bar/Restaurant that I used to frequent "back in the day." The name is different, but the inside is still the same. And, it brought back lots of crazy memories. And, boy did I feel old.
I haven't been out to a College bar, since, well, since College. So, I wasn't sure how to behave. Should I act like a civilized adult and quietly sip my drink and completely stand out and look like the ol' lady that I am, or should I be trying to relive the glory days and be singing along at the top of my lungs stalking the band guys and puking in the corner next to the crowd of hot frat boys.
Obviously I opted for Plan A and I quietyly sipped my vodka and soda while hanging out and enjoying the scenery. It is so much more fun to go to a College bar as an innocent bystander. You can really learn so much about people and the world by hanging out in a bar on a Saturday night.
I'll share with you some of the things that I learned on my recent outing. Here is my top ten list of what I learned on Saturday night:
10. Women will sacrifice anything for fashion. A bartended in 4" stiletto boots and women walking around in 11 degree weather with tank tops just wouldn't fly anywhere other than a bar.
9. Girls still hit on the guys in the band. (Even if they are so ugly that if they were mere accountants you wouldn't even give them a second glance.)
8. Boy bartenders put far more alcohol in your drink than girl bartenders do.
7. My neice is a hussy. I mean, having 2 different boyfriends show up at the same time and forcing them to sit next to each other and chat? Um, can you say Huss-Bag? (But, I am afraid that she could have learned this from me many, many years ago. I may have had a serious boyfriend or 2 when I met my future husband. Therfore, I still love her dearly and will not hold this against her. Actually, I am rather proud.)
6. A greasy slice of pizza at midnight is still the greatest snack in the whole-wide-world.
5. Even though I have wrinkles and my ass hangs off the side of the bar stools, men still hit on me. When I show them my wedding ring and they still don't get the hint, I show them my mini-van keys. That usually does the trick.
4. The song Jenny Jenny (867-5309) is still pretty darn cool. Especially when the lead singer of the band is looking right at you making the "call me" sign.
3. The band 10 Man Push is really just 2 guys. And, thankfully they are not strippers.
2. There is no way I can take a man drinking a glass of white wine in a College bar seriously. I don't care how cute he is.
and the number one thing that I learned on my big night out??
1. I am soooooo thankful that I got that scene out of my system many years ago.
I did have a really good time. The band was good, and I was out with a fun group of Girlfriends. Hey, I even managed to stay up past 11. But, I am so thankful that I had Paco waiting at home for me. The best part about going out? Coming home to someone I love. Cheesy, but true.
Well, before I left, I managed to spend a week's worth of groceries on 2 dip mixes, 3 loaves of bread mix, and a cheese ball. But, it was tasty, so I'm not complaining. My fear is that I will become addicted to the stuff and can somehow justify a 7.95 cake mix on a regular basis.
Well, after 2 loaves of beer bread, I was feeling a slight buzz. So, I headed off to meet up with my Niece at a bar downtown. There was a band playing that she really wanted me to hear. (She had been inviting me for months and months, but with a name like 10 Man Push, I thought she was inviting me to a male stripper show. So, I kept politely declining. Sorry, I don't care how hot you are, but lubed up men hanging out in banana hammocks shaking their willies in my face just don't do it for me. I can get that at home for free.)
Well, they were playing at a Downtown Bar/Restaurant that I used to frequent "back in the day." The name is different, but the inside is still the same. And, it brought back lots of crazy memories. And, boy did I feel old.
I haven't been out to a College bar, since, well, since College. So, I wasn't sure how to behave. Should I act like a civilized adult and quietly sip my drink and completely stand out and look like the ol' lady that I am, or should I be trying to relive the glory days and be singing along at the top of my lungs stalking the band guys and puking in the corner next to the crowd of hot frat boys.
Obviously I opted for Plan A and I quietyly sipped my vodka and soda while hanging out and enjoying the scenery. It is so much more fun to go to a College bar as an innocent bystander. You can really learn so much about people and the world by hanging out in a bar on a Saturday night.
I'll share with you some of the things that I learned on my recent outing. Here is my top ten list of what I learned on Saturday night:
10. Women will sacrifice anything for fashion. A bartended in 4" stiletto boots and women walking around in 11 degree weather with tank tops just wouldn't fly anywhere other than a bar.
9. Girls still hit on the guys in the band. (Even if they are so ugly that if they were mere accountants you wouldn't even give them a second glance.)
8. Boy bartenders put far more alcohol in your drink than girl bartenders do.
7. My neice is a hussy. I mean, having 2 different boyfriends show up at the same time and forcing them to sit next to each other and chat? Um, can you say Huss-Bag? (But, I am afraid that she could have learned this from me many, many years ago. I may have had a serious boyfriend or 2 when I met my future husband. Therfore, I still love her dearly and will not hold this against her. Actually, I am rather proud.)
6. A greasy slice of pizza at midnight is still the greatest snack in the whole-wide-world.
5. Even though I have wrinkles and my ass hangs off the side of the bar stools, men still hit on me. When I show them my wedding ring and they still don't get the hint, I show them my mini-van keys. That usually does the trick.
4. The song Jenny Jenny (867-5309) is still pretty darn cool. Especially when the lead singer of the band is looking right at you making the "call me" sign.
3. The band 10 Man Push is really just 2 guys. And, thankfully they are not strippers.
2. There is no way I can take a man drinking a glass of white wine in a College bar seriously. I don't care how cute he is.
and the number one thing that I learned on my big night out??
1. I am soooooo thankful that I got that scene out of my system many years ago.
I did have a really good time. The band was good, and I was out with a fun group of Girlfriends. Hey, I even managed to stay up past 11. But, I am so thankful that I had Paco waiting at home for me. The best part about going out? Coming home to someone I love. Cheesy, but true.
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