I'm not old... truly. I'm fat, yes, sore, yes, old... hell no. I see those little lines on my face. I see the HUGE lines on my face. I look in the mirror sometimes and wonder when the hell my grandmother's skin ended up on my body. But I'm not old. I pacify myself with the knowledge that I spent too many hours soaking up the sun without sunscreen as a teenager. My old looking SKIN is a sign of my vainness, I was HOT as a teenager... hell I was HOT in my twenties. So I had my time of hotness, I don't need that any longer, but damn. No matter how many creams, lotions, scrubs, and masks I use, I still have old skin.
There's the day you spend in the bathroom with 6 100-Watt bulbs and a magnifying mirror and you cry over the loss of your hot skin. You pull your new stretchy skin in every direction wondering where to hide the tape. Just when your eyes are finally drying up, you turn your head and get plowed with something new... facial hair. WHAT THE HELL?????? Did it fall off my head? Is THAT where all my eyelashes have been migrating to? Oh COME ON!!!!! So in your head you are hearing your mother... “You shave and it will only grow in darker and thicker”. *sigh* Ok then. What the hell are you suppose to do with all that? Ever try waxing sideburns full of peach fuzz that if were any darker, would make Elvis turn over in his grave from jealousy? FINE.
So I'm avoiding direct sunlight, I'm using lotion, creams, and Vaseline to keep them down, tight against my face, and pulling my hair forward. No more ponytails for me. It's ok, there aren't any hair ties small enough to hold what little hair I have left either.
I'm resigned to line, stretch, and hair on my face. I'm resigned to less hair on my head, more on my chin and chest. And bam... I go to the Eye Doctor and he informs me that I'm in my 40's now, like the bifocals are my welcome present. “Ummm... I don't THINK so... hook me up with some of them Progressives”. So 3 weeks later I have my old folk glasses in hand and am happy that no one will be able to tell... ha!!! I'm sooooo clever. I gingerly slide them onto the bridge of my nose....
HOLY CRAP... these are NOT my glasses... I can't see... my mouth is watering, I'm going to puke. The headache starts immediately, someone is stabbing me in the forehead with a pencil... my eyes water and turn so red I think I've finally smoked something good!
Tracy, the YOUNG, SKINNY little thing says: "Oh you have to GET USED TO THEM" “Ummm... ok... but when will I be able to walk, drive, or open my eyes?” She thinks I'm kidding and sends me on my way.
In all fairness, I tried them for a week. I endured the migraines, the chances I took while driving, I withstood the nausea, and the multiple tripping instances for a week. Yesterday I finally took them off and cried. What am I going to do now? I’m NOT OLD!!!! I can’t wear bifocals… so what’s left? Reading glasses dangling from my neck? What if the beads get snagged on my sideburns? CRAP!
The Man tells me that I am beautiful, no matter what. He said that when it's HIS turn, he will take it in stride and just wear the bifocals. Easy for HIM to say.
Let’s not even talk about those FEVERS I keep getting during the day.
Makes you wonder how old people do it. How they get used to being old and all, ‘cuz I am NOT old.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Brain's on fire
Even though this past Winter was relatively short, it feels like it dragged on and on (and still is at the moment). The Man loves Winter and tried ever so hard to get me as enthused about the cold and crap outside, but I'm a beach girl. I, like my sister Am, have my own version of a cabana boy, his name is Fernando and all my needs are met in my mind.
One of my DREAMS is to own a bookstore. I would like to own a bookstore because as the different seasons roll around, I find myself searching for the "right book" for the season. I know you are probably giving me the same blank look that I typically get when I explain this to others. But trust me, I am NOT the only one with this particular compulsion. I am NOT a "book junkie" either.
To put it simply, in the Fall/Spring, authors like Dean Kootnz, Stephen King, James Patterson, John Grisham and the like are the ones I particularly like. In the Winter, it's my time to explore other authors, those that I haven't read before, or an odd book here and there that someone said I should read for either enjoyment or to maximize my old brain power. (Sorry Tony, the Cosmos is NOT going to stick)
Summer is a GREAT time to read all the fun books that I have sat on all year. Janet Evanovich, Tami Hoag, Nora Roberts, etc. Those are the ones that I wait to read. The ones that I have to force myself to read SLOWLY, otherwise I will devour them within a few days.
Being a voracious reader DOES have its drawbacks.
1. I am ALWAYS spending too much money on books that just came out. Remember as a kid when you would get your allowance and would find yourself scrutinizing the candy display at the store. You would pick a few, find something better, put other stuff back, pick up more. Spending hours pouring over the candy you know you can't have enough of. That's how I feel about books.
2. I horde books. I pile them on the headboard of my bed looking at them each night knowing I will get to read them soon. Smiling at the order I will be reading them in. I don't tell other people outside of my home which books I have if I haven't read them. I'm greedy. I can't let a new book out of my site.
The Man just shakes his head at me when we go into Barnes and Noble's. I'm sure he watches as I gingerly pick up a new release, reading the front or back cover to tease myself. Then place it ever so gently on the shelf. "Are you going to buy that one?" "Not until it's in paperback" He blinks and turns to find the books he's interested in. I think I heard him call me a book junkie or something.
I do struggle with hardcovers. I'm a bed reader, so if you have ever smacked yourself in the mouth with a hardcover, you know the setbacks. While reading a particularly juicy page and are hurrying to get to the next page, you know that it throws off the enjoyment of that next page when the book slips out of your clammy hands and the corner cuts into your lip. So I stick with paperbacks.
So as I'm discussing this with my boss the other day she looks at me and says, "Why don't you go to the library?" Ok, so here is where I am with it. I have probably been banned from the library. Did I tell you that I horde books? Yea, I horde 'em, meaning that I have books from the library in my collection. Some 20 years overdue. I hate giving the books back, so I just buy them. Then I can look at them and remember the words. I'm sure there is a diagnosis for this, but so far, I'm not in the DSM!
One of my DREAMS is to own a bookstore. I would like to own a bookstore because as the different seasons roll around, I find myself searching for the "right book" for the season. I know you are probably giving me the same blank look that I typically get when I explain this to others. But trust me, I am NOT the only one with this particular compulsion. I am NOT a "book junkie" either.
To put it simply, in the Fall/Spring, authors like Dean Kootnz, Stephen King, James Patterson, John Grisham and the like are the ones I particularly like. In the Winter, it's my time to explore other authors, those that I haven't read before, or an odd book here and there that someone said I should read for either enjoyment or to maximize my old brain power. (Sorry Tony, the Cosmos is NOT going to stick)
Summer is a GREAT time to read all the fun books that I have sat on all year. Janet Evanovich, Tami Hoag, Nora Roberts, etc. Those are the ones that I wait to read. The ones that I have to force myself to read SLOWLY, otherwise I will devour them within a few days.
Being a voracious reader DOES have its drawbacks.
1. I am ALWAYS spending too much money on books that just came out. Remember as a kid when you would get your allowance and would find yourself scrutinizing the candy display at the store. You would pick a few, find something better, put other stuff back, pick up more. Spending hours pouring over the candy you know you can't have enough of. That's how I feel about books.
2. I horde books. I pile them on the headboard of my bed looking at them each night knowing I will get to read them soon. Smiling at the order I will be reading them in. I don't tell other people outside of my home which books I have if I haven't read them. I'm greedy. I can't let a new book out of my site.
The Man just shakes his head at me when we go into Barnes and Noble's. I'm sure he watches as I gingerly pick up a new release, reading the front or back cover to tease myself. Then place it ever so gently on the shelf. "Are you going to buy that one?" "Not until it's in paperback" He blinks and turns to find the books he's interested in. I think I heard him call me a book junkie or something.
I do struggle with hardcovers. I'm a bed reader, so if you have ever smacked yourself in the mouth with a hardcover, you know the setbacks. While reading a particularly juicy page and are hurrying to get to the next page, you know that it throws off the enjoyment of that next page when the book slips out of your clammy hands and the corner cuts into your lip. So I stick with paperbacks.
So as I'm discussing this with my boss the other day she looks at me and says, "Why don't you go to the library?" Ok, so here is where I am with it. I have probably been banned from the library. Did I tell you that I horde books? Yea, I horde 'em, meaning that I have books from the library in my collection. Some 20 years overdue. I hate giving the books back, so I just buy them. Then I can look at them and remember the words. I'm sure there is a diagnosis for this, but so far, I'm not in the DSM!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Excerpts from a Dog and Cat Diary
I am the proud, although sometimes confused owner of an extremely ADHD American Eskimo dog and two cats, one who will be referred to by his diary later in this post. I do not have enough time this afternoon to make my mother proud, so here is an email I got from Lisa that tickled me!
"Excerpts from a Dog's Diary"
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
"Excerpts from my Cat's Diary"
Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards! There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now...
If your dog doesn't like someone you probably shouldn't either.
- Unknown
"Excerpts from a Dog's Diary"
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
"Excerpts from my Cat's Diary"
Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards! There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now...
If your dog doesn't like someone you probably shouldn't either.
- Unknown
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Farts and Boogers
In our family of all girls, you would think that we would have class. We would be above the average 10 year old boy. We didn't have a male role model growing up, but we instinctively knew how to behave like grubby little boys. Our mother would try, we would have pretty little dresses and tights that would inevitably end up with mud, grass stains, or poop of some sort on them. Bikes and skateboards just didn't fair well with dresses in our family. If someone stayed clean all day, we must have been sick.
My sister Shell could hock up a loogie that would make a truck driver envious. Of course, she would share it with my other sister, Am, who would continually throw up at the sound, let alone sight of Shell's mucus. This would likely occur in the back of my mother's car. Minor Incident Could be why my mother carried a long handled wooden spoon in the car!
Shell would pick out boogers and swipe them across Am's teeth, again, causing up-chuck to fly. Shell would also torment Am with a good butt wipe across Am's lip. Shell liked to pee in cups and fling it out the 2nd floor window where it would leak down onto the porch. I won't tell you how I know this, since I'm WAYYYY to fragile to unblock that particular memory. See the beginning of our disgusting childhood? Oh, and let's not forget about the booger WALL! HUNDREDS of boogers peeled from noses all over the neighborhood I'm sure, every shape and size.
Am on the other hand, had her own brand of disgust. She and her little friend liked "FART" and anything to do with either the word or action. Trust me when I tell you that she has NOT outgrown this. Am and Carol would walk around with the word written on paper, carefully folded and tucked into their pants pockets. Whenever they needed a laugh, they would just pull it out and POOF... the hilarity began. They even made up a little play about the word fart that I can still remember to this day. But the action alone was cause for alarm. Again, Am has NOT outgrown this. If you ever have driven by a sewage treatment facility, you will have a fairly good idea of what funk Am could produce. However, it's much worse than that. One whiff of her foulness and you visualize maggots and buzzards. You cautiously look around for the dead animal that will need disposing of before you see Am standing there with the look of sick satisfaction on her face.
In her adulthood, Am has perfected a method of delivery of her colon death. It's called the "cup and sprinkle". When you see her cupping her butt like a four year old crapping their pants on accident, you know that the "sprinkle" or the bringing forth and finger waving of the stench is on it's way to your olfactories. Many have tried to imitate this, most have failed just because no one can quite compare to the GAWD-awfulness of the smell. Yes, I have lived thru it!
Enter the multitude of cuts, bruises, frogs carried in the mouth, dead animals examined and buried, ant hills chopped up or burned, boys beaten bloody, and other kids' parents wishing they had shotguns for when we entered their yards, you can see that we girls are as bad, if not worse than boys. Do we have any class? We can pretend we do now, but don't ask how far we can spit, you will lose!
Fat Girl
My sister Shell could hock up a loogie that would make a truck driver envious. Of course, she would share it with my other sister, Am, who would continually throw up at the sound, let alone sight of Shell's mucus. This would likely occur in the back of my mother's car. Minor Incident Could be why my mother carried a long handled wooden spoon in the car!
Shell would pick out boogers and swipe them across Am's teeth, again, causing up-chuck to fly. Shell would also torment Am with a good butt wipe across Am's lip. Shell liked to pee in cups and fling it out the 2nd floor window where it would leak down onto the porch. I won't tell you how I know this, since I'm WAYYYY to fragile to unblock that particular memory. See the beginning of our disgusting childhood? Oh, and let's not forget about the booger WALL! HUNDREDS of boogers peeled from noses all over the neighborhood I'm sure, every shape and size.
Am on the other hand, had her own brand of disgust. She and her little friend liked "FART" and anything to do with either the word or action. Trust me when I tell you that she has NOT outgrown this. Am and Carol would walk around with the word written on paper, carefully folded and tucked into their pants pockets. Whenever they needed a laugh, they would just pull it out and POOF... the hilarity began. They even made up a little play about the word fart that I can still remember to this day. But the action alone was cause for alarm. Again, Am has NOT outgrown this. If you ever have driven by a sewage treatment facility, you will have a fairly good idea of what funk Am could produce. However, it's much worse than that. One whiff of her foulness and you visualize maggots and buzzards. You cautiously look around for the dead animal that will need disposing of before you see Am standing there with the look of sick satisfaction on her face.
In her adulthood, Am has perfected a method of delivery of her colon death. It's called the "cup and sprinkle". When you see her cupping her butt like a four year old crapping their pants on accident, you know that the "sprinkle" or the bringing forth and finger waving of the stench is on it's way to your olfactories. Many have tried to imitate this, most have failed just because no one can quite compare to the GAWD-awfulness of the smell. Yes, I have lived thru it!
Enter the multitude of cuts, bruises, frogs carried in the mouth, dead animals examined and buried, ant hills chopped up or burned, boys beaten bloody, and other kids' parents wishing they had shotguns for when we entered their yards, you can see that we girls are as bad, if not worse than boys. Do we have any class? We can pretend we do now, but don't ask how far we can spit, you will lose!
Fat Girl
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
The Punk
I am a mother of an 18 year old. I was REALLY young when I had her. 'Cuz I am NOT that old! See how I turned that around?! Jay is an only child for several reasons. One, she was too cute to have a sibling, I was afraid I would get a really ugly kid if I had any others. Two, she made me crazy. Literally. I am not the same person I was before I had her, not just in my horizontal girth, but in my mind as well.
I was prepared when I GOT pregnant. I knew what I was going to do, what kind of mother I was going to be. Our relationship and lives were going to be perfect. Ahhh... the wonderful dream! Then she was born.
When the doctor came in and said that her lungs were just fine, I was relieved, at first. Then I found out just what he meant by that. WOW!!! She didn’t come with a shut off button, and if she had batteries, I never found out where they were, so couldn’t pull them either!
At her baby shower we had after she was born, I would try to hand her to the people there. Everyone loves to hold a baby. Not mine. “Oh, that’s ok, I already held her once. I don’t need to hold her.” I'm thinking, What the hell people... everyone wants to hold a baby!!!
The doctor told me that she would grow out of it. Ummm… ok. He failed to tell me that it would get worse before it got better, he also failed to tell me that it would take more than a few YEARS! The child’s temper tantrums could peel the paint off the NEIGHBOR’S walls, and her screams echoed throughout the neighborhood. Sometimes I would go outside and sit out one of her fits. I could hear her screaming so loud that it vibrated my inner ear and caused my teeth to ache. People would walk by the house and all I could do was just smile and nod... heh heh... No one in there beating her, I swear.
We survived the terrible 10’s, and made it to teenage hood with the usual troubles there. Just when I thought for sure that I had it licked, my award would be in the mail for SURE, she got pregnant.
For those of you with a 17 year old that is/was pregnant. You know how I felt. I was BEYOND pissed. I was humiliated, I was embarrassed, I was ashamed, and most of all, I knew that I had failed. The crushing feeling of knowing that you won't be getting any award. The only thing you will be getting is the saddened looks from your family and friends. She hadn’t even made it thru high school and now SHE was going to be someone’s mother. You know what I’m saying!
Well… I don’t know what happened, something happened to her while SHE was pregnant. She lost her mind too… Not only did she continue high school but graduated with honors! Seven months pregnant, swollen and crabby, my baby made me crazy again, but this time with pride, love, and a multitude of other feelings that I STILL don’t recognize!
How could the child, who we lovingly considered Demon’s spawn, have done the one thing that as a mother, we always hope for. Not to mention that she did it all while pregnant. What an incredible punk she is indeed! The topper to that? She's the best mother I know!
I AM, however, still waiting for my Mother-of-the-Year award that they tell me is STILL in the mail.
I was prepared when I GOT pregnant. I knew what I was going to do, what kind of mother I was going to be. Our relationship and lives were going to be perfect. Ahhh... the wonderful dream! Then she was born.
When the doctor came in and said that her lungs were just fine, I was relieved, at first. Then I found out just what he meant by that. WOW!!! She didn’t come with a shut off button, and if she had batteries, I never found out where they were, so couldn’t pull them either!
At her baby shower we had after she was born, I would try to hand her to the people there. Everyone loves to hold a baby. Not mine. “Oh, that’s ok, I already held her once. I don’t need to hold her.” I'm thinking, What the hell people... everyone wants to hold a baby!!!
The doctor told me that she would grow out of it. Ummm… ok. He failed to tell me that it would get worse before it got better, he also failed to tell me that it would take more than a few YEARS! The child’s temper tantrums could peel the paint off the NEIGHBOR’S walls, and her screams echoed throughout the neighborhood. Sometimes I would go outside and sit out one of her fits. I could hear her screaming so loud that it vibrated my inner ear and caused my teeth to ache. People would walk by the house and all I could do was just smile and nod... heh heh... No one in there beating her, I swear.
We survived the terrible 10’s, and made it to teenage hood with the usual troubles there. Just when I thought for sure that I had it licked, my award would be in the mail for SURE, she got pregnant.
For those of you with a 17 year old that is/was pregnant. You know how I felt. I was BEYOND pissed. I was humiliated, I was embarrassed, I was ashamed, and most of all, I knew that I had failed. The crushing feeling of knowing that you won't be getting any award. The only thing you will be getting is the saddened looks from your family and friends. She hadn’t even made it thru high school and now SHE was going to be someone’s mother. You know what I’m saying!
Well… I don’t know what happened, something happened to her while SHE was pregnant. She lost her mind too… Not only did she continue high school but graduated with honors! Seven months pregnant, swollen and crabby, my baby made me crazy again, but this time with pride, love, and a multitude of other feelings that I STILL don’t recognize!
How could the child, who we lovingly considered Demon’s spawn, have done the one thing that as a mother, we always hope for. Not to mention that she did it all while pregnant. What an incredible punk she is indeed! The topper to that? She's the best mother I know!
I AM, however, still waiting for my Mother-of-the-Year award that they tell me is STILL in the mail.
Monday, March 26, 2007
The Man
My weekends used to be spent lazing in bed until 10 or 11am, then drinking coffee while religiously reading and forwarding my email until early afternoon. After which, I would eat a little something and talk on the phone or watch a chick flick on the Oxygen channel.... Until HE showed up in my life...
The Man has many "pet" names, "baby", "honey", "maniac" all come to mind. But on the weekends, I have names for him that I shouldn't use here!
He is a former farm boy, Veteran, and all around optimist. So even on the weekends, he is up BEFORE the butt crack of dawn. At 5:30am you can hear him in the kitchen listening to NPR, making coffee, feeding the animals, washing walls, taking out the garbage, or fixing something. He's not quiet about it. He doesn't realize that I have spent the last 20 years perfecting my weekends. I try to pretend I still have that life, but if I'm not up by 6am, the Maniac Man comes and "wiggles" the bed. "Honey... the birds are up, I made coffee for you... 'wanna go to breakfast?" He DOES know the way to my heart!
I gingerly and QUIETLY find my way to the bathroom, hoping for a few more minutes of peace and quiet. Oh no, the Maniac BUSTS into the bathroom, coffee in hand, "Come ON babe, we have STUFF to do!"
I don't know what the hell he's talking about. Stuff... My brain rolls the word around in the fog. What can you possibly do at 6am in the morning on a Sunday? Ohhh... why would I even ask that question.
He let's me have my coffee before he announces that "WE" need to load the lumber and wood into his truck. "WE"??? *sigh*
So I haphazardly put my hair in a pony tail, put some clothes on and make my way into the garage where he's already pulled my car out and backed his truck in... GREAT, I'm in trouble now.
Needless to say, we took the camper thingy off, loaded the back with all that wood, and drove out to GAWD knows where to unload it.
So that was fine, I got McDonald's breakfast out of it. And I'm still upright.
THEN, all hell breaks loose... he wants HELP with the backyard... OMG... it's a mess, we need a bulldozer, I'm too fragile of a female to do that kind of work! But 4 hours later and a fight with the rose bush that I DIDN'T win, the yard is on its way to looking fabulous!
Notice the fence? Ya, that's where the rabbit hutch was, and on the other side was where a box for compost was. Mostly used for stuff that I was too lazy to put in the stupid bags that just end up falling apart before I get them to the curb.
So the yard is looking great and I think I'm done and am going to enjoy the rest of the day visiting the inside of my eyes. HA! "We need to get the greenhouse veggies in, you want to go ahead and start them?" *sigh*
When the day is over, and the shadows are FINALLY long enough to be able to tell the Maniac that I can't see to do anymore, I'm exhausted and FINALLY get myself to my lovely bed.
Oh my GAWD... I can't go to bed with mud on my feet and arms, and sweat under my boobs for crying out loud... *sigh* Just a quick shower and life is perfect. I get into bed and there's the Maniac... sound asleep with a smile on his face. GAWD, I could just kiss his precious little face.... or slap the crap out of him for making me so sore and tired. Yes, I blame him, always the optimist. But instead, I kiss him, roll over and dream of the yard that will be filled with such beautiful flowers this Summer, without all the eyesores!!!!
The Fat Girl
The Man has many "pet" names, "baby", "honey", "maniac" all come to mind. But on the weekends, I have names for him that I shouldn't use here!
He is a former farm boy, Veteran, and all around optimist. So even on the weekends, he is up BEFORE the butt crack of dawn. At 5:30am you can hear him in the kitchen listening to NPR, making coffee, feeding the animals, washing walls, taking out the garbage, or fixing something. He's not quiet about it. He doesn't realize that I have spent the last 20 years perfecting my weekends. I try to pretend I still have that life, but if I'm not up by 6am, the Maniac Man comes and "wiggles" the bed. "Honey... the birds are up, I made coffee for you... 'wanna go to breakfast?" He DOES know the way to my heart!
I gingerly and QUIETLY find my way to the bathroom, hoping for a few more minutes of peace and quiet. Oh no, the Maniac BUSTS into the bathroom, coffee in hand, "Come ON babe, we have STUFF to do!"
I don't know what the hell he's talking about. Stuff... My brain rolls the word around in the fog. What can you possibly do at 6am in the morning on a Sunday? Ohhh... why would I even ask that question.
He let's me have my coffee before he announces that "WE" need to load the lumber and wood into his truck. "WE"??? *sigh*
So I haphazardly put my hair in a pony tail, put some clothes on and make my way into the garage where he's already pulled my car out and backed his truck in... GREAT, I'm in trouble now.
Needless to say, we took the camper thingy off, loaded the back with all that wood, and drove out to GAWD knows where to unload it.
So that was fine, I got McDonald's breakfast out of it. And I'm still upright.
THEN, all hell breaks loose... he wants HELP with the backyard... OMG... it's a mess, we need a bulldozer, I'm too fragile of a female to do that kind of work! But 4 hours later and a fight with the rose bush that I DIDN'T win, the yard is on its way to looking fabulous!
Notice the fence? Ya, that's where the rabbit hutch was, and on the other side was where a box for compost was. Mostly used for stuff that I was too lazy to put in the stupid bags that just end up falling apart before I get them to the curb.
So the yard is looking great and I think I'm done and am going to enjoy the rest of the day visiting the inside of my eyes. HA! "We need to get the greenhouse veggies in, you want to go ahead and start them?" *sigh*
When the day is over, and the shadows are FINALLY long enough to be able to tell the Maniac that I can't see to do anymore, I'm exhausted and FINALLY get myself to my lovely bed.
Oh my GAWD... I can't go to bed with mud on my feet and arms, and sweat under my boobs for crying out loud... *sigh* Just a quick shower and life is perfect. I get into bed and there's the Maniac... sound asleep with a smile on his face. GAWD, I could just kiss his precious little face.... or slap the crap out of him for making me so sore and tired. Yes, I blame him, always the optimist. But instead, I kiss him, roll over and dream of the yard that will be filled with such beautiful flowers this Summer, without all the eyesores!!!!
The Fat Girl
Friday, March 23, 2007
Why...
So... I started this blog because my mother sent me an email.
"Red Alert! Your baby sister has put us in her Blog with pictures!! We have to do something really good to retaliate. People at my job have been looking at the Blog".
My sister, "Am", prounounced "aim" has a blog ( MichChick's blog ) that exploits me and my family. Now that's not all bad, except it's on the internet where the whole WORLD can see our dirty laundry. There is a reason mom said NEVER to hang our undies on the line. "Am" clearly has starting hanging her undies on the line. I have STORIES... not to mention... LOTS of pictures! HA! (Here's a pic of "Am", good enough mom?)
Of course, this blog isn't going to be all about "Am" and getting back at her for her obvious faux pas within the structure of our family, I will be talking about ME and MINE, as well! Later...
"Red Alert! Your baby sister has put us in her Blog with pictures!! We have to do something really good to retaliate. People at my job have been looking at the Blog".
My sister, "Am", prounounced "aim" has a blog ( MichChick's blog ) that exploits me and my family. Now that's not all bad, except it's on the internet where the whole WORLD can see our dirty laundry. There is a reason mom said NEVER to hang our undies on the line. "Am" clearly has starting hanging her undies on the line. I have STORIES... not to mention... LOTS of pictures! HA! (Here's a pic of "Am", good enough mom?)
Of course, this blog isn't going to be all about "Am" and getting back at her for her obvious faux pas within the structure of our family, I will be talking about ME and MINE, as well! Later...
Intro to the Fat Girl!
I'm fat.
It's a fact and not one that I am afraid of. I've been fat ever since giving birth to that child that everyone told me would be worth all the extra padding and stretch marks. More about her later.
I like my fat. I am comfortable and don't even mind some of the negative remarks. I have a girlfriend who is afraid of the word FAT. "At the store, they have, ummm, 'bigger girl' clothes"
When people have told me of their disapproval of my acceptance of my fat, I ask them these questions. "Do you think I don't know I'm fat? Is it a secret?" I think that fat people know they are fat. No matter what you call it, chubby, overweight, healthy... it's all the same, it's just a word and I am not afraid to use it!
So for those of you reading this post and think that I'm rude and should be more sensitive to us fat folk out there, here's a question for you... "Why? Do you think we don't know we are fat?"
It's a fact and not one that I am afraid of. I've been fat ever since giving birth to that child that everyone told me would be worth all the extra padding and stretch marks. More about her later.
I like my fat. I am comfortable and don't even mind some of the negative remarks. I have a girlfriend who is afraid of the word FAT. "At the store, they have, ummm, 'bigger girl' clothes"
When people have told me of their disapproval of my acceptance of my fat, I ask them these questions. "Do you think I don't know I'm fat? Is it a secret?" I think that fat people know they are fat. No matter what you call it, chubby, overweight, healthy... it's all the same, it's just a word and I am not afraid to use it!
So for those of you reading this post and think that I'm rude and should be more sensitive to us fat folk out there, here's a question for you... "Why? Do you think we don't know we are fat?"
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