Hiatus

Mike and I went on a weight watching hiatus. We stopped weighing and measuring our portions, stopped counting points, stopped living by the scale. For almost 2 1/2 months. In this hiatus, we went on vacation, had a very sick husband and I had a back procedure. I got on the scale today fully expecting to be approximately the same weight I was at 8 months pregnant.

(36 weeks - 3 days before I gave birth)

I wasn't. I was only up one pound, and Mike was only up 1.4. But I felt like it should be more. That it must be wrong. Because that pregnancy photo is how I feel lately. Fat, bloated, blobby. I know I make good, healthy food choices 90% of the time. But I was sure that I had gained a billion pounds and I would be back to this:

(Note: I actually argued with myself for minutes about posting this photo. I am appalled and embarrased of myself and my fat rolls barely sheathed beneath a slinky dress. And yet, this is who I was. I need to remember this. Always.)

Back to the fat girl I left behind in college. I left her for a life without medicine for cholesterol and blood pressure, a life where I could walk in front of a crowd of people and not hear snickering, whether real or imagined, a life that would be healthier and longer.

My mind plays tricks on me on a daily basis. I want to skip breakfast because I want to cut down on calories, but the educated part of my brain knows I should eat a healthy breakfast - that my body needs it. And it does. I do better physically and mentally on the mornings I eat my oatmeal and fruit.

I am a slave to my weight - to the scale. Every meal I have I think about my weight, how what I'm eating will impact my weight loss or weight gain. How if I splurge one night, it means sacrifice the next day or two. I am reminded how quickly the weight comes on when I swear I look at a bagel and my ass jiggles, and again reminded how slowly it comes off, taking three aerobics classes a week to only lose what I put on in my most recent "splurge." It is a heavy weight to carry; the scars from being heavy for so long are made from lead.

My biggest fear is passing these food issues onto my daughter. She will have enough to deal with in this world with her own body image. And I want her to feel confident and beautiful no matter her body shape. But I want her to be fit and be spared the unhealthy life I lead for so long, both physically and emotionally. I try my best not to use the words "fat" around her. I let her eat desert, I give her snacks, cake and oreos. I don't deny her any part of being a normal kid. But I will educate her from the beginning on her health - something I didn't learn until I was 22, until it was too late to repair some damage.

I have extra skin on my stomach, arms, and thighs from the massive weight loss (120 lbs in total in 3 years). It rubs together and collects moisture, giving me rashes and making wearing shorts or an above-knee skirt an impossibility. I will eventually get it removed surgically, but I plan on having more children, so it makes no sense to do so before I am done stretching my body. It will also be a painful recovery, and I will need my children to be self-sufficient enough. But, it will be done. It will be the final piece.

The fat girl inside haunts me wherever I go, echoing whispers in my ear. She is part of me. I just have to remember that she is not me.

What a smart man

My daughter is a book whore. She always carries one around, either sitting in her "melmo" chair gabbling nonsense, pretending to read, or shoving one in our faces as she climbs into our laps, demanding "buhk, buhk." And we read to her. All. Day. Long.

On of her current favorites is "Big, Little" by Leslie Patricelli. It's a simple book comparing sizes with bright colors and she loves it.

The other day, I was in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher, and Mike was reading to her in the living room. I could overhear his sing-song voice echoing the story I've memorized in my head.

"Lakes are big. Mud puddles are little.
Trucks are big. Trikes are little.
Ladies are big. Ladybugs are little."

Then he stops for a moment, and adds "But never, ever, tell a lady that."

Oh yes, there were snowcones

Yesterday was my nephew's 4th birthday party. My family really went all out. They held it at their house and my sister organized every four-year old's dream party. There were kiddie pools and sprinklers, a bounce house (don't get your panties all in a bunch, Michael - it was too hot for anyone over 11 to stand it without having a stroke), a snowcone machine, a cotton candy machine, and my personal favorite, the popcorn maker. Seriously, I love popcorn. Love, love, love. And I especially love movie popcorn. And this was JUST LIKE IT! I had like 4 bags and brought home two huge ziploc bags full which will be my lunch and dinner. Sure, I might swell to biblical proportions but it will have been worth it because I got my popcorn.

It was about 40 huzmillion degrees, and of course the kids didn't notice because they were all wet and screaming and such, but I was sure if I stayed outside for one more minute, I would become a melted pile of popcorn butter. Plus, I was in charge of our spawn, since Mike was the mayor, working the food stands. He loves kids and candy, so it was perfect for him. After letting Charlotte play in the sprinklers for awhile, I took her inside where we stayed in the air conditioning.

Eventually, it died down after we had cake, and most of the kids left, except the neighborhood girls who my sister bribed with extra bounce house time (since it was there till 8) if they helped clean the backyard. Then, Colin wanted to open his presents. He tossed my art supplies aside in favor of Transformer toys and swords. I have become that aunt. The one who gives art supplies and clothes instead of toys and weapons. Good thing he has Mike who I had to talk out of buying a real rocket.

Today, we will be doing a whole lotta this:


(Charlotte at 5 weeks old)

Isn' she precious?

"Under no circumstances are you to mess with me, or I shall kill you with my princess wand."

It happens so fast

Yesterday, I was holding my six-pound baby on my chest, trying to steal a few more moments of sleep before she woke again. Don't breathe too heavy, don't sneeze, don't move. Just be still.

I hummed "Somewhere Out There" from American Tail because it was the only song I could remember at 3 a.m., not having slept for what seemed like months. I pushed my body next to Mike's to keep warm, humming as all three of us fell asleep, her tiny body rising and falling with each breath as she suckled her lower lip, my one hand on her back holding her, the other wrapped with Mike's fingers.

Today, I asked for a kiss good-bye as Mike was leaving to take her to her day-home.

"No! No, mama!" she screams as she turns her face to bury it in Mike's neck, and swats my face away from hers.

Where did my baby go?

I suppose I knew this phase was coming. She was never a cuddly baby, never wanted to be held or rocked. She just wanted you near her when she would fall asleep, but not touching her. Just near. She refused baby food at 8 months and will only feed herself , making certain meals suitable only for bath nights. I can see her little mind working out problems or puzzles and is not satisfied until she does it herself. She is incredibly independent, and I am so proud of this. And though she still depends on me for so much, I am left as just a spectator in her life in so many ways. Each day her strong personality grows even more, and she is funnier and goofier and smarter every morning than the night before.

She prefers her father over me - another phase I knew was coming. Just not so soon. I would always joke that when she wanted to play and be rough, she would go to him. But if she was tired or hungry, sad or hurt, she would come to me. That, too, has passed and she now runs for him when she bumps her head or trips over a book. And I watch him console her and am happy they are so close when so many other fathers are just watching from the sidelines.

My baby is now a toddler and one day soon, she'll be a little girl. It just seems like before I can blink, it's all happening. I wish it would just. slow. down.

Sounds of mothering

A conversation between me and my 14-month old:

"Charlotte, what sound does a piggy make?"

She opens her mouth and snorts like a pig, but it sounds like clearing phlehm, "Honch, honch."

"And what sound does a cow make?"

"Moooooot"

"How about a chick?"

"Peeeep, eep, eep, peep."

"What sound does a rooster make?"

"Cockaaa-ooooo"

"Ok, we'll work on that one. What about a duck?"

"Cack, cack, cack."

"And a monkey?"

"ooh, ooh, ooh,"

I swell with pride at how well she knows her animal sounds. I see myself in her eyes when she carries around books all day, shoving them at me, climbing on my lap, so we can pick out the pictures and point to the animals, the flowers, the "ishies." I am amazed by how many words and shapes and sounds she knows and at how much more she understands. I look at her little face and my heart damn near rips through my chest at the amount of love it can hold.

"Charlotte, what sound does Momma make?"

She scrunches her nose, points her finger at me, and replies "No, no, no."

I gave birth to a comedian.

Battles

Mike is at war.

With a squirrel. This squirrel in particular:



Fucker stole our gnawed-on chinese ribs from the garbage. Which as you imagined was a funny site, watching this squirrel (who I've decided to name Yeast Infection, because truly, there are few things in life more annoying) traipse around our backyard, climbing trees, with a rib almost the same size as he.

Know what else was funny? The tore up garbage. Oh, and the destroyed twinkle lights on our back deck. Hys. Ter. Ical.

Mike is online looking up traps and such and keeps chiming up with random useless facts.

"You know, they say you have to relocate a problem squirrel 40 miles away or it can come back"

"Good. Catch it, put it in my car and I'll drive it to work."

"They say gray squirrels are over-populating red squirrels and they may die out"

"I'll call the Smithsonian."

"Fuck you. Hey, they say this trap is 'not for the faint of heart'" as he makes air quotes.

I feel guilty with the thought of hurting the little bastard. "Well, that's not nice. We can't kill them because they're only doing what comes natural. We left the garbage out. It's our fault he keeps coming back. He knows we're retarded and keep leaving trash on the back deck. I feel bad for him; it's not his fault ."

"I think he got to your shoes out back"

"Where's the blow gun?"

Is two easier than one?

We're dogsitting our cousin's mastiff/bulldog mutt this weekend. Both dogs go to the same doggy daycare a couple days a month so they know each other well. And Chief comes over to play some days since we have a large backyard and he lives in a townhouse (for right now).

The weather is gorgeous and they've been running around playing for hours on end. And now, the baby is napping, I am reading my Harry Potter (yes, I am a lemming), Mike is watching Andrew Zimmern eating pork-stuffed frogs on TV and this is the dogs:





Life is good, eh?

Monkey see

Either I work too much around the baby or Mike should shut the bathroom door:

More phine, please

I had a minor back surgery yesterday morning.

I hurt.

I am stuck in bed for 3 days, only allowed to sit/stand/walk for 10-20 minutes at a time. I've got good meds though. And great friends and family who are going out of their way to help with the baby. And a wonderful husband who is taking great care of me. Almost as much as his white shirt he didn't want to get coffee on:

(yes, that is a Pooh blanket...what a tough guy, huh?)

And this is what happens when the hospital forgets to remove your electrodes and your baby finds one:

These are the things that keep my moods up on days like this, when I wonder if I can take one more minute of this pain. Hopefully, this is the beginning of the end of it.

Sometimes, I'm embarassed to be me

(another excerpt from our pillow talk late last night)

Me: Elephants are the only mammal that can't jump.

Mike: Whales can't jump.

Me: I meant land mammals, asshat.

Mike: Ok, well what does that have to do with anything?

Me: Well, maybe that's why mammoths went extinct. They couldn't jump over the icebergs.

Mike: Just because they couldn't jump doesn't mean they can't swim.

Me: Fine. Maybe they couldn't jump over the glaciers and all fell into the crevasses and died in there. That's where they found all the mammoth mummy things.

Mike: You figured it out. Call the Smithsonian.

Me: I fucking hate you.

Is there a such thing as dogicide?

What you see here is the equivalent of ripping off Mike's daddy buttons, stepping on them with soccer cleats, and then reattaching them with a hot glue gun and/or a bedazzler:


(For those Ludites in the group, that is a wireless Xbox controller)
(with the analog sticks removed by a dog who is on canine death row)

But somehow, this makes it a little better:


(maybe a teeny bit?)

9 Uteruses + Fondue = FUN

I apologize for my lack of commenting and my late posts. Things have been hectic to say the least. The wake for Mike's grandfather was Friday night and the funeral was Saturday morning. We had very little time to prepare and make arrangements for the Charlotte, since I was not dragging a baby to either event. My best friend (her godmother) Bridget was able to watch her for us on Friday night and my mom took her for us on Saturday.

Today was a day of catching up around the house (I power-washed the siding - yeah, take that you lazy mothersuckers!) and getting ready for the work week tomorrow (kill me now). So, in honor of this being a special Sunday Seven, on the eve of having to get up to kiss the asscrack of dawn to begin a hectic cubicle Monday, here are the seven places I want to most run away travel to once life allows it - kids are older, finances are more stable, or someone gives me money simply because I'm cute (in no particular order).

1) Greece.

2) Africa

3) Ireland

4) Thailand

5) Italy

6) Japan

7) Australia

There are of course tons more as I'd love to travel the world, and the only one crossed off my personal list is Spain and Hawaii. I've got a long way to go, but a long life to live and I hope to see them all.

What about you? What places do you most want to travel to?

Sunday Seven

I apologize for my lack of commenting and my late posts. Things have been hectic to say the least. The wake for Mike's grandfather was Friday night and the funeral was Saturday morning. We had very little time to prepare and make arrangements for the Charlotte, since I was not dragging a baby to either event. My best friend (her godmother) Bridget was able to watch her for us on Friday night and my mom took her for us on Saturday.

Today was a day of catching up around the house (I power-washed the siding - yeah, take that you lazy mothersuckers!) and getting ready for the work week tomorrow (kill me now). So, in honor of this being a special Sunday Seven, on the eve of having to get up to kiss the asscrack of dawn to begin a hectic cubicle Monday, here are the seven places I want to most run away travel to once life allows it - kids are older, finances are more stable, or someone gives me money simply because I'm cute (in no particular order).

1) Greece.

2) Africa

3) Ireland

4) Thailand

5) Italy

6) Japan

7) Australia

There are of course tons more as I'd love to travel the world, and the only one crossed off my personal list is Spain and Hawaii. I've got a long way to go, but a long life to live and I hope to see them all.

What about you? What places do you most want to travel to?

When it rains, it pours

Mike's grandfather died yesterday morning.

The wake was today and the funeral is tomorrow morning. Or I guess today since it's 1 am. Family is in town. I spent the evening with my husband, my best friend, and brother-in-law who came in from Colorado. It's sad that he's here for such a sad occasion, but I miss him and am glad to have this time with him. Watching him and Mike talk about old times and joke about their grandpa and times past is worth being tired tomorrow.

It's sad when a sibling lives far away and the times that bring us together are weddings and funerals. I much prefer the weddings.

It's bound to happen

Everyone knows toddlers will inevitably hurt themselves. You just never want it to happen. And I'm glad I wasn't around for this last one.

Last night, while I was sipping Green Turtles at a beach bar with a couple of girlfriends, Mike calls to tell me the baby hurt herself. Apparently, she was playing on her Elmo chair and took a face dive off of it and into a wrought iron table we have. He said she screamed for 15 minutes, then puked from crying. He tried to put ice on it but she just screamed more. She eventually calmed down enough to give her tylenol and then it was bedtime.

We took turns checking on her throughout the night and she was fine. She woke up at 6 this morning her normal jovial self. "Mama, Dada, uh-oh, bippy!!"

This was the site that greeted me in the daylight



Note the bruise and the swollen puffy eyes.

Yet, despite it all, she's still in a great mood:



I've got a good kid.

What I want to be when I grow up

When I was little, I drew, colored, or painted something everyday. So, naturally people thought I'd be an artist. Nah. I haven't picked up a piece of charcoal in years, and though I bought some a few months ago, feeling like a renaissance woman, it still sits in the package.

I began to read early, before I was three, and swallowed books whole, up to two a day by the time I was 10. So, maybe I'd be a famous writer. Nah. A writer? Yeah, maybe I guess. Famous? Notsomuch.

I loved the ocean. When I went to a military high school on the coast (literally) specializing in marine sciences, I excelled in oceanography and anticipated our boat trips so I could help count the fish and examine the contents of the trawl net. So, maybe I'd go to college and become a Marine Biologist or an Oceanographer. Nah. Got English Literature/Writing/Philosophy degrees.

I loved kids. I was a part-time day care teacher for four years to help put myself through college. It was the only job I ever had that I looked forward to going to. The reality of that job was a salary I could never live on. So, I did not go down that path.

I was also a writing tutor in college (again to help pay for said education) and loved being able to help people become better writers - to teach them grammar, help them with plot and characterization, even write a proper bibliography. So maybe I'd be a professor. Nope, too much school required. I had had enough.

So, here I am out of college for a number of years, and my job just sends me my "Congratulations on Your Five-Year Anniversary" e-mail. Holy shit-in-a-creek-don't-drink-it-or-you'll-get-listeria-and-die, it's been FIVE years? Of doing something I planned on only doing "to get my foot in the door?"

While I don't hate my job, it is just that: a job. With deadlines and a large amount of stress. I edit technical material and for the most part have no idea what I'm reading. I do not read for content, only grammar and style. I edit math and references. When I graduated, I decided I would go into editing and maybe find something really cool - a woman's magazine, a children's book company, a fiction publisher. However, I was on the tails of September 11th and the job market wasn't that great. I sent out a million resumes, got only one call back and interview, and was offered the job. So I took it. I have made some truly wonderful friends and am good at what I do. I have an excellent relationship with my boss and a sweet deal with my working schedule. I commute 55 miles each way into the office only two days a week and work from home the other three. Working from home has its benefits and drawbacks, both of which is enough fodder for it's own post, so I'll just leave it at that.

Anyway, the e-mail really sent me reeling. How long before I get my Ten Year Anniversary e-mail? Ok yeah, I know, five years, but it was meant to be rhetorical, okay beeeetches?

Am I ever going to figure out what I want to do? Or am I going to settle for having a job that's something that just pays the bills and fits my schedule? Which works and, right now, I suppose is good enough.

It's not blood, it's ketchup

After seeing what I thought was a life vest on Bear Grylls floating down a river in Man vs. Wild, I was thoroughly shocked and dismayed. I mean, how is he demonstrating survival skills if he's using a life vest? One word: CHEATER.

I blogged about him before and though grossed out by the thought of drinking my own urine, eating a goat eye ball, or gnawing on a zebra carcass, I was impressed by his willingness to show how far people will have to go in order to survive. Oh, and he looks pretty dang good when he has to get naked because his clothes are wet from JUMPING IN THE FROZEN WATER, JACKASS!


(See, he is kinda pretty, no?)

But, now he's a cheater. Cheater, cheater, goat-eyeball-eater. And from researching online and reading forums, a lot of other discrepancies were pointed out. Why is always cleanshaven? How come some of the big branches look like they were chainsawed? How is he dry within seconds of coming out of the water? I realize a lot of what he does is for shock value and that's why we watch it, but I thought it was real - I thought he was a tough mothasucka. I mean, he named his son Marmaduke for chrissakes; the man has to have some big daddy-buttons.

And what's worse: I had to break the news to Mike.

I'm not sure he's fully recovered. His flint came in the mail today and he just didn't seem as excited to set things on fire as he normally does.

At least he still has Alton Brown.

No one better send me any dirt on him; I don't think Mike could handle another heartbreak.

Ode

Ever have one of those days when everything just seems like it's going wrong, and the only thing that could possibly make it worse would be something cosmically cruel like the death of a childhood pet?

Oh yeah, you guessed it. My dog died.

It's almost comical in an ironic, sad way but my dog Paige died over the weekend at my mom's. This is not the mobster eye-removing dog that we call our pet now, but the sweet-souled pup that once cowered with me in my bed during thunderstorms. She would follow me from room to room when I was sick and lie at my feet when I rested. She would plop her face on my leg and look at me with utter understanding during my teenage angst years. I still love you, she might say. She sat in the back of my Jeep and though got carsick almost everytime, loved the walks on the beach once we got there. She never ate a toy, peed in my shoes, or crapped on my carpet. She was a good dog. She was my friend.

I wanted to take her with me when I moved out of my parents house, but it would have been cruel to take a dog from a house with a large backyard to a townhouse. And then, when we moved here to this house with a ginormous backyard, she was already too old to be taken from a home she had been in for so long. We did a trial run and within a day, I called my dad in tears to come pick up Paige because she wasn't happy with me anymore.

Though we have a dog now, she never has and never will be my dog. She is bonded with Mike. If alone in the house with her, I never see her. She does her thing, I do mine. If Mike is home, she harasses him endlessly. Play with me, play with me, lick, lick, PLAY! Pet me. Oooooh, a toy. Squeeeeak! Pet me!! Play, play, play!! I think what I loved most about my dog Paige was her quiet reserve and calm attitude. I can be a bit high-strung (betcha couldn't guess that, right?) and she always balanced me out, sitting quietly by my feet as I read my latest novel. I don't have that relationship with my dog now, and I suppose I took advantage of it while I had it with Paige. I will miss it.

I will miss her.

The Blues

Last night, Mike and I went on a date. These are infrequent and even more now that he has been sick. We had bought tickets to see Josh Blue a few weeks ago before he was sick. He was the guy with cerebral palsy that won Last Comic Standing last summer.


Watch this if you get a chance. He's hysterical.

We invited a couple of friends, and met them at The Melting Pot to get dinner before hand. For those of you not familiar with this restaurant, I am sad for you. Your life will never be complete. It's a fondue place, and you get four courses of a huge amount of food - a cheese course, salad, meat, and chocolate. There are few things I like more in the world than melted-cheese-covered bread and a piece of brownie dipped in Flaming Turtle sauce. Very, very few.

Mike took Thursday and Friday off from work to rest. He started to seem like his old self again and though still tired, was doing better. Yesterday, we took care of my nephew while my sister worked. We went to breakfast at "The Pancake Store" (Perkins) then went to the playground. Then, we came home and I put the baby and Mike down for a nap, and when they woke we packed the kids up and went to my in-laws to go swimming. Mike played with Colin in the pool as I vehemently refused to be in the water for more than 30 seconds, because if I wanted to swim in the Artic frosty water, there better be some damn penguins or something.

So, the boys horsed around



while I chased this around the backyard:



We left with just enough time to drive home to meet my sister, shower, and leave again for dinner. We had a great dinner and the comedy show was hysterical. But the day was long and hectic. And rough on Mike. He's still in bed and has been sleeping like crap. He says he wakes up every 30 minutes in pain and can't get comfortable. He complains his joints hurt - his neck, wrists, knees, back, shoulders. It's starting to worry me. I know Epstein-Barr can be rough, but is it supposed to cause so much pain? To make a man who never complains to be in bed all the time, wincing with aching muscles and joints? I am starting to worry it might be something more, but then again, I am a worrier. I can't help but think that he's spent a year in Iraq in the desert and six months in Kuwait in an apartment above a chemical factory. There are sand fleas that bite and carry disease; they handed him a paper listing the chemicals he inhaled to give his physician if he were to ever get sick. It's not a very nice part of the world right now.

I'm sure I'm over-reacting, as I have a tendency to do. And from some of the things I've read about EBV, it can get bad and cause some of the pains he says he has. I just worry. I'd like him to see an infectious disease specialist. Am I being ridiculous?

Saturday Seven

A few days ago, Sunshine over at ...and the pursuit of happiness wrote a post about how rad 80s movies were. I waxed nostalgic and remembered that not only were the movies cinematographic gems, but the music was something er, special. I still listen to it on my Sirius radio and realized that without 80s music, the world would be a whole lot less colorful.

So, here are my seven favorite 80s songs.

1) Falco - Rock me Amadeus. Remember the video? With the Mozart guy? Seriously classic.

2) Journey - Don't Stop Believing. My love for this song has already been discussed. I'm old. Yeah, I get it.

3) Bangles - Manic Monday. I remember singing the song in earnest, really believing that Mondays sucked. If only I knew...

4) Phil Collins - In the Air Tonight. I still love this song, and the drum beats makes me wish I was musically inclined and learned to play drums.

5) Fine Young Cannibals - She Drives me Crazy. If anyone says they didn't try and make their voice all high and sing to this song, they are big fat liars.

6) Cyndi Lauper - Time after Time. "I WILL BE WAITING" You know you all belted out that part...

7) Whitesnake - Here I Go Again. For the longest time, I thought it was "Like a twister, I was born to walk alone" which I realize now makes no sense, but when you're 9, it does. I mean, tornadoes don't walk with other tornadoes, right? Ok, so I wasn't the brightest.

Your turn. What are your favorite 80s songs?

Mike & Charlotte - ParentDish

Go here and see the picture I took that won image of the day over at ParentDish.com

They're like little celebrities. ;)

Morbid Conversation

I'm laying on the couch, after my shower, hair still wrapped in a towel, enjoying the silence as the baby naps. Mike is on the comfy chair "resting" with his laptop. My mind is drifting.

Me: You know how they put toe tags on people in the morgue?

Mike: Yeah, why?

Me: Well, what if they don't have feet?

Mike: I guess they put them on their thumbs.

Me: What if they have no arms as well?

Mike: I don't know. I guess they attach it to some piece of flesh or something.

This is what happens when you have five minutes to yourself. I really need a hobby.

My Half Year's Resolutions

A couple of days ago, upon the realization that an enitre half-year has already passed in 2007, I thought long and hard about some accomplishments I made in this time. Though not monumental, some were important and life-changing. I am down one useless organ, who's a go for one more? I still have an appendix!

So, upon further ponderance, here are the things I would like to accomplish before the second half of 2007 is over.

1. Not catch mono. Though highly unlikely, my only hope is that at one point in my Slutty McWhoreHound days, I already got it, and therefore, cannot get it again.
2. Finish all house projects: clean out and recarpet destroyed basement, clean out dining room from storing stuff from destroyed basement, put stuff in storage we can no longer keep in destroyed basement.
3. Look kick-ass in my friend Lauren's wedding. I've only been a bride and never a bridesmaid, so this experience is new to me. I hope to do as good a job as my bridesmaids did for mine. Seeing as how she's marrying a real-life Scotsman (like they met in Europe and he's from Scotland and talks like Shrek), I also intend to get shiteously drunk and rowdy, if only to fit in with his side. ;)
4. Not stick a pen in my eye every time I have to repeat myself to my husband who is often in la-la land, daydreaming and planning out how he is going to survive the inevitable Zombie attack.
5. Prepare for Zombie attack.
6. Teach my baby some age-appropriate songs. I bought kiddie CDs and even try to sing them with her, but the only thing that makes her tushie shake is Elliot Yamin, Fergie, Nelly Furtado, and Kane. I'm dead serious. She's going to go to pre-school in a few years, and be like "A, B, C, D, E, Fuck, I hate this. Put on some beats, yo."
7. Try to curse less in front of my baby so she doesn't say "fuck" in pre-school.
8. Go to the allergy doctor and find out why I sneeze approximately 4,278 times a day.
   
9. Go to the movies with my husband more. I think we've seen 2 movies in the last 15 months.
10. Get knocked up again. This is a rather lofty goal, but I'd like to have my babies spread out about 2-3 years, so we'll start trying again after I finish with #3.
    

I have a dream

Ever have one of those recurrent annoying dreams that wakes you up every 30 minutes, then you go back to sleep and keep seeing the same scene over and over and you can't sleep for shit? I have, so I knew exactly what my husband was talking about when he was tossing and turning last night.

"Don't you smell that?" he asks after I finally asked him what was wrong.

"No, honey. What?"

"Rotten bananas. I keep smelling it."

"You're dreaming I'm sure."

"Yes, about these parents chasing these kids all over the house who keep dropping food and it smells like rotten bananas. I keep dreaming it"

"See, then it's fine. Just a dream. Try to focus on something else."

"No, I still smell it when I wake up. I must have a brain tumor. You don't smell it?"

"Sorry, babe. No, I don't"

So, we go back to sleep, and 30 minutes later, have pretty much the same conversation. This time, however, he decides to get up and pee. He opens the bedroom door and starts down the stairs. Since my side of the bed is closest to the door, I see him flick the hall light on, which he never does. He opens the bedroom door.

"It's not rotten bananas. It's dog diarrhea down the steps."

I sigh with the realization I have to clean this. "Well, at least you don't have a brain tumor."

So I get up, put on my glasses, whip my hair back, and get the needed supplies. Pet stain remover, check. Grocery bags, check. Paper towel, check. Scrub brush, check. Febreeze, check. I cleaned it as best I could and though there are no visible stains on our beige stairs, I can still smell it. And I'm not sure what's worse, the smell of the crap or the smell of the Febreeze trying to cover the smell of the crap. I am calling Stanley Steemer first thing tomorrow morning. Damn holiday. Nothing is open today. I must smell flowery crap for another 24 hours at least.

I'm starting to think the dog is trying to tell me something. She keeps ripping the eyes of any toy left on the floor. And now she shit on my carpet. Not on the hardwood or the tile - the only part of the house that has light beige carpet. This morning, after I put the baby down for a nap, I came down to the kitchen where the dog was. Her new cow book (that I just bought yesterday) with the googly eyes, lie on the floor, like this:

Michael C says we should sleep with masks on. I'm starting to agree.

We got the results back from one of Mike's blood tests. What we thought was Lyme's disease is actually Epstein-barr/Mono. Ok, who over the age of 17 gets that? Answer: My husband. His liver enzymes are up so he is to avoid tylenol and drinking. So there goes our acetaminophen/vodka bender for the weekend. All joking aside, I truly do feel bad for him. He's really sick. He is lethargic and sleepy all the time, and his lymph nodes in his neck and groin are so swollen and painful, he feels like someone is stabbing him. From his liver enzymes being high, his skin is itchy all over, especially his back, and he feels like jumping out of his own skin. He has headaches and nausea. I am trying my best to do extra, so he has to do less and can rest.

Unfortunately, it's a virus, and not an infection, so there's nothing he can do but rest, eat well, and keep his immune system boosted with herbal remedies. I went to the drug store last night and came home with Milk Thistle to help cleanse his liver, Echinacea plus Goldenseal to help cleanse the blood and boost immunity, and St. John's Wort which is supposedly helpful in fighting this virus. I also researched and Olive Leaf extract is supposed to be great, but it wasn't at Drug Fair and GNC is closed for the holiday.

I called the pediatrician just to ask if there was anything we should do for the baby. He said to not share drinks but that this virus is almost impossible to prevent tranmission from and almost everyone gets it at some point and it lies dormant. Babies/children react well to the virus and usually fight it off quicker. The older you are, the harder it is to fight and the longer it lingers. So, my 30-year-old husband might be ill for a few months. Yay.

We're still waiting on the results from one more blood test just to confirm, but regardless, it sucks big hairy moose balls. Anyone have any advice on how to deal with this?

Here's to the next half

Ok, as promised, here is my list of things I've accomplished in the last half-year.

1. Paid off all the credit card bills. Twice. (Yes, but this time we locked them away.)
2. Lost 30 pounds. I still have 20 more to go to be happy but I've made progress, even if I have been hopelessly plateaued (is that how you spell that?) for the past few months.
3. Had a body part removed and survived. Ok, so it was only a gall bladder and people rarely die from that surgery. But STILL! It hurt, OKAY fuckers!?!?
4. Went on our first family vacation with the baby and didn't take one Xanax the whole trip. Go me!
5. Got back in decent shape. Not good, decent. I can take an hour -long aerobics class and be tired as hell at the end, but I can do it at least.
6. Dyed my natural blond hair red, which faded to hot pink, which I had to spend $300 to fix and it still ended up red. I always wanted to try it and I was proud of myself for being brave. Natural blonds never get to try stuff without people shreiking and gasping, going "But WHY? Your hair is so pretty." The same reason you do, people, I get BORED. Alas, I am back to my natural color. Change and I are not friends
7. Remained upbeat during the flooding and destruction of our finished basement. We only cried a little and I only drank a fifth of vodka watching the pergo warp, the carpet squish dirty water between my toes, and the huge ass expensive oak desk break in two as we tried to put it on boards to protect it. We failed. We will fix it soon. Just need to save some more money.
8. Left the baby for the first time overnight when we went to Atlantic City to celebrate Mike hitting the big 3-0. The best part? I had a gall bladder attack (but at the time I didn't know that's what it was until 3 months later when I ended up in the hospital) and he didn't even get laid the night of his birthday when we were baby-free. The morning without the baby crying over the monitor, however, was a different story.
9. Bought a bike and actually rode it.
10. Watched my baby turn one. Her birthday was May 11, and we had a small family party for her and it was perfect. In the last six months, she has gone from just barely sitting up to running around the yard, picking up leaves, holding them out to me, saying "weef, weef". Yes, baby, that's a leaf. Or something she knows she shouldn't pick up and go "guck, guck". Yes, baby, that's yucky. My baby can walk. She can talk. She pokes me in the eye and then giggles about it.

When you step back, it's amazing what can happen in six months. Here's to the next six! :)

Should I be scared?

First the frog, now the pig. Just the eyes. Is my dog trying to send me a message?

Half a year

After my daily reading of Michael's blog, he pointed out that today officially marks the halfway point of the year.

What the hell?

I've done diddly squat. At least I feel like I have accomplished John Schit, which is like Jack's red-headed step-brother who pisses in the corner at night and smells like frogs. (Nothing against red-heads, those with urinary incontinence, or amphibian lovers).

So, tonight I am going to think long and hard and come up with some serious accomplishments I've made this past 1/2 year. Then I'm going to think about new ones I want to make. It's kind of like New Year's Resolution without the diet or hangover.

I'll be back tomorrow with my lists. You work on yours.

I'm out like a fat kid in dodgeball. (No offense to those tubbies who were beaned in the face in said horrific sport. I, in fact, was one.)

Yes, wine was involved

Since Mike was too sick to go out last night as we planned, he told me I could go out and see some friends I don't get to see very often. Now, before you call me a callous heartless she-bitch, I normally would never leave my sick husband home alone while I went out galavanting, but he insisted. He's been sick for a while (we think it's Lyme's, but the bloodwork will confirm it in a few days) and I've been trying my best to let him get rest and take care of him. Between him being ill and the baby teething all week, I really needed a night out. It was almost 6:30 when I left so he just had to put Charlotte in her crib at 7:15, order pizza, and be miserable. All three he did splendidly.

My friend Bill got a new apartment in Asbury Park. What used to be a shit hole a few years ago (and still has some grody parts), is now being built up into yet another trendy mini-Manhattan. And it's fabulous. It has little shops and restuarants and we ate at an a la carte place called Brickwall which was fan-fuckin-tastic. I treated myself and got the blackened seared salmon with wasabi honey for an appetizer, which we shared, and then I ordered the filet mignon and garlic mashed potatoes. I would have made out with the potatoes if I could have figure out how. The filet was huge and cooked perfectly.

Before we went to dinner, we had a few drinks while touring his new place and catching up. During dinner we had a few drinks. After dinner, we had a few drinks. We also thought it would be a great idea to put on Absolute 90s and do a runway walk to "I'm too Sexy" by Right Said Fred. The pictures that follow are the result of said drinking and require no explanation. So, I leave you with these.

The End.