--Leave me a comment. That's all it takes to enter.
--My contest ends July 4th. No worries that it is a holiday. I won't be announcing the winner until Sunday, the 6th.
--I will throw all your names in a hat and let my girl randomly pick a winner.
--I will send the winner a package after I go shopping at the Dollar section of Target (KIDDING!) .
--The only thing the winner needs to do is Pay It Forward by then hosting their own PiF contest on their blog.
Sounds fun, huh?
When I told my mom about this, she said, 'Wait, this isn't like the flip flop thing, is it?' and burst out laughing.
My response: 'Oh.my.gosh. I forgot all about that! I soooo have to blog about that!'
A couple of years ago, while living in Springtown, and simultaneously biting my nails to the quick out of boredom and loneliness, a friend sent me this chain letter. However, it wasn't of the recipe or dishtowel variety, it involved flip flops. All you had to do was mail a pair of flip flops to the person at the top of the list, and then send the list out, with your name on it, to 5 people. Then they mailed you flip flops, and put their name on the list, and..you get my drift?
So, being the shoe whore that I am (yes, yes, I am a shoe whore as well as a book whore), I fell for it.
I went to Old Navy and bought a cute pair of flip flops and mailed them out. And then I waited for my flip flops to arrive.
Each day, it became a joke for my mother to call and say 'Did you get your flip flops?' and then hang up in a fit of giggles.
Finally, I received a package in the mail. I tore open the envelope, and....
the flip flops were purple and pink, and totally not my size.
A couple of days later, another package arrived. These were black, and had cherries on the top part. Big, plump cherries. WTF?
I never received another pair.
My friend Kristy, who is a sucker just like me, fell for the stupid chain letter. Bought cute flip flops at Target, and waited. After a few weeks, she got a pair of flip flops in the mail. They were bright pink and had this humongous red flower/bow on the top. Like, so big it covered your whole foot.
That really made my mom giggle.
It just annoyed me.
And then my mom threw her logic at us, which surprisingly, was pretty logical, damn it:
'You could have saved a lot of money, and just bought your own pair of cute flip flops.'
So, my promise to you is that I will not send you stupid, ugly flip flops. If I happen to send you flip flops, I promise they will be of the normal and cute varieties (Unless you are a guy, of course, and then they will be of the normal and simple varieties).
Tell me: What was the silliest thing you fell for?
The second day of these high winds, I came home to no electricity. So, no cooking. I took my girl out to eat, and we ran some errands. By the time we got home, the electricity was back on. However, the rest of the evening, the power kept flickering on and off.
At about 2am, I woke with a start. The power had just flickered off and on and back off again. I laid there, listening to the fan slow to a stop. The trees behind our house were all over the place; I watched them through my windows, bending and struggling in the wind. The wall behind my head was making odd noises.
All of a sudden, the alarm panel across the room starts flashing. A door is open. For a second I contemplate getting up and making the rounds on my own. But then, my favorite enemy Fear, shows it's ugly face, and I decide to wake up my hubby.
Me: Poking him in the ribs. "honey, honey."
Him: Snooooooorrrrre. Silence. Snoooooooooorrrrrre. Silence.
Me: 'Honey! Wake up!' Kicking him in the calves.
Him: 'Huh? Whaaaa?'
Me: 'Uh, hate to wake you, but the power went out again, and one of the doors is now open.'
So, he proceeds to get up, find his gun (cringe), and walk towards the bedroom door in his, ahem, birthday suit. I have fleeting thoughts of him coming up on an intruder, and the intruder being shell-shocked by his nakedness, not the gun.
Him: 'Where are the dogs?'
At the same exact time, me: 'Don't use this as an excuse to shoot the dogs.'
See, our dogs are old. They sleep in the living room, and they sleep through everything. Everything. They used to get all worked up when it would storm, or when weird things happened out in Springtown, but I beat them into submission, and now? They are too deaf, or too afraid of me smacking them, to even bother acknowledging any noise in the house. This time around, they didn't even stop snoring long enough to know that my hubby walked right by them with his gun cocked (no pun intended, sorta).
My husband searches the whole house in the dark, with the gun, naked. I lie in the bed, all tense, straining to make out any noise. And all I hear is the f-ing wind making the wall behind me creak.
My hubby finally makes it back, and it was just as I initially suspected: the wind was so strong that it blew open the door from the garage to the house. It doesn't have the tightest seal all the time.
No burglars, no tornado, no mad ax-murderer on the loose. Whew!!!
At this point, we are both wide awake. Hubby puts the gun back, and as he climbs back into bed, he says to me: 'Would you like to handle my glock?'
I fell in love.
They were just adorable. They have beautiful eyes, and I especially loved this one mama who had jacked up horns and also had a bit of a Mohawk going on. She had so much personality.
Not long after we got them, it started to get really cold. One night, we heard a pack of wild dogs/coyotes howling in the back corner of our property. My dogs were pacing all over the house, panting, drooling, whining. My hubby went out back with a spotlight to check on the babies. All the mamas were huddled in a circle, with their babies in the middle.
The next morning, before I left for work, I went outside with the binoculars to do a quick headcount. One baby was missing. I was worried. I kept counting and re-counting. I went to work, and called my husband. Apparently, the wild dogs had gotten one of the babies, and he had found it while I was still asleep earlier in the morning.
After work, I went out in the pasture to give my ladies their feed. I couldn't figure out which mama was missing her baby. That night, all was quiet, but I still did the headcount the next morning.
And another baby was missing. I was pissed! I kept recounting, and finally woke up James (an old friend of ours that lived with us for awhile). He went out in the pasture with me, and we counted heads again. Yep, one short. We drove around the pasture, and didn't see the missing baby. We both ended up going to work, but all day I kept wondering where that little one had gone.
That evening, as I pulled up to my garage, I looked out at the pond right behind the house, and on the dam was a baby. I did the whole headcount thing again, and realized that must be the missing baby from the morning! However, she didn't look so hot.
I went out to the dam, and she couldn't get up. She was foaming at the mouth a little, and had some wild eyes. She was scared, but did not even try to move when I bent down and touched her.
James picked her up and put her in the garage. We got heating blankets and pads, and I started using a medicine syringe to feed her Powerade. Her mother stood outside the gate, by the garage, and moooooo-ed furiously.
We stayed up late trying to nurse her back to health. Not really ever sure what happened to her to make her sick. At one point, it was just me and her. I was lying next to her on one of the blankets, stroking her side. She was longer than my 80 lb. lab, but skinner, and smaller somehow. I touched her hooves, her tail, looked at her nose and ears closely. In every day life, who gets to be that close to an animal like that? So I took advantage, and snuggled her like I do my dogs. She was so sweet. She had warm breath, big brown eyes, soft ears, coarse hair, a wet nose, and a cute pink tongue. I knew that I would never eat veal again, after this.
She was not doing well. I talked to her in soft, soothing tones, telling her she needed to pull through so she could get back out there with her mama.
She did pass away, not too long after that.
All night long, her mama stood at the gate, mooing. When I tell you that cows can sound like they are crying, I mean it. She was crying. And the next morning, when the baby was loaded up into the back of a truck, she was still standing there crying. It was so sad! When I pulled out of the driveway the next morning, I watched the other 'ladies' make a circle around her.
WOOHOO! 3.302 for the last 65 hours!!! Yipeeeee! No GRE for me!
Today I received a letter in the mail saying that I was accepted into the Social Work program, but not yet accepted by the university itself. Okaaaaaaay...?? It makes sense, but really, it doesn't, but whatever. I'm going to grad school!!!!! (Woohoo x2!)
In other exciting news, I have officially OFFICIALLY decided that I can no longer do this jelly-belly (Mmmmm, Jelly Belly's!), chunky-monkey (Mmmm, Ben & Jerry's), love handles (ick)BULLSHIT. My weight was consistent in high school, and I gained the freshman 15 my sophomore year (Thankyouverymuch, 18 packs of The Beast, and Taco Bueno runs at 2am, every frickin' night). Need I say why I gained weight and also got my one and only D in school EVER?? (F-ing Statistics class!) I started running, and lost that sophomore 15 pretty easily. I don't even remember stressing about it, or starving myself; it just sorta fell off.
Now? Not so much. After having my girl (almost 3 frickin' years ago! Ohmy.gosh.), I weighed only 5 lbs. more than my pre-pregnancy weight. Within about 6 or 7 months, I was down to my normal size (besides the gynormous boobies). Then, when I moved into my current home, I started to notice that some of my clothes didn't fit as well. I blame it on several things:
-Lack of exercise
-Changing my eating habits, and then trying to change them back
-Homemade ice cream
-Dulce de Leche ice cream, in little handy-dandy containers, that I can conveniently hide in the door of the freezer, and NO ONE KNOWS.
-Those f-ing 100 calorie snack packs, that DO NOT FILL ME UP. It's like that damn chip commercial-Bet you can't eat just one.
Nope, sure can't.
So, not only are my clothes not fitting well, but I'm so.tired.all.the.time. And my thighs rub together. And my arms, which have always been muscular and big in a good way, are now big in a not-so-good way. I actually see (GASP!) cellulite on my upper arms. And my hips, which have pretty much sucked since I got pregnant, are wayyy out of shape. I mean, why the hell can't my hip swivel like it used to during crazy sex? Why must it cramp up, to the point that my entire leg is rock hard, and I'm crying because I cannot move it-ouchouchouchouch-don't touch me!don't move my legs! help! Ack! My hip, my hip, my hip!!! My jelly belly has transformed into an upper jelly roll. The backs of my thighs look like I got hit with some buckshot. Or hail. Or a carton of cottage cheese. My boobs are even more boobaliscious than usual. My bras are getting a bit, overwhelmed, shall we say? And yes, I realize the assets I have, but they are also such asshats, because they are a pain in my ass.
In all honesty, the last time I got on a scale, I had gained 20 lbs. Which makes me a mere 12 lbs. from my weight when I was 9 months pregnant.
I just can't do this shit anymore. I'm only 30, and my body is screaming 'You are fucking 80! Bahahahaha! How 'bout them apples!'
And yes, I have said this before: I am sick of this shit. And I begin to exercise, and I eat more of the stuff I really love (fruits and veggies). But then life gets in the way, and exercise falls off the priority list (very busy woman, I say!).
What has changed this time, you ask? Well, you could say I had a bit of an eye-opener. As in, my eyes opened, my eyeballs actually fell out, and rolled under the couch with the tufts of dog hair.
I saw a picture of myself that my mom took while in Mexico. I was in my bathing suit, standing on the stairs of one of the pools. And it is not pretty. At all.
Those of you who know me, have all said this: Oh, you look great. Oh, you must wear the weight well. You look the same. You are too hard on yourself.
And I am the first one to tell you that whatever area of your body you are sensitive about will be the first area you look at when you stand in front of the mirror, or look at a photo of yourself.
But this? It is ridiculous.
I just cannot do it anymore.
So I signed up for a boot camp. I start July 14th, 3 days a week, for an hour each day, for 4 weeks. I am so excited. I need to see some results to keep me going. I need to hurt all over, puke, and guzzle a few gallons of water after each workout. I need to be so worn out that I get another burst of energy. I need this.
I also need this to make myself feel better inside. Let's face it: in this country, people focus on the outside. The color of your skin, the brand of clothing you wear, what neighborhood you live in, what kind of car you drive.....
No one takes a good long look on the inside unless they like what they see on the outside. So, I can't really be happy inside, until I am happy with my outside. I know that it shouldn't be that way...I need to embrace my body, accept myself, blah blah blah, insert more psychobabble here. But really, it comes down to this: I don't feel pretty, I don't feel sexy, I don't feel attractive. I don't see those things when I step in and out of the shower. I just don't. I know it could be worse. For sure. But this is 'worse' for ME. So, I'm off to make a change, and hopefully start to like my outsides a bit more in the next month, so I can start to feel comfortable with my insides again.
-Pick up the nearest book.
-Turn to page 123.
-Find the 5th sentence.
-Copy down the next three sentences.
-Pass it along.
So, I just finished My Sister's Keeper, and a few others, and here you have it:
--Kerri glances over her shoulder at me. "You look like shit."
Gah, what the hell? Seriously?
So, I tried another book: My Life In and Out of the Rough by John Daly. My husband's book, although I don't think he's finished, let alone touched it a least a month.
--She was also absolutely drop-dead beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off her. But I got all shy for some reason.
Okay, so I'm tagging the following: Why Mom Drinks Rum, Danielle, My Second Journal, & DeeDee. Go. Now. Have fun trying to find something meaningful and blog-worthy on page 123.
Another blog-worthy topic that I could go on and on about.
I receive emails from my husband's aunt on occasion. Sometimes it is little updates about how things are going, but mostly it is stupid forwards. Okay, some are cute and sweet, but most are political in nature, and they.piss.me.off.
See, I am pretty liberal. But working for CPS for 6 years also put some pressure on my morals and standards. Now, I'm all for Free Speech and 'to each their own' and all that other bullshit, but seriously?
So today I get this email with 'Political Cartoons we don't see, but should'. Oh, frick.
And I go ahead and read them, and I'm all, "Oh, funny." Not.
But! At the very end of the email is this, bullshit statement:
"Thought for the day: Calling an illegal alien an 'undocumented immigrant' is like calling a drug dealer an 'unlicensed pharmacist'. "
Please. Go back and read.that.very.slowly.
Now, let me breathe a bit, before I get on my soapbox, and lay into this one. And beware, I am sure I will cuss on this one.
Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously??? Seriously. Okay, so I live in Texas, and yeah, yeah, Texas is really Mexico, according to all the fuckers who say this state is 'full of Mexicans'. Okay, fine. Whatever. But comparing people who are here illegally with dumbasses who sell drugs to anyone who will buy them? Uh, no.
I'm not really sure why, over the past few years, we have decided that it is all the filthy, undocumented Mexicans that are causing problems. Last time I checked, they bust their asses. They have taxes pulled out of their checks, just like you and me. They live quietly, and they send money home to their families.
Don't give me this shit that they are taking jobs away from 'us Americans'. In all my years growing up and working in restaurants, I never once saw a white or black (or any other race or ethnicity for that matter) dishwasher or busser. The guys who brick the houses? Hispanic. The guys who put on the roofs? Hispanic. Landscapers? Hispanic. Sheetrockers? Hispanic. Foundation work? Hispanic. Framers? Hispanic. Tile, wood floors, painting? Hispanic X 3.
Now, I'm not saying that there aren't any other races/ethnicitys doing these jobs. But the majority in this state are Hispanic.
And how about the ranch hands? Hispanic. Migrant workers? Hispanic.
The fact of the matter is: They are cheap labor. They bust their ass, they don't complain, they work long hours, and they are happy. In turn, we are happy because the cost of a house is much cheaper, since labor is cheaper. Those strawberries we eat? Guess whose filthy Mexican hands picked them??
Sure, they use county and state funds. Sure, they apply for Medicaid, and go to the county hospitals. But guess what? So do the poor, working class, and middle class Americans. No matter what color.
I just don't see how building a fence along the border is going to fix things. There will still be people who will deal in human trafficking, and they will still trickle into this country. And really, the problem of terrorism DID NOT originate in Mexico.
I don't see how sending people back, who have been here for years, will correct things. I don't see how separating families (illegal parents and their American-born children) is really going to make things better. What an example we are showing, to the rest of the world, huh?
I know that people get fired up about this issue. I know that people have things to say about why I shouldn't want an 'illegal immigrant' here. But the thing is, I don't see them as having a negative impact on my life. The things I'm more concerned about: gas prices, the war, the fucking Supreme Court overturning the idea that a person convicted of raping a child could be put to death, the meth epidemic. (Those are issues I will talk about soon)
I realize everyone has their own opinion, and I respect that. My opinion will not change on this subject.
As for my husband's aunt?: I delete the damn emails. I don't respond. I just don't want to seem disrespectful, so I keep my mouth shut. It's a bit annoying, because it's pretty constant, and I know she is trying to shove her opinion down my throat.
And lastly.....has anyone else noticed how buff Randy White is lately??? He's 55, but his body does not look it!
(Sorry, it's a bit blurry, but I had to take a picture of the picture, because I can't seem to find the picture on my computer. )
Isn't it just perfect that I found this little frame to put it in?
It got to the point where she would be fussing or crying, and I would say 'Are you being a little crab?' or 'Who's being a crab cake?' and she would stop what she was doing and make this face, while shaking her whole body.
As she has gotten older, I have started telling both of them that there is an one crab limit in my house, so they need to take turns. And if I ask my girl if she is being a crab cake, when she so obviously is, she will say, 'No momma. I not a crabcake, I a CUPcake.'
I decided that I wanted a cute little shirt made just for my crabcake. So when I saw that Tranny Head had a shirt made for her cute little Sumo by The Rocking Pony, I knew that was the place to go. And what do ya know? Karen was up for the challenge, and within a week or so, my girl had her very own custom made shirt. When I showed it to her online, my girl said 'Oh! It's a crab! Is that my crabcake shirt? FOR ME???'
And here she is:
'Wha..? You want me to pose at 7:30am???'
'Sure. I'll make a sad face. Oh! You said CRAB face. Oops.'
By the way, thanks to everyone for their comments about my housecleaning situation. I'm coming to terms with it. Maybe you guys are right-maybe he is just trying to be nice, and I should totally stop my whining and take advantage of the free time I have! So that is what I shall do!
Random #1: My health is on my mind, big time. Sunday night, I watched some show on TLC or Discovery with Dr. Oz. He was helping obese people lose weight. It got me thinking about how I keep putting minor things off, and what if all these minor things, which seem to be completely unrelated, are really one big major thing? I don't want to sound like a nut (although I know what tree I fell out of), but there's 7584 kinds of cancer in my family tree, and maybe I am not paying attention to some really noticeable warning signs?? I don't know. Maybe I'm being dramatic, and my whole peeing-out-the-butt really was just something to do with my vacation? Maybe the random stuff on my arms is just heat rash? Maybe my constant cotton mouth is just because I'm too busy stuffing my fat face to remember to drink enough? Maybe my fatigue is because my fat ass doesn't exercise regularly? Maybe my malaise is just brought on by boredom? Fear?
Random #2: Why is it that our children can be both the life and the death of us? My girl amazes me on a daily basis. She calls a hoodie her 'houg'. She asks me to 'please yips it' (zip it). She says 'trampapleen' for trampoline. She bounces around, giggles, and talks non-stop. She is so very intelligent, loving, caring, and funny. But there are times when I just want to...well,not strangle her, but maybe strangle myself, to put myself out of my misery? How is it that I can be miserable but at the same time be so very content with her? I mean, she starts in with me as soon as she wakes up: I hungry. I want this. No, I DO NOT want water. No, not in that cup. That one. NO, THAT one. Can I have 5 ice cubes? Not 2, FIVE, mom.
It goes on and on and on. And for the most part, I find humor in her little voice bossing me around.
But sometimes, well, I just want to scream. I can't have a conversation with anyone without this:
'Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM. Mooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!
What you talking about?'
'Momomomomomomomomomomomomomom. Let me tell you something.'
'Um, umma, I went pee-pee on the potty, and I, I uh, I cried in the bathtub when you poured water in my eyes. '
And the guilt that follows when I lose my patience is tear-jerking.
I know I am not alone in this. I know other moms feel this way sometimes. I know I am not a bad parent because I respond to her sometimes, this way:
'My girl! If you don't SHUT YOUR PIEHOLE for 2.5 seconds, I am going to just cry/scream/cuss/run away.'
It is so hard sometimes, being a parent. No matter how much I know about kids, psychology, development, and parenting, I am still not prepared for each day with her, both wondrous and frustrating.
Random #3: I have this huge to-do list, most of which has been in my head. When my mom and I get together, we talk about all the things we need or want to do. And I always say, 'Yeah, I'll add that to my to-do list', and my mother says, 'I don't know how we will get all that done because we are very busy women'. All this is discussed as we sit on her couch, sharing a sleeve of Ritz crackers, watching the Hallmark channel on a beautiful Saturday, complaining of boredom and lack of motivation, but.just.can't.seem.to.get.off.the.couch.
It is maddening, this waiting, this living in neutral. I feel like I'm always waiting on someone or something, but in reality, I think I just lack motivation lately. I keep putting stuff off, for no real particular reason. I really need to get my ass in gear. While I sit here in my little neutral funk, the world is passing me by.
Random #4: The only thing exciting about summer shit-hole tv so far: Last Comic Standing, Psychic Kids: Children of the paranormal, and 30 Days. However, 30 Days made me sad this last episode-I will never eat veal again, and I am having a bit of trouble wanting any beef after watching how they care for the cattle we ultimately eat. Check it out. Get disgusted.
Random #5: I am such a book whore. I have about 8 books right now, waiting to be read, and my mom just handed over 5 more on Saturday. I just finished The Year of Fog, which was phenomenal! I wanted to read it in one sitting, but unfortunately, it didn't happen (please see previously-stated things about the 3 year old). There were times where I just wanted to clutch the book and scream, 'Oh for the love of all things holy, I get the damn point-you lost her, you want to find her, you're going nuts with guilt. Get.to.the.f-ing.point.' But instead, I kept reading, and it was just...satisfying.
I also just finished My Sister's Keeper, and I was just speechless when I reached the final paragraph. It was so hard to put down! My faith in her writing was redeemed by this book, as I just read another of her books, The Pact, a month or so ago, and I was deeply disappointed by the end. I hate when books have shitty endings. And for someone who dealt with abused children for several years, I figured out the issue in this book about 20 pages in, I swear.
Random #6: My hubby just reminded me that I promised a contest about a month ago. I also promised stories about my vacation. I am such a tease. Sheesh.
Well, that's all I got. I would promise that I'll post a story from Mexico this week, the contest, and cute pics of my girl in her custom-made shirt, but I'm not sure I can reach up out of this malaise long enough to breathe, let alone be entertaining.......
but I'll try.
-My house is about 2800 square feet
-I have a 3 year old with a buttload of toys
-I have 2 large dogs who think they are little chiuahuas, so they lie on the couch. Said dogs also shed like they are f-ing chows.
-I am in a neighborhood that is not yet built out, so there is dust everywhere. EVERYWHERE.
I will readily admit that I sometimes avoid doing dishes, because the dishwasher is full of clean dishes, and I.just.don't.wanna. That was the first chore that was given to me as a kid, so I've literally been emptying the dishwasher for like 25 years.
I will also readily admit that I don't always do very well with the laundry. It's just not ever done. I mean, I start it on Thursday nights, I fold, I hang up, I do another load, etc. But I don't always put it away. I just sorta lose steam. So, there is often a load of dirty laundry on the laundry room floor, a clean load getting wrinkly in the dryer, and folded stuff on top of the dryer. But it's not like I'm feeding anyone or entertaining anyone in my damn laundry room.
Other than that, I vaccuum, I clean toilets, I dust, I empty trashcans, I sweep, mop, pull weeds, mow...you name it, I do it.
So, I was a bit, put out, shall we say, when my husband started shopping for a maid right before we went on vacation. Whaaaa...????
For many of my friends, my mom, and I'm sure all 4 of you, this getting-a-maid bullshit is just fucking fa-la-la music in your ears. But, not me. It would just be too simple, right? I am so very complicated, so why wouldn't I complicate this minor issue?
To be frank, it pretty much pisses me off. I mean, I bust my ass to do all the cleaning, take care of my girl, drop off drycleaning, pick up drycleaning, do grocery shopping, run random errands, take care of the dogs....and I work, and I'm emotionally supportive, and I try to find time to reach my own dreams......and the appreciation I get is 'Hey, can you go let the maid in to clean the house today?'
I am trying very hard here to be patient, kind, emotionally supportive and stable, but THIS.PISSES.ME.OFF.
I feel like he doesn't think I do good enough. And yes, people, I do seem to have this slight issue with thinking that no one thinks I'm good enough for things. And maybe I do lay a lot of this on my husband's shoulders, and yes, I realize that he is not saying I am a sucky wife by doing this, but, but....still.
So, the maid comes once a week, and we pay her money that I don't want to pay her, and I let her in, and I ooo & ahhh about the good job she does, and....I still clean all week. I mean, I don't dust the baseboards every week, and it's impossible to keep up with the damn dust, and I don't go for the cobwebs all the time, but I do all the other shit. Oh, and I don't clean my toilets now. Or my shower. Or my girl's bathtub.
But I'm still doing the shit I tend to get lazy with : the dishes and the laundry. Hmmf.
So tell me: Am I being irrational here? Too sensitive?
So when I moved to good ol' Springtown (about 35 miles northwest of Fort Worth), it was a bit of a culture shock for me. Not that I didn't know what I was getting into, but...
I didn't know what I was getting into.
So, let me set this up for you a bit-- I bought a house built in 1976, that was apparently left in 1976: gold foil wallpaper, carpet in the kitchen, yellow linoleum, wood paneling in the living room...you get my drift. This house was in the middle of just under 25 acres of pasture. Two ponds, a handful of pecan trees, 2 pear trees, snakes, black widows, 456812 stickers per square inch of yard (also called burrs-just read about it here if you don't know what I'm talking about). My dogs were not fond of the stickers AT ALL. I would spend a fair amount of time each day, pulling these damn things out of their paws, and even between the pads of their paws. I actually have a few scars on my feet from stupid stickers getting broken off in my feet. Lovely.
But I digress. Back to the visual.
My property was a rectangle shape, with one long side being along a damn county road, and the other being along a large ranch. The two short sides: One side belonged to a nice lady and her family. Very country, but nice. They constantly had their dogs roaming the area (didn't know what a leash was, I guess). Before Daisy was fixed, she was constantly going over to their house to 'do laundry' with their bloodhound who looked eerily like a damn beagle.
I digress again.
The other short side: An old couple, who had an adult son who lived with them. Never could really figure them out.
Probably our 2nd day there, I'm ironing (and NOooooooo, I was not wearing a paisley apron, nor was my hair in sponge curlers, nor was I wearing elastic-waisted polyester pants..because LIKE I SAID, I did not grow up in the country). Come to think of it, I have no idea why I was ironing when I really should have been unpacking, but...
you guessed it-I digress.
So I open the door, and this big, thick, burly guy in overalls is hovering.
Me: "oh. hi."
Burly guy: "I live next door, and I need to tell you that if your dogs go near my chickens, I WILL KILL THEM ON THE SPOT. I've done it before, and I'll do it again. "
Me: "oh. hi."
At which point, my husband walks up behind me, introduces himself, and Burly guy proceeds to tell him the same thing, but gives a bit more info: There are some problems with wild dogs around here, and coyotes, and he has had to kill several 'packs' of dogs who go after his chickens. My husband assures him that our dogs will not go near his property, and they don't even like chickens (only goats and rat poison, but that's another story for another day), and they are mostly inside dogs anyway. Also, my husband politely mentioned that our dogs wear collars, and if Burly guy ever seems them wandering, 'don't hesitate to call us and we will come get them'.
Burly guy says he will shoot them if they come on his property.
Welcome to the f-ing neighborhood, huh? And then the next day, he brings over a dozen fresh eggs from his oh-so-precious chickens. WTF?
THAT is how my time in Springtown started. THAT should have been the first day I started counting my days until I moved out of Springtown.
Anyway, a day late, a dollar short, blah blah.......
First off, my dear friend Zelvis (and yes, he is as unique as his name!) He was the first person I really remember meeting in 2nd grade. He was an awesome breakdancer, and I remember a whole group of kids circling around him to watch his moves during recess.
Zelvis has a smile that lights up the room. He is so very smart, sensitive, funny, talented....I could go on and on.
We were in band together all through middle school, and in high school, until we both dropped out (me because I was sick of being a band geek, and him because he was in like EVERY sport). There was this one time I remember he punched a guy that was bugging me in band. It was awesome! He always had my back.
In 8th grade, over the summer, he was not allowed to leave the house. But I was having a pool party, and my mom went and picked him up anyway, and brought him to the party. My mom threw his clothes in the dryer, and dropped him off before his parents got home.
In 5th grade, our math teacher caught us passing a note across the classroom. Not only did she read it in front of the class, not only did she post it on the door of her room, but she also said to me, with a straight face: 'White girls should not be talking to black boys'. No really, she said that. NO.REALLY. And I immediately told my mother, who immediately called the school. I was livid when she said that to me. Like I gave a crap what color anyone's skin was?? And what the hell right does anyone have to tell me who I can and can't talk to?? Oh, and why the hell was she a teacher???
One of the absolute best things about Zelvis is his ability to enlighten me, empower me, and bring me closer to God. He has a faith that I can only hope to grow into. He has a powerful voice, and a huge heart. Every time we are together, or even just every time we talk, he teaches me something about God, faith, hope, or the Bible, that I didn't know before. He has eased pain in my heart before, whether he knows it or not. If I am feeling lost, or upset about a situation in my life, I can call him, and not only will he provide kind words, but he will pray with me, and he will ease my fears.
For the past several years, we seem to have been connected spiritually. When I am going through things in my life, I will have a dream where I am looking for him in a huge group of people. I can hear his voice, see his bald head, catch a glimpse of his laugh, and I'm pushing through all these people, calling his name. When I finally reach him, he's got this huge smile on his face, and all he does it open his arms, to embrace me. And each time, in my dream, I say 'That is what I needed'. And when I next talk to him, he will tell me that he'd been dreaming about me, or I was on his mind.
There is a connection there that speaks strongly to my heart. I don't want to think about what life would be like without him.
He is my girl's godfather. Who else would I think to ask? And my girl adores him, just as everyone else in my family does.
He has a gorgeous daughter who is about 7 months older than my daughter. They don't see each other much, but they seem to like one another. It makes me so happy that our girls are growing up together, and also sorta awes me.
I met Stephanie in 3rd grade. I don't even remember how we met, but I do know we were in the same class, and she laughed at my frustration when the teacher butchered my last name, over and over.
Stephanie was shy, a bit quiet, and much more reserved than I. I'm not really sure how we bonded, but we did! We had great sleepovers, we went to our first concert together (New Kids on the Block), and we were insanely silly in school together. Over the years, I think I may have had some effect on her personality-I seemed to draw her out a little bit, and I know for a fact I 'educated' her about stuff she probably didn't need to know! (jeez, makes me sound like a whore, but I swear I wasn't!) I urged her to tell a guy she liked him in high school; I made her try out for the drill team; I made her talk to people out in public.
Stephanie's family is wonderful. They always made me feel very welcome, and I actually feel like I am one of them when I am around them.
Steff moved back and forth from here to Houston several times throughout our childhoods. But, we wrote each other, called each other, and always got right back into our comfy friendship when she moved back.
One time, (and I have to tell this story because I know it will make Steff laugh), I went on a family vacation with her family. We went to Houston (of course!) and stayed in a fancy hotel. I don't remember all the details, but while we were in the hotel, she kept saying 'Like a big dog' over and over. I told her that if she didn't stop saying it, I was going to 'give her a knuckle sandwich'. She said it again, and....I gave her a knuckle sandwich. Right in the belly.
And she proceeded to cry and lock herself in the bathroom.
Now, how nice was I to do that, on HER family vacation??? Jeez, who was I?
Anyway, I'm pretty sure that's the only time I got physical (and we were in 6th grade, I think), and somehow, our friendship withstood my mean streak.
Steff & I have not been able to hang out as much as we once did. She's been in different places during her marriage, and now she lives in BFE (in Anna, Texas, which is like 70000000 miles from my house, I swear!) (Okay, it's probably 70 miles?, but come on!!!) We did happen to be pregnant at the same time, and there is a picture of us somewhere, with our bellies touching. It's adorable. (Wouldn't surprise me if my dog ate that one too-frickin' dog). Our girls are only a few months apart, and they are just crazy about each other, once they warm up to one another.
Steff is an awesome friend. She makes me feel like I might know what I'm talking about, when she calls me and asks for advice. She makes me laugh at her innocence (I really don't always mean to giggle, but I do!) and I love her friendship.
When I feel shitty, or down, or in a funk, or just pissed about stuff in my life, I try to remember that I have some very wonderful friends that have been with me through a large part of my life. Steff, Zelvis, Jill, Amanda, Kristy....they are all so special to me, and they have all helped keep me sane, in so many ways.
Last week I caught her digging a hole under the gate. It's a wrought iron fence and gate, so it's not like she was just trying to get a peek of the front of the house.
Three days last week, I came home to the contents of two bathroom trash cans scattered throughout the house. Cotton balls, 75258 pieces of tissues, a used pull-up (shredded, of course), and other random stuff.
Yesterday morning, I woke up to find a pile of puke on the dining room floor. Or rather, it was a Clorox cleaning wipe that someone thought she could eat, but obviously regurgitated.
And last night was the worst of all. After being gone for a mere 5 hours, I walked in the house to find a dozen or so pictures on the floor. In about 140,000 pieces. Pictures I had just organized a couple of weeks ago, so I could buy frames for them. I don't even know how the hell she got them, but she did.
Pictures that can't be replaced. My brother at 4 years old, wrapped up in a blanket our grandma made for him. My brother at 7 years old, with a too-serious look on his face, in a pose that is eerily-similar to mine in a picture from when I was 4. Three pictures of my foster brother. Three pictures that I really loved of my foster brother. Shredded.
Of course, I don't have the negatives, but I'm hoping they just happen to be in my dad's house somewhere. Of course, I couldn't find all the pieces of each picture, because Daisy fucking eats the stupidest stuff!, so I can't even try to have the pictures restored by someone. And I damn sure am not going to root around in her 7000 piles of crap for the missing scraps.
Times like this, I wish we had never gotten her. This morning she is perky, as usual, bouncing around as I feed her, drooling all of the place, like everything is fine. This morning, my mind is scrambling, thinking of all the places photo negatives could be stashed in my father's house.
-The view from my seat next to my father, in his 18 wheeler, back when I was very young. The passing trees & poles mesmerized me, and lulled me to sleep.
-Hiding in the bed, under the covers, when I was about 2 years old, while my father took a shower. I would lie as flat as possible, and try not to wake my mother, just so I could listen to him sing in the shower.
-The smell of his aftershave, and the feel of his whiskers grazing my chin or cheek as he kissed me goodbye in the morning.
-Forcing myself to stay awake long into the night at age 10, when we drove to Colorado to visit his parents. My mother and brother were asleep, and I didn't want him to be alone, so I strained to keep my eyes open.
-My father sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of our fireplace, head down, eyes closed, playing his acoustic guitar, and singing.
-The time my father stopped on the side of I-35, to help pull three men out of a fiery crash. The car was upside-down, and my father and another man were the only ones who actually put their lives in danger to save these people.
I would be lying if I said all my memories are fond. I remember the yelling, the fights, the arguments, the frustration, the panic, the pent up anger. I remember my mother's sighs, and my father's rage. I remember being the mediator, the one to smooth things over, the one to calm every one's nerves. I remember my own angst when my mother would decide to give my brother and I attention, before she even looked at my father.
Things were complicated in my family. From a very early age, I discovered that there are two sides to every story. I began to realize the story of my parents' marriage was different, depending on who you listened to. I remember the first time I realized that others were annoyed or embarrassed by my father. Sadly, I became one of those people too.
For all his faults, I love him dearly. I know, in his own way, he has done the best he can do. And that's all we can ask for, right? He's still my father, and I take offense when others speak badly of him. I also take offense when he speaks badly of other people that I love, so it all evens out, I guess.
He is my FATHER. We don't choose our parents, our parents don't choose us. All we can do is work at loving one another.
My husband hates hospitals. Not only was he hospitalized for a long amount of time when he was about 17, but he also had several relatives grow ill & pass away in hospitals. He had several friends die as well, while growing up.
When we met, we were friends first. We spent a couple of Saturday nights in the ER, because he and some of our other friends had gotten into a fight. I always made them all go to the ER, because I knew I couldn't just put a band-aid on the injuries they sustained. We spent about 10 hours in the ER once, while they stitched his eyebrow, his fingers, and took x-rays of his wrist. He laid there sweating. We laid head-to-foot on the ER bed, talking about all the food we wanted when we got out.
My husband took me to the hospital to give my mother a reprieve from her vigil at my grandmother's bedside. We were not even engaged at the time; just dating. He sat patiently in the waiting area for hours, while I lay on the bed next to my grandmother.
My husband took me to the emergency room countless times when we were dating. I had two heart conditions that worked against one another, and that summer, my heart medication no longer worked. Nor did any of the new medications my cardiologist put me on. So, it became 'the thing to do' several times a month: I'd call him and ask him to drive me to the hospital. He'd show up, take me to the ER, and wait with me. Then he'd go into the ER with me, sit & watch as the doctors worked on me, asking the same questions over and over. Then, he'd hang out for the next couple of hours, sweating, while the IV worked it's magic. We would lie head-to-foot and talk about food.
Five years ago, I had heart surgery. My medication was no longer working, and I had recently been in and out of the ER a dozen or more times in the last two months. There were no other medications for me to try. My husband woke up early, and took me to check in. He sat with me in the little exam room, waiting for the nurse to come and drug me up. He took a permanent marker and drew smiley faces on the bottoms of my feet. He held my hand when they gave me the drugs. He sat sweating in the waiting room for about 5 hours. He was the first person I saw as they wheeled me out of the OR to recovery. He stayed with me that night, uncomfortably sleeping in a chair.
Almost three years ago, my water broke in my sleep on a Sunday morning. My husband took me to the hospital, and did all the things husbands do when their wives are in labor. I pushed, and pushed, and pushed, and in between contractions, we watched The Food Network. My husband was sweating.
When they said C-section, I cried. My husband held my hand. He put scrubs on, and stood by as they cut me open. As soon as they pulled my girl out, he left my side, and went to hers. He videotaped her first few minutes in this world, and calmly whispered her name. When I passed out from all the medication, he held his newborn daughter, all alone, in the recovery room, as she cried.
He didn't have to stay in a place he hated, any of these times. But he did. He put himself in a highly uncomfortable position each time he walked into a hospital. That last time, he walked in the same way he had walked in every other time: nervous, uneasy, sweating. But that last time, the result was something far different: He became a father of a little baby girl, who stole his heart.
My husband is an awesome father. He is laidback with her. Adores her. Is so affectionate with her. Lets her make tea for him in her little play kitchen. Lets her put things on his head. Reads to her when she asks. Buys her cute clothes. Makes her laugh, wipes her tears, and kisses her boo-boos'. Gets rowdy with her, just the way she likes, and swings her as high as she wants. Calls her his 'love bug', and says silly things to her (like 'booger souffle' and 'mongo head') to make her say 'DAAAAADDDDDDDDD!', as she falls over in a fit of giggles.
My husband works very hard, and I sometimes consider him a workaholic. But he has worked so hard the past year to be home more, to spend more time with my girl. She runs towards the garage when she knows it's him; her face lights up when he opens the door.
Their adoration for one another is endless. It is all-encompassing, and lovely to watch.
I am so very proud of my husband, for the father he has so effortlessly become, from Day One.
I don't know if it is Spring cleaning, or nesting, or my husband's OCD wearing off on me, but I AM ORGANIZING EVERYTHING IN MY HOUSE! Actually, I was pretty organized to begin with, with the exception of my daughter's closet, my guest room/storage room, and the filing system in my study. So, here's what I did in a matter of a couple of hours:
*Organized all my daughter's toys: got rid of all of the stupid kiddie meal toys she breaks in two seconds, put the toys she has outgrown in the guest room/storage room, put her books on her bookselves, going from tallest to shortest, bought cloth storage cubes in pale green & fuschia to match her room-for all her little toys; put all her dolly clothes in one drawer of her armoir, & all the naked dolls in the other; put all her coloring, tracing, & drawing books in her armoir with all her crayons in this adorable yellow daisy vase; put all her purses (jeez, the girl has more than me!) in her little nightstand cabinet.
*Went through my girl's clothes that don't fit anymore: Sorted them by size, and made piles for possible re-use if I have another girl, & sell/give away. Will be storing the keepers in the attic with the baby clothes, and doing whatever with the rest.
*Organized the clothes in the closet that do fit: by color!
*Went through my files in my study, and made a list of all the new little files I need to make for bills, expenses, grad school, etc. I even brought home my little label maker so they look all neat & pretty!
A few days ago, I organized our closet too. My hubby already had his stuff organized by COLOR (& stripes & solids!!!), so I did mine. And I donated a ton of clothes that didn't fit anymore, or were more than 3 or so years old.
Oh! And I FINALLY unpacked my final two boxes in the garage!!! Woohoo! (Keep in mind that I've been in my house since October).
My guest room is a disaster, but the plan is to sell the old furniture that is currently in there, organize the closet in there (I store wrapping paper supplies & presents in there), and hang the pictures that are just sitting on the floor. I'm hoping to get that room looking and feeling like an actual guest room by mid-July, since my cousin from Colorado is coming to visit, and also, I'm hoping Biddy will make it this way! I really don't want her to have to share my couch with my dog-Kooter is such a damn couch hog, and I'm thinking she doesn't really want to wake up to Daisy drooling on her head.
And through all this? My girl? She 'helped' and sat on the potty about 12,453 times, singing 'Take me out to the ballgame'. Don't know where THAT came from.
I'd also be happy to tell you how I'm still peeing out my butt, but not really at the same rate. How do I say this eloquently? Um.....ah jeez, I can't. It sucks. I probably need to go to the doctor, but I'm swamped with shit at work that is literally making me pull my hair out, & I've got laundry to fold, & Father's Day gifts to hunt for, & dishes to wash, & sheets to put on my bed, & dogs to walk, & toilets to visit, & -deeeeeeep breath-. I've been thinking about how I can duplicate myself, or maybe just sleep less so I can get more done. But that would require my getting out of my fetal position.
Get your popcorn, Junior Mints, or whatever it is you crave, and get ready for the show. (Pfft. Like it's that exciting.)
Take a good, hard look at that overcast sky. Memorize it. That's what I saw for 7 f-ing days.
The beach was man-made, and someone missed the memo about using play sand, NOT KITTY LITTER. Brutal on the feet.
The sound of the waves was awesome. The undertow was powerful. The foam was, well, foamy. It also induced vomiting if you swallowed it. You really don't want to know how I know this.
My girl loved the water and the kitty litter sand. She full-out laughed when we stood on the shoreline, getting pounded by wave after wave after wave. I only wish someone else had caught that on film for me. It's burned in my memory though.
My girl ignored the foam, and focused on the impossible task of building a sandcastle with the kitty litter.
That's my beautiful little sister. Jeez, to have that body! She's got my mom's long legs, and gorgeous green eyes. Make me sick.
We ended up spending a lot of time at the pool, what with the creepy foam, painful sand, & the knock-ya-on-your-ass waves. Let me be a bit more specific: We spent a lot of time in the kiddie pool. Gah.
This is just about the only picture I have of my husband smiling, if you can call it that. That's my Silly Willie. That was also when he was sober.
And this is my King Crab Willie. Sober, but hung over. Or sick. Or just crabby. I'm not sure. I try to steer clear of this Willie. But jeez, just look at that face! I just want to kiss those crabby lips. Ahem. Sorry.
How cute is this picture? My girl is so very affectionate. She got that from me. I'm hoping between the two of us, we can turn my King Crab around. He is affectionate with her, so I can tell he is warming up to the idea.
Who needs a bathing suit full of sand when you can sport a pull-up?
She found shells, and also little hermit crabs. I told her they were her long-lost family members. She told me, "I not a crabcake. I a CUPCAKE!"
This picture was taken about 2.5 seconds before she threw sand at me. Over and over and over. Fun stuff.
That's about all I can post tonight, because this has taken me over an hour to do, between my potty runs and watching the show '30 Days'.
More pictures tomorrow, and more on all our little adventures.
Jill: i hate skinny bitches
Me: LOL! me 2! trip her!
Jill: eh..we were in the elevator so she was standing still. but i did shoot daggers into the back of her head.
Me: You should have cornered her and force-fed her pastries covered in lard!
Jill: Ha! instead i just got myself a pastry with a side of lard. that'll teach her!
Me: HA! Take that, beYOTCH!!
Jill and I spend our work days instant-messaging and texting one another. I do get a lot of work done, although my boss doesn't always think so. It is just so nice to have someone right there that I can send my thoughts to. We talk about food a lot, our girls, the past, our problems. We rant and rave, and totally support one another. And she gets me. We complete each other's thoughts sometimes.
I have known Jill since 5th grade. A couple of years ago we found out that we were both invited to the birthday party of our mutual friend Steff, back in 3rd grade. I don't remember being there, and I certainly don't remember anyone else. Which, is amazing in of itself, because I remember everything (Not like the person who actually remembers every bit of life since she was born-that would be MADDENING). So, I say I've known her since 5th grade, but it could actually be longer; who knows.
Jill & I had homeroom together, with Mrs. Brown. We also had history together (with the f-ing teacher who was like 90 and all.he.did.was.teach.us.about.the.native.american.indians), math, lunch, and English. So, we were pretty inseparable at school. Thing 1 and 2. BFF's. Whatever you want to call it. All through middle school, through 9th grade, we were lucky enough to have several classes together (and some might venture to say that the teachers were UNlucky).
We were crazy together. Sleepovers (sometimes in a tent in my backyard-my neighbors LOVED that), birthday parties, school dances, field trips. All these things included one common denominator-us falling apart in fits of giggles. In the summers, we spent hours out of each day in my pool, swimming, screaming, imagining, laughing, splashing. We'd stop long enough to eat.
We used to eat A LOT when we slept over at her house. And I remember a couple of times we snuck a couple of beers from her father, in 8th grade. I think we just wanted to see what the fuss was all about, but I don't remember getting drunk. We would play Where in the World is Carmen Santiago? on her computer. And this interesting astrological/fortune game. And we would stay.up.all.night.long.
I stuck one of these to her forehead once, in class. It left a BRUISE, not just a red mark. We started a food fight in the lunchroom in 8th grade. We flung mashed potatoes onto the ceiling. We flicked paper across any classroom.
We would bounce several bouncy balls all over my kitchen. Apparently that was hilarious. We also threw a Koosh ball back and forth in the dark, lying in the guest room of my parents' house. It would hit the wall, the ceiling, the fan, the blinds. Again, apparently it was hilarious.
In middle school, neither of us played sports very well. We never made the teams, so we were always in 'off-season'. Which meant we got put with the other un-cool people, and we spent a lot of each gym period in the 'weight room'. Which led to muscles, yes, but also let to a good relationship with several of the boys' coaches (not inappropriate, although everyone thought Coach Styron was hot). Which led to us being the coaches' assistants in 8th grade for one period each day. Which led to us being put in the boys' locker room, to 'organize' the football helmets, flinging sweaty jockstraps at each other, and throwing around footballs & basketballs. I don't recall us getting a lot of laundry or work done. But it was fun!
We were also in band together in middle school. We both played the clarinet. We got in trouble a lot, for talking, flinging stuff across the band hall, giggling, and acting up in the practice rooms.
Once we hit 10th grade, she was on the drill team for our school, and I was a band geek (go right ahead and laugh!). So we didn't have any classes together, and we were on opposite ends of the school, it seemed. I'm not sure why we didn't talk all that much in 10th grade, but near the end of 11th grade, we realized we had a mutual friend, a guy who was poetic, funny, talented, and a great listener. So, he is how we got back in touch.
And then we graduated, and somehow lost touch again, until she found me on ICQ. She was in Japan. I was in Cedar Hill, finishing college, and planning a wedding. We reconnected instantly, and she helped me plan my wedding from across the Pacific Ocean.
She came back to Texas, was in my wedding, and then we lost touch again. What the hell??
Then we got back in touch for her wedding, but I couldn't actually go to her wedding, because it was in Florida, and I just didn't have the money at the time. Also, I had started my first big job since my degree, which required my being in court A LOT, and the day before her wedding, there was this huge case I was expected to testify in (which I did, and it sucked, but there was a good outcome). I was so sad to miss her wedding, and still feel bad about it to this day (Sorry Jill). Again, we lost touch.
She went through her first pregnancy and birth, of her gorgeous daughter Lorelei. Where was I? No idea! I have no idea how or why we lost touch each time; shit happens, right? I know we aren't the only people to do that, right? (RIGHT?????) Somehow we re-connected when I was pregnant with my girl. And this time, we have stayed connected. I got to see her pregnant with her second daughter, and actually got to see her in the hospital after giving birth. We give each other our Christmas presents in April (or May or June) because we are 'very busy women', but we IM every day.
Our girls love each other. My girl asks about Lorelei alllllll the time, and loves to call Ellison 'Baby Elllllllison'.
Several months ago, they were at my house. The hubbies were playing Playstation, Jill & I were drinking some wine and going nuts trying to finish one conversation among all the chatter of our girls. My husband jokingly said, 'I wonder when their first sleep over is going to happen? And can it happen at your house?'
I giggle just to think about what that will be like, because:
Our girls are silly together. They laugh and scream outrageously at each other. They destroy my girl's room, taking out each and every toy. One time, they turned her little tent upside down, and were lying on the roof of it, curled up together, all arms and legs and grins. They run up and down the hall, chasing one another, saying silly things. They go to the potty together, and jack with the toilet paper. I have a feeling they are going to be just like Jill & I were.
Jill was my guest-blogger/post-er person while I was gone. No, she doesn't have a blog, for those of you who asked (but WHY THE HELL NOT???). She's smart, funny, kind, and loyal. She's a great listener. She's so supportive. She also happens to be a good writer too, although she tries to tell me I am the writer, not her. (I will be having her as a guest blogger/post-er person again, she just doesn't know it yet! (Well, now you do!))
And for those of you who were wondering about an intervention to get her away from her kids FOR HER SANITY (yes, Jill, for your SANITY!): I try!, I really do! But it's hard to juggle our hubbies' schedules, our kids, our guilt. But we do get together occasionally, to eat (imagine that??) & catch up. She's a great friend, and I'm happy to say that I have known her for 18 years and counting!!!
Or how about the fact that I had to hunt down the email address to my contact at this writing contest I entered back in October. For cripe's sake, if you say you're going to announce the winners on April 30th, please, for the love of all that is holy, fricking ANNOUNCE THE WINNERS. Instead, they decide to send out an email saying they are going to need another month to make a decision. WTF? I've already been waiting 6 months!!! (I found out today that I am not the winner, nor am I one of the finalists).
Or, could it be that I am being dragged down by my girl, who somehow has decided that only I can change her diaper, bathe her, put her to bed.....I do this stuff all the time anyway, but she is really clingy since we got back. In fact, she was pretty damn clingy on the trip. (Has anyone out there ever gone on vacation with a toddler?? Have any of you actually had enough relaxation on said vacation?? Gahhhh.)
Or how about the mountain of work on my desk? It's pretty much bleeding over to the floor, the file cabinets, under my desk.
OH WAIT! NOW I remember why I haven't been blogging!!!:
I woke up in the middle of the night Saturday, and heard this rumbling sound. One dog was on the couch with me, the other was on the floor next to me, and it is pretty much the norm to hear their stomachs growling at any given time. And not because I don't feed them. See, one of them will eat the other one's food. Or, one of them will decide he isn't in the mood to eat. And they both always eat grass. I'm not sure what's going on with them, but back to my ass--
So, I thought it was their bellies growling. A few minutes later, I realized it was my belly growling. Actually more of a full-out attack, not just a harmless little growl. And then....
I ran to the bathroom.
Which is where I have spent the majority of every night since then.
And a large part of every day.
I'm not hungry, I'm so thirsty, I feel all bloated, and I just can't make it stop. Kaopectate? Hasn't make a dent in this issue. Imodium? Uh, no.
First off, let me just tell you that I did not get drunk while in Mexico. I was not over-served, not one time. Pretty disappointing, if I say so myself. So, it's not alcohol poisoning.
Also, NO, I did not drink the water in Mexico.
Also, I haven't eaten anything weird or new.....
And then I'm watching the news, and I see them talking about all these damn tomatoes causing bacterial infections. And, if you know me, you know I will eat tomatoes like apples. MMMMMmmmm! But, alas, I have not had any tomatoes since I have been home.
So, I have no idea what the frick is going on in my nether regions, but I am so sick of running to the toilet all hours of the day and night.
Today I had to lock the office door because I was the only one there. How embarrassing would that have been to have some customer or delivery person walk in and look around for me, only to hear me groaning in the bathroom??
I also frantically made a pitstop this afternoon while running errands. Thank goodness for clean grocery store potties!
Yesterday, my girl was sitting on the potty in her bathroom, reading a book, and 'contrating' (that's how she says concentrating) on 'going peepee'. I walked into the kitchen to guzzle some water, when she yelled, "Mommy, I did it! I peed in the potty!"
So, in my excitement, I ran down the hallway towards her bathroom. Which caused me to pee out my butt. In my shorts.
When I got to her bathroom doorway, I told her I would be right back. She asked me why, and I told her I had pooped my pants. Why bother lying, right?
"Mommy, you shouldn't poop in your pants! Go in the potty!"
So other than my bowel issues, the only other exciting thing I've got going on is that I applied for grad school this week. All I have left to do is my little 4 page essay. Which I may have to write from the comfort of my toilet seat.
I swear I'll have pictures posted tomorrow. And silly stories. And I've got a couple of blogs to post that I have been holding onto. Until then, I'm off to go sit on the toilet, which will cause my dogs to stand in the doorway, because how dare I sit on their water bowl?????