You know when you're doing something, and while you're doing it you're thinking "If anyone saw me right now they would think I was a complete idiot"? I had one of these moments this week.
As mentioned a few posts back, this has not been a great week for me. Rotten, in fact. I happen to be one of those lucky people who suffer from anxiety. Not often enough to be medicated, just often enough that every so often (like when someone proposes to me, or my husband goes missing in the mountains, or other various kinds of problems arise) I have an anxiety attack.
I have various ways of containing and handling these episodes to keep them somewhat under control, but every so often things get a little out of hand. Knowing this, (and dreading the fact) I found and bought this "stress relieving herbal tea" that claimed to calm anxiety. It's been sitting in my cupboard for almost a year, waiting for an out of control bout of anxiety worthy of a little product testing. The last two times my husband went MIA while solo-ing it in the mountains, I had the tea brewing when he finally either called or arrived. What a bummer. Twenty minutes later, and I'd have been able to find out if the stuff actually worked.
This week I had my chance.
By Friday I was a mess. The anxiety had been building up since Tuesday night, and somewhere around lunchtime, I felt it coming on. Full blown anxiety attack. Heart starts racing, panicky feeling takes over, what's left of my functioning, rational brain begins shutdown.
Then I remember - I have that stupid tea in my cupboard. It could work. I'd better try it.
I open the cupboard, grab the tea, put on some water, and while it boils I notice this on the tea box: "Yoga To Let It All Go." I read on, and discover there is a yoga pose that's supposed to calm anxiety. I am not really into yoga. I am, however, feeling desperate. I decide that at this point I will try anything.
So I go into the other room, kick enough stuff out of my way to clear a spot on the floor (anxiety SERIOUSLY impairs my ability to do anything productive around the house - we're talking no-laundry-for-four-days kind of serious), and sit cross legged on the floor. With one eye on the instructions, I get into position. Left hand, palm up on my left knee - middle finger crossed behind first, thumb over fingers four and five. (Not joking, I really did this). Right hand, first finger extended - thumb over fingers three, four, and five. Hold right hand at chin level. Close eyes, and twirl finger in the air for one to three minutes. Breathe deeply. Feel like a complete idiot, and hope no one comes to the door, because it has a window and I'm sitting on the floor right in front of it feeling like a crazy lady.
It totally worked.
I actually stopped shaking, and was breathing normally after a minute or two. Seriously, it was so effective I was kind of bugged, because it messed with my product testing. If I'm already calming down, how the heck can I judge how effective the tea actually is???
But I drank it anyway, and it did seem to help. Or, I was just experiencing the full affects of my amazing yoga experience. Who can tell? Now I'll have to wait for my next major anxiety attack (no rush there, Mr. Anxiety) so I can drink the tea BEFORE doing crazy yoga poses.
But don't get me wrong, I am not complaining. I'm just hoping I don't have any public anxiety attacks, so I can keep my idiotic yoga pose all to myself. (Can't you just picture me dropping into the Praying Mantis in the grocery store, twirling my little finger on aisle Nine? What a picture). And there was a silver lining to all of this - thanks to my anxiety-induced starvation diet, I lost 4 pounds!!!
See - just when you think life really stinks, you take a chance, do something that makes you feel like an idiot, achieve minor success, and lose those four pounds standing between you and your skinny jeans. Last week's anxiety - this week's accomplishment.
Just call me Pollyanna.
Monday, September 29, 2008
You know when you're doing something, and while you're doing it you're thinking "If anyone saw me right now they would think I was a complete idiot"? I had one of these moments this week.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Can I just say that we have some amazing limerickers out there?! This was a really hard one to judge because so many were so good. First we have our reigning champ Sue, from The Quack Shack, who turned out two fine limerick specimens. They are both worth a looksy, and qualified as contenders:
When doing laundry, I've cried,
"Oh, help! Your tips, please confide!"
Whites don't go with peach
Stay away from the bleach
Lest everything comes out tie-dyed!
I hang out my clothes on the line
The sun dries them crispy, but fine
I'll save a few dimes
But spend so much time
Hunting socks that aren't even mine.
Love the tie-dyed line! So original. The two that gave me the biggest laugh were from new contenders. This first one is from Lisa over at Away From It All, and here it is:
My house is one big laundry pile.
Well, there's two, but they each stretch a mile.
There's "dirty" and "clean"
(and some in between)
You'd never know underneath there is tile!
What a great visual! And the other funny girl new to our contest is Alison Wonderland. This one has one of my favorite openers:
My daughter just puked on her sheet.
The baby, his diapers they leak.
Which leaves me in a quandary,
I refuse to do laundry,
But my house it is starting to reek.
Can I just say that I've been here??? These were both so fabulous, that I had to take a poll here at home to make my decision. As soon as I'd decide on one, I'd change my mind and be back to the other one. Finally, however, after several people weighed in, I managed to make my decision. And the winner is...
Lisa, from Away From It All!!!!! GOOOOO Lisa! I sure hope there was somebody there to catch her when she fell, because in her picture she looks tall. I'd hate to be responsible for injury over in Poland - I don't know if their medical facilities are up to snuff. (She'll have to let us know in her next post).
To the rest of you limerick writers, thanks for making me smile! I can't wait for an excuse to have another one!!
Saturday, September 27, 2008
I just want to announce the discovery of a surprising new therapy.
Limericks on laundry (as amazing as it may sound) written by blogger buddies you may not even know, make a person suffering from emotional stress and fatigue feel remarkably better. The suffering individual may even smile, chuckle, or (if the limerick has both perfect meter, and witty rhyming) induce actual laughter.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. And please don't stop now - you have until tomorrow (Sunday) night to compose your entries. Just think how many unhappy, stressed out people you may unwittingly help by your submissions! Who knows what kind of emotional basket cases may read my blog (after all, they say like attracts like, and I am DEFINITELY feeling rather baskety this week!)
So thank you again, you really have brightened my weekend!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Due To Circumstances Beyond Our Control, We're Forced To Take The Easy Post-Writing Way Out: yes, it's another contest, with yet another (lame) prize.
I have to apologize for my posting delinquency. Usually by now I would have something (whether it was worth reading or not) to offer those of you who bless me with your visits. (Those of you who leave me your comments are a class above the mere blessers - you are Blog-Angels). But frankly, this has not been a fabulous week, and I am not feeling very witty.
Actually, I'm feeling extremely witty about one topic - but unfortunately, I've decided it wouldn't really be the best thing for me to blog about. This topic is the one regarding the not-so-fabulous-week I've been having, and I'd really enjoy nothing better than telling all of you out there in bloggy land just what a complete idiot I can be. Unfortunately, however, there are other people involved in my latest escapade,who might not appreciate it if I strung the whole thing out for everyone's entertainment.
But it's also the only thing I can think about, making post-writing about other things extremely challenging.
So instead, let's just have a nice little limerick contest, shall we???
Topic: Laundry. This is in honor of the dirty laundry I don't dare hang on the blog to dry. So get your limerick-y brains ready, and remember the rules:
1. It has to have something to do with laundry.
2. It has to have five lines.
3. Lines 1,2,5 need to rhyme.
4. Lines 3,4 need to rhyme.
5. The meter is very simple, just check out the limericks on my sidebar - or keep reading, because I'm about to throw a couple of my own out there just to get you all warmed up!!!
Laundry is really a pain.
It's enough to drive you insane.
It never will cease,
And the piles just increase
Till you just want to leave on a train.
That was admittedly horrible. Undaunted, however, I will try again.
Oh where is a match for this sock?
I think that my socks all must walk.
I bought ninety-three,
Now where can they be?
If only my washer could talk!
Not much better, but let's not forget that I'm having a bad week. Apparently this impairs one's "limericking" ability. I better try to redeem myself one last time:
While laundry can be such a chore,
A regular, bummer and bore,
There's those who just smile
And hum all the while,
And when it's all done they want more.
This last is based on true events. If you don't believe me click here. And leave her a comment, because anyone who feels this way about laundry deserves a LOT of Blog-Angel love!!!
And now, I will turn it over to all of you hopeful limerick winners! Leave your entries in the comments, and I'll give you until Sunday night. Number of entries is unlimited, and the (lame)prize is still an honored place on my sidebar, and the title of "World's Best Limerick Writer Ever". Such an honor! But just breathe deep, and try not to let your nerves get you!!
Monday, September 22, 2008
Another Post In Which I Complain About My House - and come off sounding totally negative and bitter, which I'm really not. Well, not usually anyway.
Now days, almost every house is built with at least two and a half bathrooms. There's the powder room - for company. The hall bathroom - for the kids. And the giant, massive, so-big-it-needs-its-own-zip code master bathroom including both garden/jet tub AND stand-alone shower. As with every other luxury that has become standard, I believe most people in this country have ceased to appreciate the multi-bathroomed house. With this post I will attempt to bring back some small smidgen of respect and reverence for this incredible advancement of our society.
I was raised in a half-way house. By half-way, I'm referring to the fact that we were half-way to the whole standard bathroom thing. Rather than the two and a half business, we had the full downstairs/company bathroom, and a full upstairs bath (with both shower AND tub). To make up for the lack of an actual "master bath", the upstairs bathroom was attached to my parent's room. Hence, it was technically their bathroom.
But all three of us girls used it every single morning.
Who wanted to go ALL THE WAY downstairs (where it was usually a full twenty degrees colder, I swear) when there was a nice bathroom so conveniently placed? So I was raised with the whole crowded mirror business, and the peeing in front of everyone thing. (Dad was pretty good at hitting the bathroom either before or after we took it over. Poor, poor man. That will teach him to design a house with no master bath!)
Then there was college. Six girls, one tub/shower/toilet, and the standard forty foot vanity with three sinks and fifteen electrical outlets. Each of which must have had their own breaker box, considering the amount of juice they sucked on Sunday mornings. Was anyone else ever amazed that no fuses ever blew, or was it just me?
With marriage came a much more friendly person/bathroom ratio. Being indecent no longer mattered, and sharing was even a little bit nice. Truth to tell, sharing a bathroom with all girls really isn't that bad anyway.
But now I have boys. AND ONE LITTLE BATHROOM!
I'm really not sure why, but sharing with a husband and three small boys is so much worse than any of the other bathroom-sharing I've done. Maybe it's because my children always have to go number two while I'm in the tub. (Those of you familiar with my frequent and very long/hot baths are sure to understand how irritating this phenomena actually is). No one ever knocks on the bathroom door - which doesn't lock. Every Sunday morning, my husband manages to get in the shower precisely when I begin trying to either fix my hair or do my makeup. Ever try to use a mirror while someone's showering???
When you only have one bathroom, the clothes people shed, and the dirt that comes with them (three little boys and a husband who works construction) are a CONSTANT problem. And have I mentioned the pee? There's a reason why my children aren't allowed to pee standing up until they can prove their accuracy. With that much male-peeing traffic on one toilet, cleaning the commode can be an hourly job.
That is, if you want the ONLY company bathroom in the house to be presentable should someone stop by and need to use it - or walk by it, since it's DOWNSTAIRS, and right in the middle of the front room.
There is absolutely no hiding my bathroom from anyone. Please tell me that someone, somewhere, is beginning to fall for this pathetic (and overly obvious) plea for sympathy.
When I say that the bathroom is located downstairs, I want to make perfectly clear that the bedrooms (all TWO of them) are not. They (the bedrooms) are very much upstairs affairs. This is not fun when you're pregnant. Or when you have a child who constantly wakes up and has to pee in the middle of the night but doesn't want to have to go downstairs alone. Or when someone comes to you in the small hours of the morning to tell you they're about to throw-up. At times like this, the bathroom may as well be at the neighbor's.
And so I go on day after day, dreaming of that blessed, long looked for event, when we move from this house to one with multiple bathrooms. And please do not try to tell me that it will just be a big pain because there will be more bathroom cleaning to do. This will not work on me. I have suffered too long with bathroom sharing, and would be THRILLED to have the boys clean their toilet while I clean mine.
So go now, Dear Reader, and resume your happy, multi-bathroomed lives, in your happy, multi-bathroomed houses - with your guests using your lovely little powder rooms, and the ability to tell your children to take their BM's someplace else whilst you luxuriate in your master-jetted-garden-tub.
And maybe, just maybe, you will appreciate the sheer luxury of the master bath just a little bit more after reading this post. Occasionally thinking of me and offering a silent prayer that I will someday be released from the purgatory that is one-bathroom-and-six-people-four-of-them-males would also be a nice idea. You know, proving to the Universe at large just how much you care about people you don't really know.
I would really, REALLY appreciate this kind of thoughtfulness. Fasting is also an option. You know, for those Sunday's when you forget to eat breakfast, and then get to church and realize it's Fast Sunday but don't really have anything specific to fast for? Yeah, just think of me. You can call it the "Jen's bathroom fast". And all the while you'll know that I'm here, in my one-bathroomed house, just trying to take my shower and put my makeup on in peace and solitude.
And that it probably isn't happening.
I want a hologram machine. Or room, or however it is they work. I'm not really into Star Trek, but nine years ago when my oldest was a baby, I would occasionally watch some Star Trek show my sister was into while I was at her house. About the only thing I took away from it was the hologram thing.
For those of you who don't know how it works, holograms are the coolest thing ever. The people on the ship would go to a hologram room, and program it to be whatever they wanted. They could practice fighting, go to some weird planet, basically create any environment they wanted. Including people, places, and events from the past. Nothing was real of course, it was all just some kind of crazy, completely tangible and real illusion.
I think all the time about how cool it would be to have my own hologram thingy.
Not because I want to simulate fights, or visit weird places - I want to be able to visit the past. Just think of how fabulous it would be:
I could relive the night my husband and I kissed for the first time. Heck, I could relive any moment I wanted from that amazing summer!
I could relive late night moments snuggling with my babies. Without the tiredness, because it wouldn't really be in the middle of the night.
At the drop of a hat (well, manipulation of some crazy-wild-amazing-computer-thing) I could relive Conan's first day of preschool.
Just think of being able to go back and talk to your toddlers with their cute little voices and ways of talking. Things the mind lets go of, regardless of how desperately you try to hold on.
I could just hug. My children, my grandparents - anyone I wanted to see, hear and feel again.
I could go back and spend an afternoon feeding the cows with my sisters in our hideous '70's style ski pants purchased for the chore at thrift stores. Maybe we'd even get the truck stuck - just for fun.
The list is endless, really. And it would be the most perfect thing. You wouldn't really be IN the past, so you wouldn't have to worry about messing things up. But yet, so many untouchable memories could be brought back to life. My kids aren't even out of elementary school, and already I miss kissing their chubby little cheeks, and pulling their little snuggly baby bodies onto my lap for a cuddle.
Ever try to cuddle with a nine year old? Mine's willing, and we do our best, but he has so many bones! And his arms and legs are way to long if you ask me.
Holograms are also better than stopping time. I mean really, I miss loving and kissing my babies, but I don't think it's worth committing myself to a lifetime of diaper changing just to keep them little. Besides, watching them grow is one of the greatest parts.
I just get kind of desperate when I realize they're all getting so big. What if I can't remember everything? Like how they smelled as babies? Or how it felt to pick their warm little bodies up out of the crib?
So now you all know. I'm just a big, sentimental weirdo, who dreams about the possibilities of holograms in the real world every time I kiss my babies goodnight. But you have to admit - it's a pretty cool idea.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
So, about two weeks ago, I was talking to Annie on the phone about her blog. She wanted to update the look of it, but was tired and didn't feel like it at the moment. I, on the other hand, was very bored. So I told her I'd go in and set up a new fake blog, and put some cool template on it. That way I'd do all the work, and all she'd have to do was click on and see if she liked it.
Did I mention I was bored?
When I get bored, I have a lurking obnoxious side that likes to come out and play. Very few people know this - aside from my sisters, who've born the brunt of it for most of my life, and my new victims, my poor children.
I cannot tell you how many times I ended up feeding the cows, or stacking wood alone because of this little problem. Whether it was singing REALLY obnoxiously, or talking in some bizarre foreign accent and insisting I really wasn't Jenny, but Swanhilda Bulregard, I just couldn't help myself. As I've gotten older, the maturity level of my methods haven't improved much.
Getting back to Annie and her blog... I found a template I thought she'd like, and went in and started messing with the colors. The only problem was that with nothing on the new blog, I couldn't tell how things would look... So I decided to get a little more creative and set up a side bar and write a little post. Just for the visual.
Then the obnoxiousness began to take over.
I imported her "About Me" bio for the sidebar, but it just didn't fit with my mission. So I went into her dashboard and wrote a new one. It was really obnoxious. It started off something like "Hi, my name is Annie and I'm so lame." It was all about how lame she and her old blog template were, and about how her incredibly cool sister (me) was going to fix it for her.
In my defense - I totally forgot that if I made a new bio for the new blog, even if the new blog was private people would still see the bio when they viewed her profile.
And likewise, after she saw the lovely template I had created (which she didn't use) and we deleted the fake blog, it never dawned on either of us that when people viewed her profile they would still be reading the "lame-o Annie" bio I had lovingly created.
So about a WEEK later (can we just say how many people must have viewed that stupid bio in a week??? Tons of new people check out her blog constantly) she calls me. This is our conversation:
Annie: Yeah. I just decided to look at my profile.
Me: (legitimately clueless and innocent) Yeah, so?
A: You are so dead.
Me: Why? What are you talking about?
A: Um, my BIO!! You, now "Hi, I'm Annie and I am so incredibly lame"??? That bio.
Me: (struggling with the hilarity of the whole thing, but trying REALLY HARD not to let it show) WHAT!! You mean it's actually on your profile??!! (snort, choke, and other trying-not-to-laugh-noises).
A: Oh yeah. Do you know how many people probably saw that? You will pay. I will get even.
At this point, I tried to proclaim my innocence, but I was laughing so hard I don't think the sincerity was really coming through. And let's just say that my laughter didn't do much to improve her mood. I knew I was in for it, I just didn't know when it would strike.
Ten minutes later I decided to get on my blog. There on the side bar was this huge write up that started something like this:
"Hi, my name is Jen, and I think I am sooo cool. I'm so cool that one time my pants even froze to my legs."
I was so worried someone might see this filthy libel, that I (kind of regretfully, because it was pretty darn funny) didn't even read the whole thing before I deleted it. Then I called her back and we laughed it off.
About four or five days ago I looked at my profile. Yep, there it was - "Hi, my name is Jen, and I think I am soooo cool." The whole thing, complete with the pants-freezing comment. It must have been up there for at least a week. Probably like four people saw it. I so had it coming, that I couldn't even bring myself to get mad - and this time I had the pleasure of reading the whole thing. And let me tell you, it was a gem. WAAAYYY longer than the one I wrote about her, by the way.
So just in case anyone actually saw that bio, I'm really not quite that cool. (Hope this doesn't disappoint anyone who read it and got excited that they knew someone cool enough to actually freeze their pants).
And Annie's not quite as lame as I made her sound either.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
So, I'm a fat-around-the-middle girl. This classification has no bearing on how much fat I have, it simply refers to where my fat likes to accumulate. I have spent almost two decades trying to decide if I am grateful for this fact, or if I hate it.
First let me explain what it means to be a fat-around-the-middle-girl (aka FATMG). It means I have skinny legs. And no hips. And a little butt. I have friends who try to tell me that I don't have a butt, but I do. It's just not very big. Meaning, it really could stand to be bigger. This is one of the downsides of being a FATMG. Another downside is never having that elusive flat stomach the fat-around-the-hips/butt/thighs (FATHBTG's) ALWAYS have. Or their tiny little waists, or their nice shapely/thin-at-the-top arms.
It also means that 90% of the time I must wear a belt. This is because there is not enough in the hips/buttage area to hold up my pants. Ever try to belt something around a phone pole? Yep, that's me. I rarely have to button or unbutton any of my pants. Undo the belt, wriggle and pull, and they slide right down. (Let's not even talk about the falling-off joke that is maternity pants). The most unfortunate part of this arrangement is that in order to be effective, the belt has to be pretty snug, showcasing the "fat around the middle" by squishing it out over the tops of my jeans.
There are other small irritations, like always having to pull the front of my pants up over my eternal "tummy roll" when I sit down to keep it under control. Holding a pillow/book/purse/anything strategically in front of said roll is equally effective.
Then there's the weight gain vs size issue. I have several friends who fall into the very desirable fat-all-over-girl (FAOG) category. These lucky girls gain their weight everywhere, which gives them so much leeway. I always hear them saying things like, "I gained ten pounds last month." Yet when you look at them, you can hardly tell. Someone once told me to compare a pound of fat to a pound of butter. Every time you gain a pound of fat, it's like taking that pound of butter and spreading it on your body. Can you imagine what it's like for us FATMG's to put ten pounds in one spot? Five pounds (depending on the current weight zone) can grow FATMG's right out of their clothes. This is depressing.
There is, however, an upside.
1. Jackets hide a multitude of sins.
2. When pregnant, our butts don't get bigger.
3. When all else fails, there are those skinny legs.
4. When five pounds means growing out of your clothes, you can't ignore the issue. Let's just say it keeps you on your toes.
But I still think you FAOG's have it made.
So here's to all you FATMG's, FATHBTG's, and even you FAOG's. Hope I didn't miss anyone:)
Monday, September 15, 2008
I was just reminded of an incident that happened to me back in my single days, and thought I'd share. Once upon a time...
When I was single, my dating life was practically non-existent. Particularly during my time at Ricks (College, that is). I attended Ricks for five semesters. The last was reserved for Math 101, Fit For Life, and Fine Arts 100. And a job so I could save money for BYU.
I was in the VL (virgin lips) club until that last semester. Sad, isn't it? And please do not congratulate me. I was not trying, okay? I mean at first it was fine, and I was all pure, and unwilling to kiss just any old guy (easy to be picky when there AREN'T any guys), but by the time that final semester came around, I have to admit I was feeling a little desperate.
Then, low and behold, within weeks of winter semester starting, someone actually asked me for my number. Stop the presses - THIS HAD NEVER HAPPENED TO ME BEFORE! How is that possible? you ask. How does an average looking girl who goes dancing, and plays basketball at the gym with DOZENS of guys all the time manage to repel men so completely that not one of them will ever have even the slightest desire to ask for her number? I have no idea. But we're straying off topic here. The point is, it had actually happened!
So the guy (whom I'll call Phil to protect the innocent) asks for my number. He's tall (6'5), nice looking, and a complete non-mutant as far as I could tell. So I of course handed my number over willingly - doing my best to act like it was something I did all the time.
We went out. Several times. After a week or two we kissed.
(BTW, I do not recommend kissing for the first time while standing outside in Rexburg-freezing-windchill-sub-zero-weather. Ever tried to talk when your lips are frozen? Yeah, kissing is even more difficult. It was kind of like kissing while wearing those red wax lips. Totally anti-climactic).
So now I was excited. I had a boyfriend. Unless you count Brad Johnson when I was eleven, this was a first.
And it gets even better.
It was almost February. I had already endured two non-boyfriend Valentine's Day's at Ricks College. Were my roommates and I the only ones who referred to this depressing holiday as "Single Awareness Day"? And to make matters even more pathetic, my maiden name was Valentine. How sad is that to be a Valentine and never have one?? Finally, I was going to have someone to give me some cute Valentine something, and smooch with on that stupid holiday.
The big day came. I waited in vain for flowers to be delivered, but finally it was 8:30 am and I had to go to class. No in-class deliveries, no note waiting for me at home, nothing.
Then he called.
He wanted to know if I wanted to hang out, since it was Valentine's Day, and all. He said he'd stop by after dinner.
True, I had entertained hopes he'd take me out for dinner, but whatever. The main thing was that I was going SOMEWHERE with SOMEONE. I was not going to complain.
7:00, the doorbell rings. I greet Phil at the door, and he says: "I thought we could take a walk."
Rexburg, February, freezing, no problem. No single-awareness-moping for me!
We walk the five blocks or so to Smith Park. We hold hands. We walk around the park. We talk. I'm sure we must have kissed, but for some reason I have no recollection. Then Phil starts telling me the following.
"I was at the grocery store today, and I almost bought you one of those roses they have at the register for $1. I actually picked it up. But then I thought about my last girlfriend. I went all out and spent money buying her a dozen red roses. Then we broke up. It just seemed like such a waste. I don't think material things should be part of a relationship, so I decided not to get you the rose."
Okay. This was fine. At this point, I was perfectly fine with the whole thing. I honestly didn't care that much whether he got me a flower, card, box of chocolates, or anything. I admit I was slightly bummed, but whatever. At least I wasn't alone.
Then he continued:
"I did, however, want to get you something, because I think you're really great. So... Here."
What was it? What did my romantic boyfriend give me? What sweet token of his love did he deem more meaningful than the $1 rose?
A green sweetheart. It said "You're #1".
Am I the only one who thinks that this was just wrong??? IF you're going to give your girlfriend one single sweetheart for Valentine's Day rather than the whole box, SURELY you could find one more suitable than "You're #1"??!!
How about "You're Sweet" or "Cutie" or even "Hug Me"?? Any of these could have been seen as a sweet, small, yet meaningful gesture that showed his affection, and illustrated his feelings.
And it was green.
Since when does the color green have anything to do with anything on Valentine's Day? If it had been pink, or even white with pink writing, that would have been something.
It was painful. I would like to add, however, that I handled the situation as graciously as possible, and even thanked him for his "thoughtful" gift. I probably even gave him a kiss, and said something I totally didn't mean, like "thank you so much! This is soooo sweet!" I even distinctly remember trying desperately to read some unwritten, secret meaning in the message that could in any way be interpreted as romantic.
Nothing came to me.
And I never had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day again. The next year I was in between relationships, and the year after that I was (miraculously) married. That stupid green sweetheart is the only token of Valentine's Day affection I ever received while my last name actually was "Valentine".
Is this just a little sad and pathetic, or is it just me? It just seems to me that there must have been at least a hundred other non-materialistic ways he could have chose to say "Happy Valentine's Day, girlfriend whose last name actually IS Valentine."
Without coming across as being a totally pathetic/apathetic boyfriend. Especially since I happen to know he actually really liked me.
Or maybe I'm just being really shallow, and I should be way more appreciative of my one Valentine-boyfriend experience. You tell me.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
1. I like to burst into song (usually some old, unheard of song) at the slightest provocation. Like the word "If". Or the word "when". Any old word will do, I have a song for most of them.
2. Spontaneous dancing is also possible. Mostly, I prefer the lame-o moves from dance class when I was 11. I suggest doing this in front of your children a lot if you are worried they might think you are too cool. Their response will assure you, you have NOTHING to worry about.
3. I enjoy eating in restaurants. Alone. Ideally with a book so people aren't quite as aware that I am eavesdropping on their conversations.
4. Apparently eavesdropping is one of my quirks. Pseudo-reading so I can listen to the high schoolers' hilarious/sometimes pathetic conversations is also a favorite past time. (I'm a substitute high school teacher).
5. People always accuse me of eating weird things. Like refried beans on a toasted bagel. It's good people! And chicken hearts. Boil them with an entire sweet onion (cut into big chunks) for about two hours - delicious. I really don't care if I can see the ventricles. It's all about taste, baby.
6. As my dear sister Annie has already mentioned (it's a favorite theme of hers), I can be a little fanatical about certain things. Like unpopped kernels in my microwave popcorn. And leftover hair in hairbrushes. And people taking proper care of boardgames. I love how this makes me sound a little OCD. This is soooo not the case, and people who know me are probably laughing right now at the mere possibility that anyone would ever think I was.
7. I have some weird ideas about food. Like, it's better to eat an entire box of chocolates in one sitting (even if it has multiple layers) than over a period of days (or weeks), because there's no way your body can possibly absorb all that fat at once anyway. Most of it is bound to move right through. It's alright to take a few short breaks, however, as long as you get right back to the chocolate.
8. Thanks to a brief period of my life when the only available channel was the outdoor channel (my husband LOVED this), I can tell you all about turkey calls.
9. I love to drive tractors. Especially if it means doing something fun, like spreading manure around.
10. I think cow manure (the kind dotting a field and slowly drying in the sun, not so much large collections of sloppy pee-poo) smells kind of good. When I was in college, this smell was one of my favorite things about coming home in the spring.
Thanks McFarland, for the tag. I tag Natalie, Kristen, and Laura. Ten quirks about you, Ladies!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Tragedy has struck our home. I'm actually feeling a little sick right now. And They don't know about it yet. They're all sleeping soundly in their beds, dreaming of motorcycles, football, and horny toads.
Speaking of horny toads, let's talk about animals for a minute. I am not what you'd consider an "animal lover". I don't hate animals, I just view them as animals. Not people. They have a place, and if they stay in it and are good little animals, we get along just fine. I've even been known to develop a fondness for good pets, like our dog Rosie, and Prissy our cat. I also feel that pets (of some type) are like a right of passage for children.
Then there are the pets I have no toleration for. For instance, if it stinks, requires live food, has a living space requiring cleaning, or provides no actual physical interaction with my children (why do people have fish??) I want nothing to do with it. Our late pac man frog (rest his stinky, worm/cricket eating, BORING, un-touchable soul) fit all these categories. Thankfully, we acquired him late in his life and he didn't last too long. When he left us for froggy Heaven, I vowed I was finished with amphibians and reptiles forever. Watching them eat is not thrilling enough to justify all the previously mentioned setbacks.
Then came the horny toad.
Last week my brother inherited a baby horny toad. We're talking infant here. Roughly the size of a quarter, he ran from any prey bigger than those tiny little sugar ants. Even I had to admit he was kind of cute in that baby-horny-toad-way of his. My brother instantly offered to give the little guy to my children. How noble of him. Couldn't he have asked the mother first? I of course, immediately stomped out all their dreams of horny-toad-ownership with some callous statement like, "Absolutely not, never ask again, we will not EVER own another frog." Within a day or two, my brother found a loophole.
"We're going camping," he innocently said. "Could you babysit the horny toad? We already showed the boys how to feed him."
What could I say? Being the nice sister I am, I could find no justifiable way out, and so I said yes. The parting words from my brother were "just keep him till the boys get bored..." Yeah. Right.
Then a surprising thing happened. I began to grow kind of fond of the itty bitty baby. He was cutish, and unlike stupid Fat Albert the pac man frog, the boys could actually handle the horny toad. And horny toads don't stink. Much to my children's delight, I decided maybe we could keep him after all.
Little Horny made his home in a small, tupper-ware type container with a little sand and a rock. To keep him away from the smallest members of our family, he was (shrewd readers will notice the use of PAST tense here) kept on top of the fridge. Just yesterday I walked by and noticed the container was too close to the edge, where it would fall if the freezer door was opened. I pushed it back and made a mental note to talk to the boys.
Today I had a baby sitter. For dinner she made my kids frozen pizza.
Later, while I was doing something REALLY important (like playing on my computer, i.e. blogging) my older boys asked where Little Horny was. A little red flag went off in my head (and was just as quickly ignored), and I sent the boys back to bed.
A little while later I went into the kitchen to hunt for a nighttime snack.
I opened the freezer.
I screamed. (Okay, I gasped. "Screamed" just sounded way more dramatic).
There, IN THE FREEZER!!! was Little Horny's House!!!
In an instant I realized what must have happened. Baby sitter opens freezer door to remove pizza. Tupper-ware type container falls to the floor. Being fifteen and just a little bit not-so-smart, baby sitter fails to realize the container IS NOT COLD and places it BACK?! in the freezer!!!
Poor, poor Little Horny. Do you think there's any chance the little guy will thaw out? It was only four and a half hours or so...
And poor, poor ME! You all must know what I'm in for tomorrow morning - a majorly loud, majorly long, majorly miserable session of much weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. I guarantee you it will not be either pretty, or peaceful in the Baxter household tomorrow morning. The dread is currently sitting in my stomach like a rock. I feel terrible.
If something like this had to happen, why couldn't it have happened to Fat Albert? Then I could have secretly rejoiced, which would have given me extra strength and stamina for the bouts of teeth gnashing. As it is, I feel terrible. He was just a baby! I actually LIKED him! Now I'll be tempted to get another one - and it probably won't be free.
So anyways, that was my stinky evening. How was yours?
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
And the winner is..... soyandrue! When it came right down to it, the only way to judge was by which one struck me as the funniest - and this one makes me chuckle every time. So congratulations soyandrue, you have earned your own special place on my sidebar, where the world can appreciate you for being the fine limerick writer you are. I have no doubt that you are thrilled with this distinction. What an honor. Can someone pass the girl a tissue? I think she's overcome.
And here is that winning limerick, for those of you who haven't had a chance to read it yet:
So how did I get so addicted?
My fingers are really inflicted
Carpal Tunnel's no joke
My keyboard is ... broke
And my grammar is really restricted.
Again, I would like to thank everyone who entered my contest. I loved all of your entries, and plan on doing this again in the near future. This means soyandrue will have to defend her title - so practice those limericks!
P.S. Annie and Natalie both get awards for producing the most entries, and being the most supportive friends/sister EVER. Thanks girls!! (Hope you didn't think I meant some kind of actual award, it's more like a big mental "thank you" that will make you feel good inside. After all, I'd hate to promote materialism by giving anyone anything super cool - I'm really righteous like that).
Hope to see you all next time...
Monday, September 8, 2008
First off, I just wanted to let you know that I'm leaving the limerick contest open until Wednesday, so there's still time to rhyme...
So, my husband really is off in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a poncho for sleeping. In the woods. Alone. After dark. Apparently, he hates to be in the woods at night so much, that rather than worry about walking through them to get to his car, he prefers to just stop, drop, and cover when darkness falls. The good news is that he called today, so I know he's alive.
So what is it with men, anyways? Why do they like to do things like go to boot camp? No, really - they like it. Ever watch a guy while he's watching some movie or documentary about other guys in boot camp? Secretly, they all want to go there and run those obstacle courses in the mud. They think it would be fun. Manly. Apparently their love of playing in the mud never goes away.
It's the same with hunting. I know all men don't hunt and aren't that interested, but the fact remains that an awful lot of them like that kind of thing. The whole, getting up at three a.m., going out into the dark, cold night, (I know it's technically a.m., but frankly that's NIGHT to me) to go hike through nature (or freeze in a tree stand) in the hopes of getting their animal.
Don't get me wrong. I was raised with beef cattle, and I have no problem with hunting. If it was necessary to feed my family, I have no doubt I could go out and kill a deer myself.
Without spraying deer pee all over myself, thank you very much.
FYI, camping with a bow hunter is not fun. The smell of elk/deer urine is very pungent in a small tent.
Anyway, back to men. To be more specific, back to my husband. Why can't he at least be like the other hunting husbands I know, who hunt with their "buddies"? Why does he insist it isn't the same if he has to "drag someone else along"? Why does he have to pick such ridiculously remote locations for his hunting forays? Why can't he just bring a tent? Why did I have to remember that our life insurance is currently lapsed WHILE he was out with the bears??
Maybe because the first stage of my panic attacks is always me, calmly planning out my life after the funeral. Last night, I was just getting to the part where I go over exactly what my funds for the "Life Post-Rusty" will be, when I remembered about the life insurance. Did I send in that reinstatement form? Panic started taking over. Desperately I trie to shut off crazy-anxiety-brain and go to sleep.
Not working. Time for tricking the brain into sleep by forcing it to think of mundane, stupid things. With every exhale I mentally named a different board game. I really did this last night, I want you to know. It wasn't easy either. When was the last time you thought about Parcheesi? But hey - I think it worked. I have no memory of anything after Hungry, Hungry, Hippos.
Tonight I should be okay. He called today. I know where he's planning on sleeping tonight. (In case your wondering how I know this, it's because I have done extensive study of the topo map where he hunts. The valley is five miles wide, and about twelve miles long, and I feel like I've been there. Actually I have, because once he didn't come home on time, so I put all my babies in the car and drove up there in the middle of the night.)
He has to call me by 10:00 p.m. Wednesday (there's a payphone at a camp ground about fifteen minutes from where he parks. No, cell phones and GPS thingys do not work where he hunts. I think that is intentional). If not, he knows I will be up there by 11:30 honking my horn and running through the woods scaring all the elk away while I look for his broken body.
Did I mention I fasted for his safety on Sunday?
Am I the only one with a husband that does things like this? I told him I was today, but I kind of want validation. Yes, I could force him to give up this annual trip, but it's just about the only thing he does for himself, you know? Then in the midst of my anxiety I feel totally irresponsible for condoning such a thing. But he follows my calling rules, and keeps a log in the car of when he's been there, and where he's going (things obviously instituted by me, Ms. Anxiety. He would never bother with such precautions on his own) so I could find him if necessary. That makes it better, right?
So all you girls with non-hunting husbands better hug them tight tonight. And then think of me with pity. And then if you love me, pray Rusty gets his elk soon, so he can come down off the blasted mountain! Now off I go for another lonely night...
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Okay all you writer-girls out there - it's Contest Time! I had so much fun writing those stupid limericks (see side bar), and now new ones have been running through my brain constantly. So, I thought it would be fun to see what kind of blogging/comment-limericks all you blogbabes out there could come up with.
Here's the rules:
Limericks have five lines.
Lines 1,2,5 rhyme, and lines 2&3 rhyme.
As for the meter, it's pretty self-explanatory. Just read mine and you'll get the picture.
Subject matter has to have something to do with blogging/comments/commenting.
Unfortunately, I have very little to offer as a prize that would be of any value. But I do have something (hold onto your hats, it's pretty pathetic). I will post the winner's blog - with snippet of latest post - in their own window on my sidebar. And I'll include their status as the world's greatest limerick writer. And I'll post the winning limerick for all the world to see.
Really hoping more than my Fab Five get involved here - they already exist on my sidebar! Where's the challenge in that? So to all the rest of you - please beat Annie on this one, she gets enough blogging-fame as it is.
Oooo, maybe I'll pick the top four entries, and put a poll up? (Like anyone would vote, right?) But still, just in case they did, wouldn't that be fun???
Have I ever mentioned that I'm really kind of a dork? Wanted to make sure you were all aware that I am already aware of this fact. But I love contests.
Kind of wish I could enter myself. But that would be tacky, so I won't.
Leave your entries in the comments for all to see - and if anyone has opinions on whose they like, by all means let us know!
On your mark... Get set... Goooooo!!!!!
Friday, September 5, 2008
Okay, okay. Kristen tagged me a while ago, and I'm finally going to make an attempt. It may not be thrilling, but at least I'm getting it done, right???
1. My kids. Although not at the moment. When it's 10:30 at night and they still aren't sleeping (great, now someone is crying) there's really nothing joyful about it. But...there are those other moments - like when they are sleeping. Those are joyful.
2. My husband. I know,I know, this is totally cliche, but it really is true. I really do like the guy. He's leaving for a solo week-long hunting trip tomorrow, and having him gone will be the opposite of joyful. Sometimes I wish he was into golf. It's so much safer.
3. This is not breaking news. My third joy is food. Cake, donuts, CHEESECAKE, pie, CHOCOLATE, unexpected treats, and buffets. Actually, buffets could just be my number three. I LOVE BUFFETS! All you can eat baby - especially if it's a pizza buffet. Now that is pure joy.
1. Getting pregnant. Been there, done that, SOOOOO over it! I love my children, I did not love being pregnant. There are women I know who act like it is a crime for me to say such things. How dare I blaspheme and denounce the aches, pains, and body distortions of growing a child. It was totally worth it, but does that mean I should have love, love, loved it? Isn't endurance enough??? Anyhow, pregnancy is definitely a fear. Definitely.
2. Think, think, think. (I am thinking, I'm not saying I'm afraid of thinking. Although my thinking may be scary to someone else, I'm actually quite comfortable with it). My second fear would have to be...Oh, I know! Being stuck in this house forever! Petrifying, that one. It would be like a slow, painful death - six people, one bathroom FOREVER!!! (Now is where you insert the Psycho music - you know, from the shower scene? EEEE, EEEE, EEEE - but you picture me trying to shower while five other people beat on the door because they all need to have BM's simultaneously. And one of them is only two, and she WILL go in her pants). I may have nightmares tonight. Thanks Kristen.
3. My last fear would have to be...Ooooo, this one is really current. My husband getting eaten by a bear, or falling over a cliff while solo-hunting out in no-man's-land. He doesn't even bring a tent. He carries his "poncho" and crashes out in the middle of the woods somewhere. Why??? because he hunts so far from his car (let alone a campground, or any other form of civilization) it would take him too long to hike back. Gee hon, hope you catch that elk. Before you make a widow out of me. Have I mentioned that I suffer from anxiety?
THREE CURRENT OBSESSIONS
1. Popcorn. This one has been going on for a while now. I think popcorn is one of the greatest things in the world. Especially light popcorn. It's like the greatest guilt-free food EVER. FYI, the greatest brand of light popcorn - so good my husband will eat it without extra butter - is Redenbacher's Theater Butter Light. I have only found it at one store, but it is the best. Pop Weaver Light Butter is my second choice - found at Wal-mart. Probably no one cares, but now you can see how truly obsessed with popcorn I actually am.
2. I'd probably have to say blogging. I don't spend as much time as some people I know, but I do get on a couple times a day. Sometimes three. Sometimes four? But when you consider I have no TV, it puts it all into perspective, right?
3. Clothes. This is another long-standing obsession of mine. I'm no label girl, either. Just something(s) I can afford, if you please. Ross is my greatest alli, enabling my wardrobe to grow in a fashionably affordable way.
THREE SURPRISING FACTS
1. I'm not fat. Considering my love affair with food, this often surprises me. I'm not a string bean, either, but what I do have I can mostly hide. And no, I don't eat whatever, whenever I want. I do have to work at it. That surprises most people, because they've seen me in the buffet/potluck setting. I tend to go a little hog wild. Especially with the desserts.
2. I suffer from anxiety. I find people don't believe this, and often think I'm joking if it comes up. Ask my sisters - it's VERY for-real.
3. This post is finally over. It's gone on, and on, and now I am finally finished. Hope you're not as relieved as I am.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
I know that as a general rule, children in the age range of four to eight are not that great at telling the truth. More precisely, they tend to make up things and try to pass them off as truth. In our family, we call these "whoppers". My kids have told some pretty creative ones.
There was the time Niall (age 6) told the aid in his classroom about the bats. That would be the living, flying variety. Thanks to my husband, our boys are rather obsessed with hunting. They just wish there was something they could hunt - preferably something besides the cat. So Niall apparently invented his own hunting adventure and shared it with Mrs. P. She came up to me after school when I was picking the boys up and wanted to know about the bats.
Me: What bats?
MP: The ones Liam and Niall have been hunting.
MP: Yes. Niall tells me they have these bat traps - that they made themselves - and that they hang them up to catch bats.
Me: Oh really. Then what happens?
MP: Well, the bats are very dangerous, but the boys shoot them with their bows and kill them. Niall says they do this all the time and have killed hundreds.
I could see that Mrs. P was fully enjoying this story. Women like her belong in elementary schools properly appreciating children. It turns out she had done everything she could to get Niall to admit that just maybe, the story wasn't exactly true. No go, he stuck to his guns.
Me, being the concerned parent, decided that something must be done. My child cannot get away with telling a whopper when an adult has called him on it. These principles must be taught, right? So I immediately descend on Niall (we're still at the school) and ask him what he was doing telling Mrs. P. that he hunted bats. Panic struck his adorable six yr old face at being caught in his lie, and momentarily my reserve shook. Our conversation went something like this:
Niall: (tears falling, head hanging, sobs starting.) I don't knowwwww.
Me: (feeling really bad, but also thinking I must stick to my plan and teach him to tell the truth) Did you just think it sounded really cool?
Niall: Yeah. (more pathetic tears as his eyes dart around to make sure no one can tell he's crying)
Me: Well, you have to tell Mrs. P. the truth, and apologize for lying. It's okay to make up cool stories, but if they aren't true and people think they are, you have to tell them the truth. Especially if they ask you "is that true."
Poor little Niall suffered an all out anxiety attack at the thought of this confrontation. He was so stressed out about it, we finally decided he could write her a letter and give it to her the next day. He was very sweet about it, and very brave, and I was very proud of him when he got in the car the next day and announced he'd delivered it first thing.
Besides, it could have been worse. When Liam was that age he told his whole class his dad was in prison. Why prison? Couldn't he have just said jail? (Neither were true by the way, but prison just sounds so much worse!) I'll take bats over the smirching of our good names any day!
Anyway, today Niall had to make another confession. After blaming his poor little cousin Harrison for something - swearing he had seen the offense committed - it turned out he'd been *gasp* lying. He was distressed, it's true. Sheer heartbreak had caused the blunder. But alas, a lie is still a lie and a confession was in order.
I would just like to say that my little Niall is growing up. He panicked - but only a little. Tears welled, but they didn't fall. And best of all, no letter was needed. We called, and he humbly apologized with a very determined look on his still adorable face. Thank you Aunt Annie for being so forgiving. Thank you Niall for having the courage to confess. I can tell by his determination to make things right that he is learning - despite the occasional little slip-ups.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
The rest of you can refer to this as the first day of school. I prefer to call it "the first day home alone with my four year old." Yes, Meara is here too - technically - but in some ways that only complicates the issue. Since she has very poor fighting moves, no skill with numchucks, swords, or any other weapons, is not named Liam (frankly, even Niall would do at this point), and has the audacity to be a girl and play with dolls, Conan has absolutely no use for her. I dropped the boys off 55 minutes ago, and I'm already going crazy.
"There's nothing to doooo," "who can I plaaayyy with?" "Are we going somewhere? Whyyyy not?" "When does preschool start?" "[various crying, whining noises, while throwing himself around on the floor]". This is so not-peaceful. Preschool doesn't start for over a week. Insanity is definitely a possibility if things don't improve.
Hopefully, Conan will eventually relent and forgive Meara for being a girl. Meanwhile, I just want everyone out there who's even considering having only one child to rethink the issue. TWO IS SOO MUCH EASIER THAN ONE!! Once they're old enough to play together that is. And thankfully, now that Meara's two that does happen more frequently, so there is hope. And to any of my girlfriends out there who have four year old boys and are reading this - by Friday I WILL NEED A PLAYDATE!
On another note entirely, I have to say just one little thing about dropping the boys off at school this morning. Despite the fact that I am a hardened mother of a fourth grader and a second grader, well versed in "first days", I felt a little teary this morning.
I really didn't see this coming at all, and walked my children into their little three-room school feeling completely unemotional. Niall headed into his class, while I went in to have a word with Liam's teacher. On the way out, I decided to peek in at Niall and say goodbye.
I don't really know what got me - whether it was his anxious little face as he carefully unloaded his school supplies into his very first "desk", how big he looked now that he's out of the K-1st classroom, or how little he looked to be in with the 2nd-3rd graders. Who knows, but whatever it was, I suddenly felt very sad. Maybe it isn't so bad that Conan is a lonely, whining, four year old. Maybe I'll just spend some time cuddling with him - preparing against the day when he too, is a big 2nd grader with a real desk, and school supplies he doesn't share. It seems so far away, but experience tells me it will happen all too quickly.
Isn't that the way motherhood goes? You can't wait for the next thing, so anxious for them to move on (and stop being four), but when they do, you just want them to go back and be little. Yesterday when Liam and I were shopping, my sweet nine year old wanted to hold my hand. I couldn't help feeling scared that it would be for the last time, and I was sad. But really, I guess that's what it's all about. Loving them, teaching them, enjoying them, and sometimes not-enjoying them, until you've given them the tools to move on - whether that means second grade or out of the house. It is sad, but it's so incredibly worth it! Children are the greatest thing the Lord could give us, and I'm so grateful for mine. Love your kids today, everybody - they won't be little forever!
Monday, September 1, 2008
I just want to tell the world that I really have gone jog/walking. TWICE. I know, I know, you think I am amazing. I'm actually feeling a little that way myself, to tell you the truth. Who would have thought I'd be up for multiple bouts of self-torture? That's a bet I definitely would have lost.
And how has it been, you want to know? Will I continue? Can I still move after two maybe-it-was-a-mile jog/walks? I'm currently undecided on most of these issues, although just thinking about how far I've traveled down the road of complete muscle deterioration and loss of cardio stamina, makes me think my nighttime forays will probably continue.
And yes, I have been waiting for the cover of darkness before jog/walking. You see, it's not like I'm just jog/walking. This fitness undertaking (no pun on the whole death and dying thing intended) revolves around basketball, and my getting in decent enough shape to handle a game of horse. This being the case, I have incorporated sprints and defensive stance/slides into my jog/walking routine. This is not a joke. I would die if I were seen.
Can you imagine watching some chick jog/walking nonchalantly along, thinking she's a completely normal person, when suddenly she drops into a defensive stance and does these moronic looking shuffles from one side of the lonely country road to the other? Or stays in place doing defensive shuffles facing front-2,3,4, right-2,3,4, left-2,3,4, etc.? There's no way I'm jog/walking in daylight hours. I mean, really, I'm the first to admit I can be a bit dorky, but I do have some pride.
And it is a bit boring. And I'm definitely sore. Not like volleyball-daily-double-sore, or anything, but I am feeling the effects of jog/walk/defensive-shuffling.
There are some encouraging aspects as well. Like the fact that I made my almost-mile in twenty-seven minutes on the first go. (Are you seeing how pathetic it is now?? This was encouraging... So sad). And last night? Which I might have skipped if it hadn't been for the incredibly guilt-inducing oreos my darling husband brought home? Hold onto your hats, I took three minutes off my time! What is it people say when excited? Whoot? Well that's how I felt - Whootish. And very, very, tired.
So next time you're feeling down, picture me defensive-shuffling my way down the road like a complete idiot. I guarantee you'll crack a smile. True, it will be at my expense, but hey - what are friends/blogging buddies for?
Hey everybody - instead of posting here today, I'm over on Natalie's new blog Desperately Seeking Skinny Pants. Rather than overload my poor brain by trying to write two posts in one day, I'm taking the easy way out and redirecting traffic. Hope to see you all over there! (FYI, if you don't leave me a comment I won't know you made it). (Was that bid for comments too obvious? Oops. What can I say. I've been comment-deprived lately).