Why older people should not fall but rather leave those stunts to the babies
January 23, 2008
I was working on something telling you why I have been MIA when my son looked over my shoulder at the title and said, “That is wrong. Re-read it.”
The title was “Strep is a four-letter word I hate!” Okay, so strep is technically a FIVE letter word, but the way it has taken up residence in my home, it has become a four letter word. Sick Math: If you take “strep” add 3 [people] divide by 2 then you have a four letter word. So, yes, to me: Strep is a Four Letter Word. First my son brought it home and I trembled in fear. No! I even asked the doctor to put the rest of us on preventative medicine in order to keep the rest of us free of this dreaded invader. I pondered a HazMat suit, but I could not find one at a reasonable rate. I took every precaution short of moving to a hotel or kicking out my son, but none of it worked. By Wednesday, I had chills, a fever, ached everywhere and just wanted a fire hydrant to put out the pain in my throat.
“But I am okay!” was my mantra.
Thursday, Gabrie came home, hit the couch and was out cold. By dinner time her fever had sky-rocketed. Friday morning we dragged our sick, pitiful bodies to the doctor. And, yes, he did get an “I TOLD YOU SO!” glare from me. And that, my friends, is how I spent the last pitiful days.
Of course, being young my daughter is just fine and bouncing around. Me? I am still battling the on again off again fever, chills and “what kind of truck ran me down because I hurt and am too tired to speak” a week later. Getting old sucks.
So, if I have missed an email or two or owe you something, do not hesitate to send me an email. It may have been overlooked in my delirium. Because I tend to not say, “Hey, I am sick with a high fever and need a break.” I pretend I am just fine until I fall on my face.
Speaking of falling on my face, here is a bit of humor for you.
You know how they say cold and flu medicines come in non-drowsy versions? I say YEAH RIGHT. On Thursday I took a DayQuil and tried to work. (Forgive me for any contact you may have had with me. I was not in my right mind.) When it came time to pick up the kids, I went to the school to start the never-ending-always-in-my-van routine. As I walked towards the elementary school, I apparently either forgot that you must step UP when approaching a curb or someone pulled the curb out from under me. Either way, I fell ass over tea kettle flat on my face. When I say flat, I mean FLAT. Sprawled on the ground like road kill. For a moment I pondered whether or not I could have actually popped my right breast. It’s not even like I have implants, but it certainly felt like I popped it. (Not sure how I would explain that one.) And my hands? I forgot how badly it stings to get cement burn on your palms. That is some serious stingage. But the brunt of the fall apparently fell on my knee (and my right boob) because barring the breast poppage, the knee was in the (second) most amount ofagony.
This is why we all learn to walk at an early age. Besides the fact that we would look utterly ridiculous if we were a society of adults who only crawled, there is a much better reason. Falling when you are old and have a much farther way down to the ground HURTS.
And for the record, I don’t think anyone saw. At least, no one rushed to me in that humiliating concerned way to try to pry the Mom Road Kill off of the sidewalk. And no third graders pointed and laughed. At least I have that.
I also have this beauty (nasty after the jump) to show off. Or gain sympathy. Or just a reminder that cold medicine and walking do not mix well.
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Randomness…but random about me as I let my freak flag fly!
November 29, 2007
I was double-tagged for a Meme. Granted it was because of NaBloMoFo (which I failed). Nevertheless, I am going to answer this one because:
(a) It IS all about me!
(b) It might give you some insight in to my particular crazy.
(c) Whenever I get a chance to let my freak flag fly—I take it!
Thanks to Daisy at Compost Happens and the Chronicler at Coopers Chronicles for thinking of me and not coming after me with pitchforks and blazing torches for taking so long to get to this.
So apparently they want to know 7 random or weird things about me. (Do you read my blog? Isn’t that what every entry accomplishes here?)
Ready? (I’ll ease you into this.)
1) I cannot stand to have unpolished toe nails. In fact, any woman with toe nails that do not have polish on them pretty much creeps me out. I don’t know why, but ….just put some polish on them. And yes, this does include in the Winter when no one even sees my toes. Trust me when I say they are definitely polished.
2) When I was growing up I used to throw gargantuan temper tantrums and lock myself in my room in tears on many occasions because of the whole adoption issue. Oh, I wasn’t adopted. My brother and sister were. Which made me the one who was different. Therefore, the one they were “stuck with” and not “chosen.” I am probably one of the few kids around who slammed her door screaming, “You don’t love me! Why didn’t you adopt me?!”
3) When I am driving across state lines, I have to pick up my feet as I cross the state line. You know when they have those little signs on the side of the road that say “Now entering ____?” Yep. I have to pick up my feet just before I get to it and not put them down until I pass that point. And, yes, this does include the times when I am the one driving. Many fights have broken out because I was asleep as a passenger and no one woke me up to tell me it was “State Line Time.” (For the record, I have actually passed this on to more than one of my friends who are now as obsessive about it as I am.)
4) I have a super power. Yes, I do. No, I cannot fly, read minds, bend steel or go invisible. However, I have a sense of smell that would put a blood hound to shame. I can walk into a room that seems okay to everyone else and immediately tell you if there is something not right. I have managed to stop at least one electrical fire that no one else knew was about to happen because I smelled the wires over heating. (Makes it hell for me at a seafood restaurant with SO MANY smells.) My hidden identity is Super Olfactory Girl.
5) I cannot stand the book Love You Forever. It does not make me cry. It does not make me sentimental. It kind of makes me worry a bit about stalking. I have 6 copies because of baby showers and the sentimental attachment people have to this book.
6) I have to sleep with a blanket. Always. It can be hotter than, well Texas in August, but I have to have a blanket. I don’t have to be completely covered up, but at least part of me does. Oh, and since we are on freak sleep issues, I cannot sleep if my hands are exposed. They are either under my pillow, under my head, under a blanket. Doesn’t matter. They are just not out in the open all bare and vulnerable. That is creepy.
7) I am terrified of sock monkeys. They really (really, really) freak me out. I am pretty sure I can trace this back to my brother tormenting me at night by hiding one in different places every night to scare me, but nevertheless, here I am at 38 and I am still freaked out by them. If you ever thought of giving me one…don’t. If you ever do, I will burn it. Burn that evil right out of it.
There you have it. My freak flag flying high. Did I scare ya? Now, I want to tag people, but I know that not everyone likes to do meme’s. Soooo, will YOU do this one for me and leave a comment that you did it? I want to get to know my readers better and see how free they are to fly their freak flags.
If you do decide (and you will) to do this, here is the low-down.
1- Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
2- Share 7 random and or weird things about yourself.
3- Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
4- Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
Posted by Jenn @
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Remember me? I do. Finally.
November 24, 2007
Looks like I blew NaBloPoMo. Bummer. NaNoWriMo–still on track.
The alien in my belly (the one I refer to as Annie) is doing just fine and is under control. God bless pharmaceutical America.
I am currently at my sister’s house with 2 of my 3 kids but minus a husband, child and dog. I never want to leave the haven that is here. Somehow, I find myself here. Well, at least I find myself in a calmer place. A place where I do not worry about the things that have me worked up when I am at home. I am working on finding my real me at my own home. I know it takes time. I will do it. I have a game plan. Always have a game plan. Or at least know how to fake one.
Big and good things are going on with my career, but things I have to keep under wraps for now. Things that I have been wanting for a long time.
In the last week or two I have made big decisions about work, life and what can bring me to a place of peace. I have begun to see friends and loved ones as they are and not always how I want (or need) them to be. I am learning to love the people in my life for who and what they are with no strings or expectations attached. They are who they are no matter how much things change. It makes a difference. At least to me and to my peace of mind. And I am learning to let go of the people in my life who need to be let go of. It is freeing and feels good to not chase after the relationships that are not right for me. It never works. I am okay with that. Or at least learning how to be.
The holidays? They are hard. I am not so much liking them this year. A lot of tears. A lot of anger. I can work through them with friends and family. And a lot of writing. Writing that has eluded me for so long I thought it abandoned me. Some day– soon I hope– I can share all of it with you. For now, I am thankful to be writing.
I am learning to be me. On my terms. In my way. The very best I can.
Posted by Jenn @
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For my birthday, I exposed my lovely lady lumps!
November 8, 2007
What better way to celebrate a birthday–a new beginning– than taking off your shirt and exposing yourself? None!
Especially when the reason you are doing it is for a diagnostic mammogram.
A few weeks ago a noticed a lump in my right breast. One that I could not (though I really wanted to) ignore. Talk about terrified! I did not want to deal with anything like this. It has been a rough few weeks. Weeks where I could not do anything but panic. Weeks that I had to push back deadlines, reschedule appointments and try to just get through the day (not to mention the doctor’s appointments) without losing my mind.
Strangely, through it all, I didn’t want to talk about it. I told a grand total of 5 people– not counting my husband. And even with my husband I pulled the “I am not worried. All is well.” card. But then froze in panic when I thought about the “what-if’s”. Some people I talked to about it, I talked to because I really needed their shoulder to just let me say “I’m scared this lump is cancer and I need to tell someone that” and I knew they would listen and offer me a real shoulder. Some people I told out of obligation keeping it superficial and not expecting anything in return, but knowing I had to at least mention that something was up. And some I told because I respect them and they needed to know why I had to move some deadlines around. Otherwise, you got the “I am fine and dandy” speech, when I was terrified. I was scared that nothing was fine. The few people I leaned on, thank you. You know who you are.
So, for my birthday, I went in for my final round of mammo, sonno, etc. I took the girls out for some squishing, poking, and got them smashed. (I got my boobs smashed for my birthday instead of me getting smashed. Irony somewhere in there.)
I dodged the bullet this time.
They found no cancer in my lovely lady lumps. (Let us all release the breath I have been holding for over a month.) They did say cut back on caffeine as it makes the fibrocystic breast disease that they determined I do have even worse. That is what I was feeling.
I did feel a lump. And there was reason enough to look into it and make sure that I didn’t need to take further action. I was always worried that I was overreacting. That I was making something out of nothing. But I felt something. And I felt pain. And it had symptoms that scared the snot out of me. In the end, I got lucky.
Basically, I need to just have mammograms more often to make sure my normal stays my normal. Any lumps? Well, I have to be super careful and ensure that they don’t change in any way. If I get scared, I get them checked out. Period.
And here is where I get on my soap box.
Ladies, if you have been avoiding mammograms for fear of “oh I have heard how horrible it hurts”, knock that the hell off! It is so fast that you can endure it. I don’t care how sensitive you are. Honestly, discomfort is as far as I would take it. Now, the breast that was hurting in the first place and had the lump in it that sent me in to the doctor in the first place–the one that I will slap you if you touch– even that one was not the “writhing agony” that people had me fearing. Sure, that one hurt. Because it already hurt before they squished and twisted it. But it hurt for all of about 10 seconds. (I did over 36 hours of labor with well over half of that pitocin labor and no pain meds. I can handle 10 seconds of a boob squish!) And the side that had no pain to begin with–No Big Deal. Repeat that. No. Big. Deal. If you have not had a mammogram and you know you are due for one or should have one, do it. For heaven’s sake, just do it. Don’t you owe that much to yourself? Wouldn’t you want your best friend to keep herself in check? Take care of your ta-ta’s, ladies. Look at it this way. You get felt up courtesy of your insurance company. It isn’t like they don’t screw you over anyway!
This time I dodged a bullet. And I was terrified. But I am happy to say, my lovely lady lumps just enjoy having their own lovely lady lumps within and are not currently in danger.
Thank you, my friends I opened up to, for checking in, calling, emailing etc. It was good to know I was not alone if I needed someone.
And now, I am off to eat cake. And wear a really low cut shirt. Why? Because my lovely lady lumps are healthy. I am showing them off. So to speak.
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Hide your children! They got another one!
November 13, 2006
Let me tell you a story, kiddos. Grab your blankets and some popcorn. It is part humor, part horror and of course, with a moral.
Once upon a time there was a Mom whose first born had started kindergarten. As soon as school started a woman who referred to herself as the PTA president phoned her. “Are you in the house alone?!” (I kid. She totally didn’t say that.) Though what she said was almost as scary. “I would like you to be the kindergarten room parent.”
[cue horror theme music and screeching violins]
After several “No, really, no thank you. Not for me. Don’t think so. Uh-uh. Not gonna happen” I found myself the kindergarten room parent. In charge of all parties and all volunteers. Having never had a child in public school before, I found myself in charge. Miserably.
I learned after that year and changed my outgoing message on my answering machine to “Thank you for calling. If you are calling in regards to volunteering, I will bring juice.”
Years later, I tried again. This time on the Executive Board. As the Membership Chair. I took over from someone who left. Bad move. Bad position. Bad year. From then on out I took the stance of “Play dead when dealing with anyone from the PTA.” I have been known to throw myself on the floor and play dead to avoid being tagged as a volunteer. The Stepfords…they scare me.
One of my good, close friends has been a Stepford in denial for quite a while. “No, no…I am not a Stepford. I just volunteer because I blah blah blah…” (I tuned out at this point. Sort of like when Tom Cruise starts to talk about his knowledge of post partum depression or preach to me about Scientology.) I adore her, but day by day I see her inner Stepford coming out. I am scared. Hold me.
Hang on, kiddos, this is where the horror comes in to play.
I got a phone call today.
“Are you in the house alone?” (Are you still falling for that? What she said was much scarier!)
“They asked me to be PTA president.”
Okay, I think she might have said something else, but I was laughing and crying so hard I couldn’t hear another word.
It happened. They got her. It is worse than Jason from Friday the 13th. Worse than Freddy Krueger. Worse than ‘When a Stranger Calls’. She has become…
A STEPFORD.
No longer in denial.
I immediately rushed to my doctor to get my vaccine updated. I mean, one cannot be too careful when dealing with the PTA. They bite.
I shall miss you, my dear friend. I will, of course, laugh at you, mock you and avoid you at all costs, but know that in my heart, I will miss you.
And also know….I am laughing my ass off at you!
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Posted by Jenn @
8:56 pm | |
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Midlife, Martini’s and Me
November 8, 2006
When you reach a milestone such as your 37th birthday, you tend to look back and reflect on your life. Realizing you are knocking on Mid-Life’s door, one might take inventory of her life. Pondering the events that led her to where she is now. Birthdays can bring out the nostalgia in many women. In fact, a mature woman would take this time to ponder life’s amazing blessings.
Yeah right! Good thing I am not one of those women!
I chose to celebrate by going out with my husband where I ate greasy, fried food and drank eleventy martini’s. Well, maybe not that many. But I tried several. Apple Martini. Toasted Almond Martini. Chocolate Martini. And then blah blah blah martini and yada yada yada martini etc but only the bartender, the waitress and Clint know what followed because I was just the one drinking them, not ordering them.
A mature woman would call her family to just connect and feel that sense of togetherness family brings. Perhaps a mature woman in her late 30’s would call her business partner and friend and just let her know how much she means to her.
I am SO NOT that woman. I called my sister–after my fun dinner out– and left her a message that went something like:
“Okay FINE don’t call your sister on her birthday. I mean your BABY sister who looks up to you and sat by the phone all day long waiting…waiting…waiting! No, I am SO kidding. I love you man. I do. You’re my hero. I am sooooo messing with you!” Then dissolve into a fit of giggles and hang up.
But wait, while I have the phone, it is absolutely vitally important that I call my friend and partner and discuss the deepest meanings of life…
“Hi! I know it is late and all but I totally felt like dishing with you. Tell me the gossip. I mean it. I need some serious dirt on someone. Make it up. Do NOT talk business because that is such a buzz kill…..I love you man. No really, I do…Do I tell you enough that I appreciate all you do? You ROCK…”
The call lasted so much longer than those few sentences, but really, neither you nor I need to hear what was said. Especially when you call said friend and partner the next morning and her first words are, “How’s that headache coming along?” (For the record, I have no headache. At all. Jumped out of bed at 6:00am good to go. So there!)
Anyway, thanks for the birthday wishes. Thanks for the fun times. Thanks for knowing that I am SO not the woman who is going to do a retrospective of her life but rather tell you about martini’s and “not as clear headed as I normally am” phone calls. It’s for that reason that love you, man! No, I really do!
[Update: For the record, here is a link to a huge list of various martini’s…made with vodka. They may not be by definition “true” martini’s but vodka martini’s. Call them what you want, just buy me one next time we meet! Ha!]
[Yet Another UPDATE: If you know me, you know my fun love of exaggeration. That would be this entry. Relax. I have not slipped back into making drunk calls, acting like a sorority girl and completely losing my mind. I didn’t think I needed to qualify that, but here I am doing that. Just an FYI]
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Spinning the wheel of the diagnosis du jour
October 25, 2006
Okay, so this is that long ass boring entry where I tell you what the doctors think is actually happening with my chest pains. *yawn* So, I am going to send you around the net if you want other writing I have snuck online in the past few days.
Over at Mommybloggers, I wrote about why moms and women might be having trouble sleeping at night. (But before you read that, you have to read the amazing interview and essay by Krisco of Crib Ceiling. I absolutely love that woman!)
And at Aggroqueen (where I am meeting other women who are into gaming such as the play girlz and The Adventuress) and learning the tricks from them, I finally was able to reveal that I have been alpha and beta testing their upcoming expansion pack to World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade. Yes. It just goes to show you that the gang over at Blizzard have one hell of a great sense of humor. (Mwah, guys!) I am so in love with this game now. Not that I would admit it. DO NOT tell my husband, kids or Blizzard. They must all think they still have to win me over. I am not a gamer yet, but trust me when I say this expansion pack is quickly shoving me in that direction. Shhhhhhh!
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Guess who got to spend half a day Friday at the hospital/doctor? Did you guess me? I bet you did. You’d be right. The diagnosis du jour is: costochondritis. Which is pretty much just a fancy name for “Ouch! You have pain in your chest. Bummer!” No, really. That is what it means. See. According to About.com who knows everything. (They do. I asked and they confirmed. Everything.)
Costochondritis a syndrome of chest wall pain that is due to inflammation of the cartilage and bones in the chest wall. Also called Tietze’s Syndrome, costochondritis occurs when there is inflammation at the junction of the rib bone and breastbone (sternum). At this junction, there is cartilage joining these bones. This cartilage can become irritated and inflamed. Depending on the extent of the inflammation, this condition can be quite painful. (No shit!)
What causes costochondritis?
Most commonly the cause of costochondritis is classified as ‘idiopathic,’ or unknown. This means that there is no identifiable cause for the condition. This does not imply that idiopathic costochondritis is any less painful of a condition than if the cause can be identified.
See? It means “Ouch! You have pain in your chest. Bummer!” (Sometimes referred to the “too bad, so sad” in the School of Throw a Dart Medicinal Diagnosis.) Honestly, knowing that we have ruled out just about everything life threatening that you can rule out, I could care less what they call it as long as they make this horrendous pain go away.
And of course, because I love to baffle the medical community, we had a fun game of “Why Is Your Stress So High and Your Blood Pressure So Low?” Remember they are also tacking on the “stress out and exhausted” tag to me? Therefore, one would think that stressed out would indicate high blood pressure. Nope. My body likes to be different. The nurse took my blood pressure 3 times insisting it must be wrong, but all 3 times it came back within 2 numbers of each other. 100/55. She just shook her head at me and wrote it down. Again, I just shrug it off and watch them scratch their heads in confusion.
I have had enough EKGs that it is no longer a big deal. Take for instance the fact that I am lying there on the examination table naked from the waist up with a hospital gown open to the front with electrodes hooked up everywhere when I noticed that my socks didn’t match. I do not mean an obvious “one is red and the other is blue” kind of not matching. It was more subtle. One had a pink stripe over the toes and the other did not. Oh the HORRORS! I am trying to curl my toes or hide one foot under the other in an attempt to not have anyone notice that my socks don’t match. Forget that I am half naked and having an EKG to ensure my heart is not about to kill me. MY SOCKS DON’T MATCH.
Yep. I am pretty sure I have had more than my share of doctors if that was my biggest worry of the visit.
Stay tuned next week for another exciting installment of “The Pain is Still There, Let’s Spin the Wheel of Diagnosis to Determine Another Cause.” For now, I am still on medical leave from most of my freelance jobs until Nov. 1st and am trying (meaning pretending to try but am really worrying about not trying hard enough) to relax and not worry about worrying. Which worries me. Ha! Gotta love the way the mind works.
Badgermama said it best when she told me: “It would be way more to the point to get up, do your thing, but get a little help, restructure a bit, cut something from your life, and do some extra exercise or yoga or something.” That is what I am doing now. Restructure. Refocus. Redirect my energies. And of course, realize that life without stress means you are dead. So, screw that!
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Run! Run for your life!
June 12, 2006
I have a confession to make.
Although I pride myself on not being a follower, I am competitive. Not a smack talking, in your face competitive person. Not so much. (That whole stab you in the back to try to get ahead thing tends to get old when you have amassed the collection of knives that I have pulled free, so I really prefer not to go that route.) More like a “If she can do that, I can do that” type of fun competition. I prefer to call it inspirationally competitive. Why? Because I will go right up to the person and tell them they are inspiring me to do what they are doing and then ask them to tell me more. I cannot even tell you the number of amazing women I have met by just telling them they inspire me. By just asking them how they do what they do. Oh sure, you will run into people who will hold their cards close to their chest and not share. But I have found that to be rare and only in the most insecure of people.
So, where is my confession? I am getting to it. Wait for it.
I am sure you know Grace Davis. (Even Andrew Shue of Melrose Place and ClubMom knows Grace Davis!) She just celebrated her 51st birthday. (Happy Birthday, Grace.) One of the gifts she received was from NYC: She found out she was chosen as one of the 30,000 other runners that are able going to run in the New York City Marathon. Marathon. That is more miles that I can comprehend RUNNING. But not Grace. Grace even has an amazing blog, Marathon Mom, that talks all about her running-goodness. Complete with schedules and running logs and running goodness that makes my eyes roll back in my head as I convulse in fear. And she does it with humor and style!
I know. Right now you are thinking to yourself, “Surely, there is absolutely no connection between Jenn and anyone who writes about running.” Well, you would be wrong.
I have a confession to make. I have decided to start running. And by that, of course, I do not mean from the law, having the runs or running from someone chasing me who must be intent on wanting to kill me which is the only reason I would ever decide to voluntarily run. I am seriously talking about training, a schedule and actual r-u-n-n-i-n-g. Hold me. I am scared.
There are just so many amazing women I know doing so many amazing things right now and I have the honor of knowing them and sharing in these things with them. Inspirational competition. It’s karma, baby. Give to the world the best you have and the best will come back to you. These women–women like Grace– are amazing women. Know what else I am going to do? I am going to start sharing these women and their amazingness with you here. I love the whole Pay It Forward, Pass It On, Karma thing that the Internet and blogging provide so easily. Sooo…..
Inspire me, too. What are you doing? Tell me more about it! (And yes, everyone is doing something inspirational. So don’t say nothing!)
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Does this dress make me look fat?
May 27, 2006
The other day one of my children (whom I shall not name to protect the oh-so-guilty) told me that I was fat and added a twist of was I aware of that fact? (Okay, the actual words were “I think you are overweight and don’t know if you know it.”) I removed the knife from my gut and immediately put the child up for auction on e-bay. (Starting bid only 99 cents!)
Seriously, as IF I am not aware that my ass has recently applied for it’s own zip-code. I could blame it on stress. For the love of all things stress eating related, I certainly deserve that one this year. But no, I blame it on my daughter. (What?! As if she won’t grow up and blame everything on me anyway.) Okay, not so much my daughter as my 7 months spent on bed-rest while pregnant with my daughter in which my ass spread was proportional to my bump growth. I looked my best ever just before I got pregnant with her her. (See?*) But even so, it isn’t like I am 5 weeks post-partum. I am 5 years. Five freaking ever-loving could’ve lost it by now years. Guess blaming it on her is probably out, too.
What about age? Can I blame it on age? Genetics? I can totally blame it on my Mom. She would totally understand. But again, still not practical or fair.
So it looks like I have 2 choices. (1) Bitch and moan and hate the way I look while continually avoiding activities that I should enjoy while crying and feeling miserable–thus making everyone around me miserable or (2) Do something. As hard as that decision seems, I am totally going to just stop the bitching and moaning and self deprecating comments. I am taking action. But what to do? What to do? Do NOT even suggest giving up anything like caffeine, coffee or my occasional chocolate. I would be forced to ban you and then hurt you. Badly. Besides, it isn’t the eating that is the problem. I would have to say it is the lack of exercise. But ohhhh how that bores the hell out of me. I need fun. I need excitement. I need cheap. I need suggestions.
So for now, here is the game plan. First, I want your suggestions challenges. Second, I am going to team up with someone to keep me accountable and urge me on. Who? Well, someone who is already doing this. Someone who has a goal. Someone who has already given the shout-out for challenges that I can follow with her. (And then add to those the ones you offer up.) Who am I talking about? Why Jenny of course who is doing an awesome job at her weight loss blog, Big Slice of Life, Small Slice of Cheesecake.
She has been incredibly brave in her openness about her weight loss. (Don’t expect that. I don’t even tell my husband what I weigh.) And she has an amazing diet plan going on–well, more a new way of eating and not so much a diet plan. (Don’t expect that either. I don’t do plan ahead meals or anything as organized as such.) And she has decided to post some photos up documenting her exercise challenges. (Okay, maybe I will steal that idea because that is hilarious.)
Anyway, it is on. Three weeks until the beach. Two months until BlogHer. IT. IS. ON.
* Yes, I know this photo is not recent and that I have blonde hair. (Blonde is real. Red looks more natural. Go figure!) This picture was taken by one of my very best friends ever about a year or so before I got pregnant with Gabriella. It is a motivation and reminder that I need to get back to this look. But without the cheesy pose. I can lose that, too. (Now if only I can find the picture of me in the smokin’ black dress I wore to my sister’s wedding. THAT is real motivation!)
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What’s caffeine addicted, crazy as a loon and has short red hair?
March 22, 2006
[Editor’s note: We’ve had a lot of the heavy stuff. I need a break and am betting you do, too, from the heavy. No heavy lifting in this post. I do feel I need to share about the breakdown, but that will be soon. Thanks for hanging with me, people. You are better for me than that first cup of coffee…no wait….okay, yeah, you are!]
Last Friday my sister came to town. Yes, if you do the math that is exactly one day after I left her in Houston. Trust me, it was necessary for her to come, but that is a different story all together. As she unloaded all of her ginormous trappings one brings when going out of town, I just sat and watched from my front porch.
“Hey, looks a bit heavy. Need help?” But I was really just that out of it to think to actually get my ass up off of the chair to actually do it. To that she just replied, “No, dude, I am pretty sure this PURSE is the last thing, but the offer was cool.” Then we saw the absurdity of it all and began to giggle.
I would love to tell you the tales of taking the children to the zoo and the museums and the arboretum. I would love to tell you of the movies they saw, the games they played and the amazing meals they ate. I would love to, but I can’t. Because for one entire week, my sister and I sat on the couch and read every trash gossip rag known to man. (Oh, and a few unknown and some that could possibly be called reputable.) The kids played. The dogs played. In fact, while the kids were outside playing at the same time the dogs were outside playing, they all learned a new phrase. If they were all here I would have them recite it in an adorable chorus of cherubic voices, “NO HUMPING! NO NO NO HUMPING!”
From the oldest to the baby, they all had to yell it at the dogs at one time or another. (Yes, my sister and I are so proud!) As we sat on the couch with trash tv (Can someone please just tell Shawn he is the the friggin father or Belle’s baby already??!) and read magazines that made us lose IQ points (Want to know who is expecting, how far along they are and who the Baby Daddy is?), my sister looked up at me and said in a tone that could only be described as mock intimidation, “Oh my god, Supernanny would totally jump our shit for the way we are acting this week!”
Not as funny in the retelling, but the way the conversation went and the mimicked proclamations of poor parenting and reprimands from JoJo about what lazy mothers we were, we were laughing ourselves silly. We both needed it.
At one point, I was totally interrupted from my OK! magazine with the immediate need to check the mail. (No, I have no idea why. But when you have the immediate need to check the mail, you do it. Trust me. Don’t question crazy.) So mindlessly I opened my front door.
There stood a man who to the best of my ability to guess these things, had not shaved since Nixon was in office and wore clothes that had seen better days. Let me just say he shocked the shit out of me! I screamed the scream of a woman about to be murdered on her front door step, danced the “Oh-my-god-who-are-you-and-why-are-you-standing-at-my-door-don’t-kill-me” dance while trying so hard not to pee my pants then slammed the door in his face.
My sister casually looked up from her magazine and said, “Mail not here yet or is someone about to bludgeon you because that was one scary ass scream!”
I peeked out the peephole to see the man still standing there. I slowly opened the door when I realized all he was doing was putting flyer on my door. Making an honest living and this crazy woman SCREAMS right into his face and slams the door. I am lucky I did not give him a heart attack. He just put on hand over his heart and the other hand up towards me as if to ward off my insanity and keep ME from hurting HIM. I took his flyer. I think I may now have to have my entire yard landscaped in order to appease my guilt of nearly killing an innocent man with my SCREAM OF DOOM AND DEATH.
Another afternoon I told my sister to just go get pampered. The sentence was not quite out of my mouth before she was sprinting toward the van shouting out lunchtimes and nap-times. The day went well. I think. The kids all took care of themselves and I caught up on magazine gossip and still sat screaming that “Dammit someone better tell Shawn that is the father of Belle’s baby for the love of dragging a story line on too long to do anything but make people yell at their television set.” But when my sister got home, she had a gorgeous hair cut.
I was green with envy. “I want one!” I whined.
So (the real reason for this entire long winded babble-assing post), I got my hair cut off. Short. It was below the middle of my back and a sable-ish color. A hint of possible red, but not really.
I am guessing at this point you want to see it? Are you sure? Okay, here is one sneak peek:
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