Monday, December 31, 2012

New Year's Eve in a Restaurant? Pshaw, I'll Take My Filet in a Hospital

My favorite New Year's Eve meal was in 1996.

December 31, 1996--when a plastic cafeteria tray of room temperature filet mignon was placed on my lap, while I lay propped up against crunchy pillows, bare breasted, in a fetching grey checked hospital gown, celebrating New Year's Eve just hours after giving birth to a beautiful 8 lb. 10 oz. baby boy.

I've had three children, and I've had no more thrilling surprise in my life than finally seeing what your child looks like after waiting nine months. The ultrasounds hint at features, but the 3D real life presentation of their little faces has always left me without any flowery speech, and reduced me to the most basic of sentiments. When the nurses first showed me Xavier, I could only trace his tiny little mouth with my finger, and eke out, "you look just like your dad."

Happy Birthday, Xavier--you were my best New Year's ever. Your dad wanted to high five you for just squeaking in as a tax deduction for the year; I breathed a sigh of relief that after 5 1/2 months of bed rest we had made it--I was ecstatic to finally hold you.

No meal has since come close, no restaurant atmosphere has even touched on the magic of that New Year's Eve, 16 years ago today, when I first saw you.

Xavier, one minute old. (you can't see his tiny little mouth)

Happy Birthday, wonderful son. I love you very, very much, you awesome kid.


Saturday, December 29, 2012

Elves and Flat Irons

We went to see The Hobbit Saturday night. Dwarves, elves, orcs, trolls, wizards, and Oh, those elves. Those Elven lovelies, tall and fair of face and form, with their silky straight yet still flowy locks. In the movie, there is searing hatred of the elves by the dwarves. The dwarves say they hate the elves because they ran out on them during a crucial history-altering battle for middle earth, BUT I think the real reason is their long and silky locks. I mean, what's not to hate about hair that swings every which way you move your head while the dwarves look like they need a gallon of heat treatment VO-5 dumped on their heads and then saran-wrapped for a week.

The movie opens with a scene of a painfully handsome silver-haired Elven king, sitting atop a glorious steed, nodding his head 'no' to his army behind him, to no longer continue battle in aid to the dwarves. In excruciatingly beautiful slow motion, we see the exquisite perfect profile of the bare-back riding Elf leader, tossing his silk tresses in the direction away from the front line. Never has abandonment looked so gorgeous. That hair, that nose!

The elves, flawless with complexions like that of luminous pearls, sparklingly clear eyed, short nosed and breath taking--riding away from the stocky dwarves who are as short as they are wide that they looked like boxes. The dwarves with their springy brillo pad hair that sprouts from all over their heads and faces, and the noses--oh the hooked end noses that would need three rhinoplasties to cure. How the dwarves could drink out of a glass without drowning is a wonder to me.

Yes, the dwarves are jealous of the universe's unfair doling out of attractiveness components entirely to the elves. All those elves, with their top to bottom gloriousness, looking as if the sun itself had birthed them. The elves, with their  favorite hair do: the half pony. The loosely pulled held hair only from the ears up, while the rest of their tresses lazily cascade across their shoulders like a weeping willow in a Savannah wind.

It's this favorite Elven hair do, along with my flat iron, that has reduced my hair do choices by 50 percent. After waking up the next morning apres The Hobbit viewing, I readied myself for a day of good deep down house cleaning. I combed my thick, coarse hair, planning to take a shower later, and ran a flat iron through it to smooth out the nighttime kinks. Not wanting to look like J Lo with a hoisted fully pony for the third time that week, I reached for the mini brown coated rubber band rather than the heavy duty large gauge band. Giving myself a loose half pony, I pulled my straightened hair through, looked up in the mirror and what do I see?

I had become an Elven king.

I can't do it--the half pony is no longer a possibility; there is no way that I can seriously walk around this planet and not feel like I should make myself a crown of icy frosted winter bared twigs and stick it on my head.

The flat iron, and The Hobbit, have done me in. I can't unsee The Hobbit, and if I can no longer wield a flat iron to my Colombian hair, not only will I be walking a mile in elf-hating dwarf treebark shoes, but I'll be waiting in line to douse myself with a Costco sized Breck Beautiful oil drum of conditioner, too. 

At least the rhinoplasty was paid for in '85.


Thursday, December 27, 2012

Jobs are Good

Jobs are good. If you have one, you're lucky.

I love mine. Let's get ready to start the New Year right, with some tips for getting your boss to like you, really like you, and keep you around a while longer.

Brought to you by Aiming Low, my post today--keeping that job you have, by finding out "What Your Boss Wants From You."

Here's to a peaceful, happy, employed New Year.


Wednesday, December 26, 2012

When It's Not Norman Rockwell

The holidays are loaded.

Loaded in so many ways--with the television and radio commercials telling us how this season "should be." There are ads, newspaper and magazine lay outs with their covers displaying sparkling tables full of impeccably prepared food, equally perfect homes, and beautifully appointed families with matching sets of parents and children.

I remember seeing all these holiday depictions as a child, and thinking that was the normal. It had to be, right? That's the scene that's on every Hallmark commercial, on every cover of Ladies' Home Journal. That is how people live, that is what doing the holidays right means. Being that perfect family means being happy.

Anything other than that, less than that--and you were the one who missed the mark.

We see the glossy photos from the magazine racks and hear the holiday music piped in when we're in any store--the pictures and lyrics reminding us of how we don't do it the way it's supposed to be done are impossible to escape. We either nearly kill ourselves with exhaustion stringing the home made popcorn garland and creating what we're told is the "normal" holiday season, or we tearfully give up and feel like failures--letting ourselves down, and guiltily coming up short on making perfect holiday memories for our families. We're supposed to get along with everyone, be close with each relative--we're never to feel anxious, overwhelmed, depressed, deprived, disappointed, or in discord. Or lonely.

How many of us had the Normal Rockwell painting going on at our homes this week?

How many of us, sadly, because of the tragedy at Sandy Hook, have been thrown full face and snapped awake into recognizing the bountifulness of what we do have? I did not get to all of my Christmas shopping, I was only able to vacuum and dust my house and never did get to the deep cleaning like I wanted to. I had planned to lift my spirits with something red to wear this Christmas--but never made it to the store. I wore a brown turtleneck and a green skirt instead. The cookies never did get made, the Christmas cards weren't sent out until the 22nd, and we had to use watery brown and green too thin paper to wrap presents because the store had long ago run out of bright and beautiful gift wrap. I waited too long to go grocery shopping, too--so the duck my oldest son had asked for as the Christmas meal was another thing I screwed up on.   

Instead, we had a roasted chicken on the table, we didn't get to all the gifts the kids had hoped for under the tree, and I wore an outfit more suited for a day at work than Christmas Eve. My father passed away when I was a child, and my widowed mother was here with us. Though unable to help because of her dementia, she celebrated along with us, clapping her hands with every ornament she watched my children hang on the tree. Our 17-year-old son--my first baby--is with us just one more year before he leaves to start his own life. He sat at the piano I haven't gotten around to getting tuned, and thrilled his grandmother by playing her songs he had taught himself. Our scuffed kitchen table that needs to be re-varnished didn't have a single inch of space left on it that wasn't filled with food.   

We've never had Norman Rockwell. Our Christmas table set with turquoise stoneware, mismatched serving bowls, and the far from perfect people around it that I love beyond words, will never make the cover of Martha Stewart. But on this Christmas night, 2012, I don't think there was a woman on this planet who felt luckier with what she had, than I did.


I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Holiday season, and peace, joy, love to you and yours.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Happy Hohoho To You!

This is Auggie. My blogging name is Baby E, but my real name is Auggie.

I want to say Merry Christmas to everyone.

Especially for the people who have presents, you should say "Thank You" that you have presents. And for people who don't have presents, you have to sometimes look hard but you can find presents. They might not always be like material presents: they can be mental or emotional presents.

I just want to thank everyone for being supportive of me and my mom and all the other bloggers who make me want to do posting all the time.

My favorite Christmas songs are the ones I like. Like Happy Hohoho To you, Rockin' 'round the Christmas Tree It's a Happy Holiday, Feliz Navidad y Prospero Ano y Felizidad I Wanna Wish You a Merry Christmas From the Bottom of My Heart, Giddyup Giddyup Giddgyup Let's Go We're Riding in a Winter Wonderland of Snow.

I really don't like Gramma Got Ran Over by a Reindeer, and also I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus Last Night. I don't like them because the premise is not Christmassy.

I'm glad to say I know you and will continue to know you.

I might see you on Saturdays. I don't know. I have soccer and basketball now. I might have games. I'll try to post but I don't know.

I finished my LEGO Advent calendar. My favorite piece was Santa riding his Zamboni.

What else I want to say is sometimes on Christmas I lay down near by the tree and look up at the ceiling and think about all the lucky and encouraging things I have like my family, my nice friends, good food, and nice teammates.

I just want to say Merry Christmas and be nice and don't hurt people even when your mind says to be mean back, it wouldn't be very nice. If you feel like that, think of good memories and don't give yourself bad memories by being mean.



Saturday, December 22, 2012

There's A Trick To It

How to get what you want for Christmas.

I give you step by step details here, on FunnynotSlutty: How To Get What You Want For Christmas.

FunnynotSlutty: featuring The Funniest Women on the Planet.


Friday, December 21, 2012

For Lollipops

Things Go Wrong For Me (when life hands you lemons, add vodka) [Paperback]

Rodney Lacroix (Author), Ross Cavins (Editor)

Price: $15.99 & eligible for FREE Super Saver Shipping on orders over $25. Details

Temporarily out of stock.

Order now and we'll deliver when available. We'll e-mail you with an estimated delivery date as soon as we have more information. Your account will only be charged when we ship the item.
Ships from and sold by Gift-wrap available. 
What kind of book sells out four days after it's put up at Amazon?
Who gets front and back cover blurbs from wildly funny TheBloggess, Jenny McCarthy, and Suzy Soro --saying that this book is "laugh out loud funny?"
That would be Rodney LaCroix. The 5ft3 powerhouse hero of the average man whom bank tellers call Lollipops. He writes of his typical life; being divorced, trying to date, doing his best to be a good father. Just life of the average Joe in America--which is exactly what makes what Rodney writes some of the funniest things I've read.
When I first began blogging, there was a collective humor site--it was great. It was called LOL, and you submitted your own what you thought to be your best stuff. If it was good and brought out a few chuckles, it went up. After blogging for about two months, I decided to take my destiny into my hands, and sent in a piece inspired by late night viewing of the Ten Commandments. Moses Moses Moses. Nefretiri Nefretiri Nefretiri.
I clicked over to the LOL site for submission information, and Rodney was there. My man had a post up that made me light headed from laughing. I had my two teens read with me, they were gasping from laughing so hard. It was a childhood story of an adorable chubby ten-year-old boy's adventure pursuing the girl of his dreams. On his banana seat high handle-barred bike.
To this day, one of the best cures for winter blues. And that's how I met Rodney.
His first book is out now and I am so proud of him. He's a genuinely nice guy and has made me laugh these past three years that I've known him.
So I'm here hawking his book for him, because Rodney is that kind of special to me.
For a taste of Rodney's best, read here, and this one is gold too.
Or do what I did, order his book "Things Go Wrong For Me." ($2.99 on Kindle) Best thing to keep in your car or night stand or your purse that looks like a cute mini backpack.
For all the information, and an autographed copy, go here.
Follow Rodney at his blog, midget man of steel. [because he is]
He's a gas on twitter.
His Facebook is pretty cool too. 

Got a few minutes to laugh? Watch his book trailer. (also feel better about yourself too)

Congrats, Lollipops, you know I love you. Thanks for always making me laugh.


Thursday, December 20, 2012

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Christmas Memories

I have a quiet piece up today, at TikiTikiBlog, where I am proud to contribute monthly.

My mood is a reflective one this week, and the words I've written of a childhood memory, Black Velvet, say what I've long felt in my heart.

Childhood lives on in us forever.



Monday, December 17, 2012

Be Gentle As You Walk With Grief

Walking with Grief -- A Celtic Prayer

Do not hurry as you walk with grief
It does not help the journey

Walk slowly, pausing often

Do not hurry as you walk with grief
Be not disturbed by memories
that come unbidden
Swiftly forgive and let
Unspoken words, unfinished conversations
be resolved in your memories

Be not disturbed
Be gentle with the one who walks with grief

If it is you, be gentle with yourself
Swiftly forgive, walk slowly,
Pause often,
Take time

Be gentle as you walk with grief

--Author Unknown 


Saturday, December 15, 2012

We Can't Be Silent About Sandy Hook

It's 2:30 in the morning, and I am commenting on every blog I see that posts on the tragedy of Sandy Hook today. I'm like a woman who's lost her mind--I need to honor and remember and cry tears over tender lives so tragically lost. I'm on a mission to read and leave words and say, yes, those children were here, to recognize their lives--even though I know it changes nothing; for me, it's doing something.

How can we say nothing? How can we write nothing? How can we go on to our next day and not talk about how the earth stood still today?

The twenty children of Newtown that we've lost--so very small, the youngest in the school, at that wonderful tooth-missing-in-the-front age. Just learning how to sound out words, just learning how to write their names. How can we not cry until our tears are gone?

The teachers and staff killed, standing against a monster gunman, taking their place as best as they could, in the way of the shooter, knowing our job is to protect the little ones.

We are to care for our smallest ones, not murder them. They're so little--they need our protection. They're so small--they can't take on what we can. They trust and count on us, and their lives weren't meant for a madman to come into their school while they paint in reds, blues, and yellows, while they practice their songs for the holiday concert, while they make a special card to take home that day and give to their mothers and fathers. There's not supposed to be a bad guy who walks through the hallways of their school firing away at them until their sweet,young life is gone.

They're children, their last thoughts would be of what is most precious to them; Christmas, Hanukkah, for their parents right at that moment when they've never been more scared in their lives. Their last thoughts, of the mama and dad that love them; their last thoughts, of I don't want to die.

I can't make sense of this. Where will a town find twenty little coffins? What funeral homes can accommodate services for so many children. I cry for the parents, running to the school as if they themselves were on fire, hearts pounding, praying out loud, please let my baby be safe, please let my baby be safe.

I think of the nightmare the parents find when they get to the school, seeing other children reunited with their joyfully relieved parents, but their child nowhere in sight. I think of the dizzying disbelief and denial as they keep looking, praying, frantically scanning the crowd of screaming, crying children for the face of their own. I think of them, ushered to a different area than the general one--the one specified for children unaccounted for.

I think of the words they hear, how their knees must have buckled, when they were told to go home and wait--while others weren't; their hearts wrenched to return to a house where they look at and wonder if the Christmas gifts wrapped under the tree will be opened by the child they were bought for. How their child began Hanukkah with them, and now, is not there for its last day tomorrow. My mind wants to scream as I think of the holiday cards that have already been sent out--showing full families that now no longer exist.

It's been 15 hours since I first heard the news, I thought I would have run out of tears by now.

But they just keep flowing, and I've given up trying to fight them back.

Heaven became a little more loud, a little more joyous today. Can you hear it? The sound of the most beautiful voices of angels entering your gates today to run through your golden grasses.


To the families in this incomprehensible loss, let us share your burden, let us cry our tears over your unimaginable devastation.

You have a nation of love behind you, around you, underneath you.
Our prayers, our broken hearts, our hope that this senselessness stops are with you, and your eternally beautiful children.

 We are so sorry.

 photo credit: horizontal.integration via photopin cc

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Breaking News: Titanic Sinks and Social Media Interferes With Real Life

photo credit: Heritage Vancouver via photopin cc
We were all sitting at the family dermatologist's office (yeah, group rate, what of it?) waiting for our names to be called. I was flipping through magazines older than the hills telling me a ship called the Titanic sank, when I saw an article in a magazine from 2009. The blistering title and byline was "Social Media--It's Taking You Away From Your Real Life."

The paragraphs go on to tell me all that I could be doing by logging off. Strengthening real life relationships (like online ones aren't real?), developing a hobby (got one, it's twitter), exercising (bawk! that chicken sound, you know?), and re-organizing my life (what's wrong with sitting on laundry?).

Right, all these things I could be doing. Could. That's the kicker there, the author assumes I'd be doing things if I weren't online. Oh, my sides, my sides from the laughter. Yeah no not so much.

Here's my list of "All I Could Be Doing If I Weren't Online":

--Staring at my fingernails, willing my lazy butt go get out of the house and get a manicure.

--Poking around snack cabinet deciding on what to have for second breakfast.

--Walking around the house with two pairs of socks on to stretch out my new winter boots.

--Letting Bethenny Now! exercise DVD play in background while I finish up sweetnsalty chips kids left out last night.

--Walk downstairs to basement with intention to cull toys dvds books. Walk back upstairs after three minutes.

--Be at local yoga class where teacher there always waits until I'm relaxed with my eyes closed to sneak up on me and make me jump ten feet into the air by whispering "namaste" into my ear.

--Or I could be at Zumba, where instructor tries again to talk me into leading Zumba Silver.

--Pull blankets off beds to let sheets "breathe" as Martha Stewart Living advises. Consider that my gold bar of housekeeping for the day.

--Decide to have lunch with kids at school, show up with McDonald's bags only to have them grab bag out of my hands and say, "Thanks mom you can go home now. No, really, you can go home now."

--Look down at jeans with permanent knee mounds, take myself to Old Navy for new pair. All are too long and too tight. Refuse to try double digit numbered ones. Drive to Hefner's Cup O'Custard, sit in parking lot, licking wounds metaphorically through death by chocolate triple scoop in cup. Consider death by chocolate literal invitation.

--Drive to afternoon matinee. Suffer through "Playing for Keeps" about hypersexed soccer moms wanting to do aging soccer star Gerard Butler at every which way while he coaches their little ones on for a team win! Try and guess which mom is the one who gets behind the scenes reffing. I win.

--Rummage through husband's sock and underwear drawer. Hoping to find something linking him to exciting past Bourne identity life, find only saved tags from boxers in case new ones don't fit.

Oh, the undeniable Jezebel that Social Media is. We need no more proof than this list right here. 

Peace out. 

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Wanted: Dead or Alive

photo credit: hugovk via photopin cc
The other morning, my ten-year-old son came downstairs, and walking past me, said, "Mom, seriously, that dinner you made us last night tasted like you were trying to kill me or something."

And good morning to you too, honey. Before I even had my head half way whipped around to ask just what he meant by that, the two teens saw their in and jumped at it.

"Yeah. It's like you think you're a wizard or something, making up potions."

"You've made up stuff before, mom, but this one would get the blue ribbon in a chemistry class."

"I know! Like the time she chopped up the left over turkey hamburger with the left over spaghetti and then made into a pie. I thought I'd be dead by midnight that night."

"Remember when she scrambled up the tofu with the left over hash browns and made it into a casserole with that saffron stuff? I wanted to put Wanted: For Murder posters up in the hallway."

The ten year old feels the power of his brothers' back-up and so now he's up on his toes, "No! The worst was when she laid out that old bread flat in the cookie sheet and then covered it with that shiny sauce and she got mad when I told her she should be on America's Most Wanted..."

It was like inmates rattling their tin cups against the jail bars. I put my hand up and looked over at my husband. I raised my right eyebrow at him, wasn't he the sheriff in town?

My husband just slunk into his newspaper, nervously clearing his throat, "ehhem, ehhem."

With my hands in the air, I tried to explain; I'm busy. I had to be at work. The food is perfectly safe. They're too picky. How about doing left overs like the rest of the world??

But between me and you and the lamp post, I couldn't deny it. I mean, I can deny the murder part, or the food poisoning part--I label everything with a sharpie and discard within 3-5 days. The meal was a pretty bad concoction, one of my worst. That night's fly out the door dinner was so bad that after I threw it at the kids and rushed to work, I had to confess to my boss as soon as I got there, "Whoa. What I made tonight for the kids to eat was really bad."

"Oh, it's all right," she tells me. "We all have those days." [she really is one of the finest humans on the planet]

"No, this was bad. I mean left over boiled potatoes, chopped up deli meat, sliced tomatoes, all skilletted together with Catalina dressing over. Sliced peaches for dessert."

"Oh." [first time I've ever left her speechless]

The slapped together last minute meal. Why would I even try, what was I thinking, I mean throwing a hot dog and a bag of chips at them would be better.

I think it's that hope--that somehow blindly optimistic or else thinking too highly of myself, with some hating-to-waste ethics I grew up with, that have me thinking it's so crazy, so crazy that it just might work. I know it's a kitchen fail as soon as I start rummaging through the refrigerator--I'm surprised the kids haven't picked up on that behavioral clue yet. When mama starts moving aside the tupperware containers in the fridge to see what's in there, might wanna fill up on some bowls of cereal first.

The Desperation Dump Dinner. I don't want to admit that time got away from me. I don't want to say I couldn't do it all today. It's never laziness or lack of desire to give them a good meal. I try to ignore the voice in my head that pops up when I look at all those round containers of left overs in the fridge and says, "and so you think it's all right to use your kids as the garbage disposal?" As my ten year old told me, "Either way, mom, it goes down the sink, or comes out of our butts."

The ten year old is right. I need to start over and be open to the reality that some nights may just be frozen chicken patties and a sliced banana. There can be honor and beauty in accepting your limitations.

I could also do without the price on my head.


Monday, December 10, 2012


Again, the internet rules. Wonderful reading, a little bit of everything for the body and the soul, just like a bottomless issue of Oprah.

This week's In Case You Missed It, you know--in case you missed it:

--Dana, from The Kitchen Witch, is a favorite blogger of mine. She mixes in mouth watering recipes with a narrative that'll hook you in. A pleasant blog stop, always. She writes beautifully, and that along with a little something to cook up for dinner--you can't miss. Also, she has the most hilarious guest poster there today sharing her favorite made up snacks. (totally my thing)

-- There's voting going on! FunnynotSlutty, a must stop collective humor blog for anytime you're looking for some fun for yourself or for your blog. FnS has videos, posts, topics, parodies, songs, to feature on your site. I've been introduced to some great bloggers and artists through FnS. FnS has started their voting for Funniest on the Planet: and you can vote for favorite comic, songwriter, best show, favorite web series, best book, best blogger that made you laugh out loud. There are some neat categories too, like favorite commenter. Click on over and cast your favorite a vote. Funny not Slutty Best on Planet Awards, sponsored by my favorite webseries, The Louise Log.


Voting is OPEN.
-- If you look on my sidebar, you'll see a button for The Louise Log. The Louise Log is a mini web series, with episodes about 5 or 7 minutes long that tell a complete story each time. Featuring Louise, an overthinking overanalyzing, self doubting yet had it up to here heroine. She takes on the world and all it throws at her, standing up for herself along the way and always managing to come out endearing. I love The Louise Log. One of my favorite episodes, because it sounds like someone stuck a mic in my head:  How To Be Woman.

--Even though this video has been around since May 2011, I just discovered it now, via my kids. Clark the Talking Dog, a dubbed in dog's voice and his taunting master telling him about some delicious made up snacks that Clark can't have. "You're killing me." I need to tear myself away because even after 5 times of watching Clark the Dog lick his lips expectantly while he hears of the bacon, "the maple kind?" going into a concoction, I have to watch it again. Really funny.

Have a great week!


Saturday, December 8, 2012

LIM: SOC for The Rest of Us

Time to let it all out and make room for the new crazy. My thoughts aren't sophisticated or linear enough for a civil Stream of Consciousness, so I've made a space for it here. My own little but still important version of SOC; stream of consciousness: ugly style.

I call it LIM, loose inner monologue, and it's right here, where it belongs--out into the universe and out of my hen-pecked head.

Seriously, the role of blogging as a mental health tool is sadly overlooked.

This Week's LIM, Loose Inner Monologue: because streaming thoughts? Not so much. More like a karate chop response to my immediate environment.

Xrays are so weird. Looking at your Xrays must feel like someone shoving pictures of something you did that you didn't want seen right in your face. Like Matlock saying "aha! and you say you're not friendly with the butcher??! Then, what is THIS??!!" You know, like those horrible previews to that movie Side Effects May Include Murder, with Channing Tatum or Taming Chatham or whatever that Magic Mike's dancer's name is. I always want to write in to a celebrity magazine and ask "Is that Carol Channing's great grandson?" but then I remember we have google now. 

Anyway, in that movie, his sexy wife needs a shrink because life just doesn't hold a spark for her anymore and she's restless. Her shrink lights up that spark, easy to do when you're JUDE LAW. Jude wants to make sure she's living life to the fullest so he gives her these little round pills that surprise! make her go crazy for Jude Law. Next day, her underwear is all inside out and she's got blood on her hands and whaa? Meanwhile, a stack of pictures arrives in the mail to Carol Channing's greatgrandson of his fire's-been-lit wife giving away Victoria's Secrets while in deeeeeeeeeeeep therapy with Jude and Channing flips through the stack and says "Honey? What's this?" in his "Hi, honey, I'm home" voice. Right, like it'd go down like that at my house. 

I'll just make do with my nights of insomnia, thank you very much.

Anyway, Xrays. So you look at them, you trust your Doctor when he says they're yours, but you're like, whaaa? Those are my screwed up sinuses there? It doesn't help much with acceptance when the Doctor chimes in, "I know. Pretty bad pus pockets there." And then his nurse thinks he's just given her the okay to throw in her two cents worth, "Oh, yah. I saw dem and thought, oh holy cow but dose are some bad sinuses."

The sheet says those are my clouded sinus cavities, I have to believe them. I'll take comfort in the fact that my headaches now have a treatable cause and I can cancel my emergency appointment with the family lawyer for the will. 

Acceptance in the face of evidence should be easy, maybe it is easy. For me, I can't believe something even when it's clearly there and undeniable. I'm sure if I had the time to google what that is, other than the word denial, that it's some sort of condition I have. But no time here.

Exhibit A: Denial in the face of the truth:  I have felt great since I began sleeping, eating well, drinking water, exercising an hour a day, and quit the coffee.

I feel great. 

But I still can't believe it's that easy to feel great. Heeeeeeeeeeeey, wait.a.minute! Let's try this: I don't want to believe it's that easy to feel great. I know what I have now--it's what Jack Nicholson screamed about in A Few Good Men. "The truth? You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!"

That's it. I don't like the truth. I don't want the sleep, the right food, the no coffee, the exercise, the water, to work. I had more time before I started taking care of myself. Now it's all about taking care of myself. Like I'm my own baby or something.

Damn. A revelation.

This LIM is beginning to pay for itself.


Have a mind that's more choppy than streamy? I invite you to write up your own Loose Inner Monologue post. Leave your link here. Admit it--just the mention of a brain dump and your thoughts are all jamming the aisle, like the last chopper out of Vietnam.

"One at a time, thoughts, one at a time ..."  

photo credit: Steve took it via photopin cc

Friday, December 7, 2012

50 Shades Of Tell Me More About How Much You Saved

Know what sounds as sultry as "Santa Baby" to my husband around this time of year? Special talk, talk like "I saved half off and got buy one get one on the kids' shoes today." He low throats growls to "Chicken breasts were 4 dollars a pound so I bought and froze enough to last us through February."

Victoria Who? The only secrets my husband wants to know come from one of the three stores in town that has General Mills cereals 5 for 10 dollars this week.

That's my husband's sexy time talk: how much did I save him and did I go to the store on double coupon day. He is counting down the days until we get our Senior Sunday discount.

50 Shades of Money, that's the book he'd write. And I've got excerpts of the chapter outlines on my post this week, brought to you via Aiming Low; 50 shades of Pay.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

What's Love Without The Memories?

While unpacking my Christmas boxes this weekend, I found the beautiful red leather gold leafed Christmas Memories book that my sister gave to my husband and me when we were first married. It struck my heart because this personalized diary was designed to store twenty Christmases and all their details.

Right on the shiny red cover, in swirly golden letters, alongside our new family name, it reads "Our Christmas Memories. 1994-2014." Gulp. When we first read the opening pages of this book 18 years ago, 2014 seemed like a century away. I ran my hand over the pages and it struck me hard, how we only have two more Christmases to fill in here.

I looked through all the Christmases that I've faithfully recorded on these pages, and thought about how reaching the book's end once seemed so ridiculously far away. There's a lot that's happened since 1994, all that's happened with almost twenty years of marriage. There are some wonderful memories that live in my mind. Our life together has pretty much played out the way it began: two unusual, not run of the mill people, finding each other and figuring out life one lesson at a time. I think back to a very telling, very representative indicator of what our life together was going to be like.

Indulge me, would you, while I tell you of the introduction to life with my husband. We begin at the very start: our honeymoon.

My husband and I married later in life, and we planned, executed, and delivered a wedding production on time and on budget (his exact words punctuated with much tones of pride.)

We brought the day together like the adults we were; we pulled it off and deserved a honeymoon with sun, water, food, drink, and each other.  That's what we worked for, that's the carrot that dangled in front of the cart but the story doesn't begin with a couple rolling around on a white sandy beaches.

Our honeymoon story begins with how I almost killed my husband on Day 3 of our new life together. The crime scene: idyllic Cozumel, Mexico.

I decided to marry my husband for many reasons. The biggest ones being his stability and level headedness. He is predictable in his moods, and emotionally even keeled. Just what an alarmist like me needs. He is the voice of reason after my WebMD search results of moles that look like India have me writing out my will.

I count on him pulling me in off the ledge. There could be a cobra viper anaconda strangler 5 feet from my face, ready to strike at 851 mph, on the most vulnerable part of my body, and he’d soothingly promise me, “I'll take care of it. Just, no sudden movements."

With my husband around, I can scream “the sky is falling!,” when the sump pump goes out after a heavy spring rain, and he'll tell me that's why he bought the back up pump.

The man would’ve come in handy at Woodstock.

Well, he--of  the permanent delta brain waves--and I--of brain waves they've yet to categorize--are sharing a resplendent open-air honeymoon suite in Cozumel. The cross breeze is to die for. Our room faces the ocean and just like a Hallmark commercial, the sheer white curtains are billowing in the wind. The hotel features an all-day buffet fit for a king, and we claim ourselves the royal couple. Grazing, all day long, and far into the evening. We relax, we spoil ourselves, we do a lot of nothing.

We spend the first two days doing my two favorite activities: eating and being lazy, but then we decide we should really visit a Mayan temple or something. So we sign up for a group sight seeing bus tour. We are going to see temples and ruins. We're so blissfully heady from food and wine that we don't take notice that this tour is All Day. We will leave by 7 a.m. and be back in time to catch the dinner buffet.

We don’t think to pack food … we’ve forgotten what hunger is like--we've been tended to as if we were demi-gods for only two days, but we got used to it fast. We set out at 7 a.m. Wednesday morning, taking nothing but our cameras. I think I may have remembered to grab some bottled waters.

It is a day long tour of walking, hot sun, walking, more hot sun. There is ancient ruin stair climbing involved, there is boarding and unboarding of the bus, there is a long day without food packed involved.

Do you know the signs and stages of  low blood sugar in another person?  I can tell you. I watched my husband fly through them at warp speed:

Stage 1: irritability. HIGH irritability 

Stage 2:  accompanying stupor 

Stage 3: full sentences disappear

Stage 4: every man for himself

I am no stranger to low blood sugar-–I have trained myself to overcome its effects and to push on through. I didn’t fit into my beaded lace princess seam wedding dress like a glove with just luck.

No, I know how to deal with the physical symptoms caused by long periods of no food. But, my new husband, my poor new husband: he had no idea what to do with the lightheadedness, the shakiness, the spots swimming before his eyes, the beads of sweat on his upper lip. He shifted into the most basic primal state: survival.

Never in my life had I imagined that I’d be able to write my own, real-life account of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  But I did on that day. My level headed Dr. Jekyll had become the raging, combative low blood sugar induced Mr. Hyde; his dark side running wild--grumbling at me to hurry up and decide on a seat on the bus already. Snarling at the poor, unsuspecting retired couple to quit holding up the bus by always getting lost.

Spencer Tracy himself couldn't be more Hydey.

The fear of what my future held with this man had me break down into tears. And Mr. Cool wasn’t there to bring me in off the ledge.

This was not the person I had said yes to spending eternal life with--is there a more panic stricken thought for a newlywed?  The bus ride home was made up of me thinking I had made a huge mistake–HUGE–and of him, pupils dilated, sweat soaked forehead, animalistically caring about only one thing: someone who would throw him a piece of meat like he was a lion at a zoo.

I was ready for him to take over the bus, commandeering it straight into the jungle, where he’d tear off his shirt, run wild, and then return like a crazed native with an ocelot hanging out of his blood-soaked mouth.

Yes, I was freaking out, and I needed his voice of reason. I knew he was this close to sacrificing me atop the ancient ruins we had just toured in exchange for someone’s saltine cracker. My only way to survive this? I’d have to kill him.

We endure the bus ride back to the hotel, with me stifling my wails and making a quick mental run through of annulment procedures. We pull up to our hotel and my husband forces the bus' doors open with his shoulder; he then heads--wild eyed and stumbling--straight for the buffet. He begins grabbing food off the buffet because who needs a plate, right? His Cro-Magnon brow receding and his grunting speech slowly returning to full sentences with every handful he shovels in. At meal's end, he is back to being Dr. Jekyll and we are left with a *funny* low blood sugar story.

But, I am not left the same. I've learned a life lesson.

Before we board a plane, train, or automobile, before we do anything else, I buy my husband two King Size Kit Kat bars. And I keep them accessible for the duration of the trip. He smiles and laughs now when he sees them poking out of my purse.

It’s a funny story. NOW, it’s a funny story--but it wasn't then.

My advice to any soon to be honeymooners: work in the Kit Kats, the Snickers, the Twix. You can spare yourself the scene of diamond rings flying past billowy balcony curtains, for just two bars, $5.00 plus tax.

Don't let the dimples fool you. The man's a RAGING MANIAC. But I won't know that till Wednesday. And then I'll cry.

*This post originally ran at the hilarious website, Gonna Kill Him. Do you know Erin? She writes some of the funniest stuff on the internet. You can find her brilliance here.

Monday, December 3, 2012


Oh it was an exciting week on the internet.

I found a blog that is a whole lot of fun.

I found some posts on good writing and what you have to practice to get there.

I found funny funny stuff from my teen boy.

This week's In Case You Missed It, though I should call it "Why I Love The Internet."

Hope you all had a good weekend.

In Case You Missed It (good stuff from the internet)

--Key & Peele: East/West College Bowl. Hilarious, hilarious, hilarious. My teen son showed this clip to me and we have laughed about 16 times since I first saw it Friday night. This sketch-comedy duo are one of Patton Oswalt's favorites and Obama's, too. They were able to meet the President and their take away on that cracked me up, "He gave us bro hugs."

--The Random Penguins is a blog that I found when I followed someone home from twitter. I Miss You When I Blink has some mad twitter skills, and so I went to see where she lives on the internet. Bowled over is what I was when I saw she is the author of an impish "Daily Penguin" tumblr. She draws these little penguins, solitary figures, that she's animorphed into Taylor Swift, or The Penguin who sells Stella & Dot. Of course there's a drunk penguin. I've put in my request for Sophia Vergara. You'll love it--it's adorable.

--Again, from tumblr. I really don't get tumblr yet BUT I have been finding so much on there. (If someone knows how I comment on tumblr, can you let me know?) So, this post I found by "chaperoned," called Quick and Dirty Tips For Writing. It's awesome. Complete and succinct and keep it forever. Chaperoned's Quick and Dirty Guide To Improving Your Writing.

--From a blogger I discovered in October, thenester. She writes anonymously, which is probably why she writes so from the soul. There is a post on her site, all about not waiting for the next thing to make you happy, but making where you are right now happy. The Nesting Place and This Is Your House--Is It Who You Want It To Be? (I love following her, though it is hard to not know someone--I love her content.)

Have a great week. December flies by, remember to grab some joy.



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