i never claimed to be ‘average’

This morning my littlest bug had what’s apparently a run of the mill surgical procedure, removing the metal plate that was attached to the femur at the beginning of the summer.  You might remember me freaking out that the babe somehow broke his femur just days before we were scheduled to move.  It made for an interesting summer and moving process, but he took it like a champ and today was months ahead of when we were initially told the removal procedure would happen.

He went in like a champ and only got a little teary and nervous that last minute when they took him from pre-op to the OR and mommy wasn’t allowed to go.  We were then escorted to the waiting room where I’d spend the next couple of hours, and well… send myself into a panic attack and state of overall emotional wreckage as only I can.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me that I always dwell on the WCS (worst case scenario, for those of you not currently undergoing dozens of hours of therapy,) but I do.  I sat there thinking about how they were working so dangerously close to his femoral artery and it would be so easy to slip and ohmygod I don’t even want to think about it.  We were in the day surgery area which isn’t completely attached to the hospital.  Which got me thinking if an actual emergency did occur it would probably take too long to get to the actual hospital in order to actually save a person’s life.  So that was disconcerting.

I sat in a seat that enabled me to look back into the pre and post op areas, just feet from the OR.  I figured if there was something bad going on, I’d definitely be able to see the nurses and emergency type people scurrying around back there looking for crash carts and screaming “CODE BLUE, ROOM TWO, STAT!”  I wish I could tell you I casually peeked through the frosted window panes occasionally, but in all actuality, my eyes were glued to those windows all 127 minutes I sat in that room, just watching for someone to look a little concerned.  Every time the door to my area opened, I accosted the nurse with my jedi mind tricks to ensure they weren’t hiding anything from me.  I’m confident they all started to wonder if I was nuts.

Then, when the doctor came out to tell me all was well, I confirmed all of their suspicions that not only was that freaky ass mother in the waiting room possibly crazy, but someone should call Psych a freaking sap and get her admitted.  Because, you see, as the doc was talking so calmly and reassuringly about how well things went, I freaking burst into tears.

Now, I have had an interesting couple of days.  I have a lot of… emotions, if you will, running about just under the surface of sanity.  So, I’m not sure it was 100% nerves about the surgery that I was letting out.  But I released what some might consider a metric shit ton of emotion.  And made a complete ass of myself.  Everyone was quite reassuring, telling me it was nice to see a mother that cared so much about their child and blah de blah blah.  But I saw them running around the post-op, making sure all the sharp objects were properly stored.   Jimmie could barely contain his laughter as he watched me.  Oh sure, he was hugging me and telling me what a great mom I am, but I saw that twinkly glint in his eye that tells me he’s mentally going over the checklist of padded room necessities.  I know inside he was trying not to laugh and what a loon toon we all know I am.

Then we went back to post-op.  And the PA was telling us all the particulars of recovery.  And at the end, I winked at him.  I don’t know why.  It just happened.  My left eye closed in a definite winkish sort of way.  And I wanted to crawl under the bed.  But when he came back, he winked at me!  So I think we have a date now.

And Jordan is fine.  Watching Batman cartoons and sipping on a vanilla milkshake.  Enjoying the benefits of Vicodin.  Wonder if he would consider sharing.

housewife survival guide. for the newlywed.

 

I have a friend who recently decided to give up the greatest freedom ever in exchange for something called nuptial bliss.  I’m talking single-hood people, not living in America.  My friend and her hubby are all cute and lovey and living in the middle of god-forsaken-nowhere-Montana or some place so they can live off the land and just enjoy being alone together or some delusional romantical jest.  Whatever.

Yesterday on her facebook she posts that they are finally getting television services hooked up to their cabin and how exciting it will be to watch something other than Anderson Cooper’s face through a blanket of grayish snow.  And I was so excited for her because last night was the Season Premier of Parenthood and she should probably get caught up on that show to make the drama of married life seem boring to her.  And because I freaking love it.  Yay for fall TV.

Then this morning I wake up to find her posting about now that they have cable and internet, (and oh my God how has she lived this long without the INTERWEBZ?!?!?!)  she isn’t sure if she should watch TV or play online or *GASP* do housework?  And I am immediately “Oh my god woman! Hasn’t anyone taught you the rules of housewifery yet?  Holy Shit let me break it down for you!”  And so here are the rules you guys.  Please make sure to share this with any single women you know.  I fear I may be too late here and she has already spent the first month of marriage doing crazy domestic dilly-dallying which he now expects and OHMYGODTHERE’SNOTURNINGBACK.  How was I not there for my friend before this mess started!?  HEED MY WISDOM!

Basic Rules of Wifery:

1.  Start slow.  This is the most basic rule there is, ladies.  You must pace yourself when you start this out or, let’s face it, your marriage is doomed.

When cooking, burn at least half of the meals you prepare per week.  You may be God’s gift to fine dining, but you need to give that man a wake-up call that this is not his mama’s house and there’s some rough roads ahead.  An occasional meal of PBJ’s also isn’t a bad idea.  This may feel a little beneath you for a few weeks, but  you just have to hold strong.  He needs to look back on these days in a few months and realize you have worked tirelessly hard to improve your skills for him.

Leave crap laying around the house for a while.  Don’t keep things spotless.  Leave a box of tampons out on the bathroom counter.  Leave his socks on the floor for a couple of days.  This puts simple boundaries in place.  You are marking your territory while simultaneously telling him you are not the effing maid and there will be equal work put in around this joint.

Put off doing laundry as long as possible.  (You may have to sneak a small load of your things in while he’s gone to make sure you can outlast him.)  This will ensure that once you do start doing laundry on the regular, but leave it in baskets rather than putting it away, he will not bitch and quite possibly will help put his own crap away.  This is housewife GOLD here folks.

You get the idea by starting slow.  Give yourself a few months to work up to your true self.  By the time he suffers through this time, he will think you’ve worked so hard to become a Grade A housewife, he’ll buy you diamond earrings for your three month anniversary.  It’s truly a win/win.

2.  Don’t spend your whole day doing crap around the house.  Listen, keeping your palace up to a quality living quarters does not take eight hours a day.  You are more than able to spend the first five hours lounging in your jammies and watching the Real Housewives of Everywhere every single day.  It takes three hours, at most, to shower and make yourself pretty (if you’re in to that sort of thing,) wipe off countertops and throw dishes in the dishwasher.  You can then chop up some veggies and throw them in a pan and by the time he gets home things will be smelling like dinner.  Take a few more minutes to throw some hot dogs on there too and it’s a meal.  This is not rocket science.

3.  {This is a mistake I made out of the chutes.  I fear there’s no turning back.  I also think he may have passed it on to the offspring.  Hear my warning!}  Do not find stuff for him.  If he’s missing some paper work and you know right where it is, just point him in the general direction casually.  Don’t, for any reason, go finding crap.  He will then lose his ever-living brain cells and thenceforward go about expecting you to find everything.  I swear to God in a few weeks he will cease lifting single sheets of paper to look under the stack for his own damn car keys.  You cannot let this happen.  Do not let on that your uterus is truly a navigational system for lost items.  This is a secret we must keep to ourselves or we will spend eternity searching for lost socks and someone’s quarterly report.  It’s just not an existence we want to suffer through!

4.  This is the most  important rule.  Do not start doing a certain chore if it is not something you want to be saddled with for the next fifty years.  Imagine for a moment your hubby has spent the first two years tirelessly mowing, edging and weeding your lawn.  Then one day, he has had a particularly long week at the office and you want to help him out and cut the grass for him.  This is a huge mistake!  Fight the urge to rescue your man and make his life easier.  Whatever you do, don’t give in.  As wives, once we give in and do an extra chore once, they automatically assume we’re just going to take over that job for the rest of forever.  That old “give an inch and they’ll take a mile” thing?  That’s 100% TRUE.

5.  This seems like a contradiction of rule number four, but it is actually just a tricky variation on the subject.  Occasionally, you may want to do something around the house that you know he’d like you to take on, but you’re just not willing to shoulder.  Let’s just use the previous example of lawn mowing.  When you cut the grass, do it in a way that has the neighbors wondering what crack-head lawn boy has been butchering your spring green.  Mess up the lines, go in three different direction and maybe take out a shrub or two.  When the hubs has a chance to check out your handiwork, act completely proud of your efforts as well as exhausted.  This will provide a) a chance for him to see that you really do think you’ve done a good job and are completely incapable of EVER doing this again and b)  a reason for him to tell you not to do it again. “Oh honey, that must be a little too strenuous for you, I better keep up on this chore.  WIN/WIN!

I know this may seem a bit underhanded to you newlyweds.  How could one ever be so devious and dishonest in marriage?  Well honey, honesty is the last thing you need in a marriage, trust me!

one. more. week.

In exactly one week, I’ll be sending off my baby child to the big bad world all by himself.  Someone else will be spending the majority of his awake life with him and I’ll just be the lady that makes him cookies (and wipes his butt when he poops.)  In one week full-time kindergarten begins and I will be all alone.

Okay, I know I’m being melodramatic.  I KNOW, OKAY?!?!  You don’t have to look at me that way.  I realize I am totally a drama queen.  But this isn’t my first rodeo, folks.  I have been here before.

{Holy Shit.  As if right on cue, the little rascal is down there hollering and yelling for me to come wipe his butt.  It’s like he wants me to  lose my mind or something.  Why can’t he just wipe his own ass successfully?}

Uhhh… Where was I?  Oh, right.  I have hardly done more than blink since the last time I had to take a kid and drop her off for her first day of Kindergarten, her cute little braided pig-tails flopping in the wind as we stepped up to the portable to meet her teacher.  Since then, it’s been a blur of Crayola crayons and colored pencils and a few moments of sassy-mouthed homework squabbles that lead to this morning’s talk of why sex is so gross.  All that to say, time freaking flies once they enter school and I am not ready to let my baby go.

Someone else will be teaching him all the cool tricks and holding his attention (hopefully!)  Someone else, who I hope is not prettier than me because he still thinks I’m the prettiest girl he knows, will be taking care of my baby while I sit home alone perusing the internet and trying to make something from bitching online.

Wait.  Why am I so upset here?

Oh, because I love my babe to pieces and I’m scared for him.  I know he’s going to love school.  And by school I mean recess and lunch time.  But I’m a little nervous about the rest of it.  And more than that, I know that once they start school, it’s just a blur of time passing and sooner than I can freaking imagine some little hussy is going to waltz into my house wanting to take him away, AND THEN WHAT BITCHES?

Holy crap I need a Xanax.

villagers have more important jobs than raising my kids…

Remember back when I shared my New Year’s Goals? Just like 15 billion other people in the world, I decided to get my flabby ass back into shape. So far, so good. I joined a little club called Jazzercise (I know, I am laughing about that too. And yes, it still exists) and I’ve actually been going.

One of the necessary evils of exercise if you’re a woman of my stature is the sports bra. Sweet lord I hate the sports bra. I mean, I’m glad for it’s benefits and all. When one is a triple D (yes, my boobs come in 3D. ha.) the average sports bra doesn’t quite do the trick. The contraption I have is pretty much 20 layers of spandex and Lycra woven together into a stretchy vise of unprecedented contracting ability.

On the average day, it takes me five minutes to get the damn thing on. I’m not freaking joking. There’s pulling and tugging and tucking and adjusting and just an overall wrestling match between all my appendages. Then there’s the sweat factor. If it takes long enough for me to work up a sweat, it’s all over. I have to just lay on the bed and cool off so I can start over. Lycra + Sweat = No freaking way. I’m so tired by the time I get the thing on I don’t even need to go to Jazzercise. But, I do. Because I already went to all that trouble dammit!

The past couple of weeks, I’m proud to say, I have developed a little system and it’s getting easier. Until yesterday. Yesterday I was running a bit behind but I really just wanted to shower before I left for my class. (I know, why bother??) So, I corralled the kids around a movie and ran to the shower. Approximately four minutes later and ten minutes before my last daycare pick-up I was drying off and dressing for class. Approximately four minutes and thirty seconds later, I realized that showering and then immediately trying to put on the jaws of death in a steamy 3×3 room was the stupidest idea in the history of forever.

The kids (who were watching their movie in my attached bedroom) began knocking on the bathroom door. “Heeeeyyyy, whatcha dooooin in dere?” “What’s all dat bangin arrrouuuuund?” “Are you grrrruuuunting?” “Are you going pooooop?” Holy shitballs of fire, people. 😉 What on earth am I supposed to do here? A parent, a DAD no less, is going to be here in 7 minutes and I am stuck in my bathroom with yoga pants and a sports bra with a brood of curious children camped outside trying to look under the door.

I was sweating bullets in my steamy/sticky bathroom, water dripping out of my hair and causing my already tangled contraption to cement in a tight roll around my neck. It was like every fiber of spandex was trying to choke the life out of me so it could flee and find a B cup to guard. Finally, I decided I need more space. I call out to my daughter to take the kids to her bedroom so I could maneuver in my larger, COOLER bedroom.

Once the coast was clear I hopped, danced and stumbled around my bedroom to get the thing over my head. At one point I stopped to take a breath and realized my arms were pinned above my head in the “sleeves” and I was turning around in backward circles like a deranged dog chasing his invisible tail. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh hysterically or cry.

Then, by some miracle of miracles I got the thing settled around my middle and pulled it up… to discover I had it on backwards. I considered just wearing it, but it’s a racer back and all it succeeded in doing was pushing my boobs out either side and providing an interesting decoration in the middle. (I know, I’m sorry for that visual.)

So, I pull it down, around my hips, turn it around and then tug it back up over my hips and up around my damn boobs. Finally. Then I collapsed on my bed and cried tears of joy and exhaustion and conceded the fact that this damn bra is too small. BUT, I am NOT going to buy a new one because it cost somewhere upwards of a hundred bucks and I am positive that in a few more weeks I’ll be able to fit into it. Right? YES RIGHT. Don’t even bother trying to disagree with me on this! Clearly, until then, I need a freaking crew of village idiots to get me into this thing.

I didn’t even bother taking it off last night. I showered in it and wore it to bed wet. I’ve resolved I am going to be one with this thing until I can get it off without turning blue. Or until it cracks a rib.

the sordid details of my ryan reynolds breakup

I’m not the blogger that generally gives movie reviews, or reviews of any nature for that matter.  Primarily because I really don’t think anyone gives a shit about my opinions about movies or music or art or what have you.  I don’t really even give a shit.

However, tonight? Tonight I witnessed the most horrific display of cinematic refuse I have ever had the misfortune of experiencing.   Quite frankly, I have some feelings;  some emotions, if you will, that I need to get out.  So please, dear reader, don’t approach this moment as an  Ebert-esque review.  Let’s just be honest, this is a chance for me to rant and rave and publicly break up with my long time secret boyfriend for the monstrosity that is… (duh, duh, dummm…) Buried.

{Now is when, if you are planning on disregarding all of my obvious negative feelings about the show and watch it anyway, you should stop reading.   Because, in all truth here, if you watch this movie and like it, we can no longer be friends.  If I am willing to break up with People’s Sexiest Man over this film, I sure as shit am willing to dump your ass on the side of the road with nothing but 50 cents and a corn dog for supporting it.  Period.

I am now about to tell the story line, the plot, the character development, the costume, the casting, the WHOLE enchilada… including the fucking ending.  SO DON’T read on if you are crazy enough to want to watch this idiotic movie on your own – and care about the end.}   SPOILER ALERT. (blah blah blah)

Buried begins in total blackness with some heavy breathing which sounds suspiciously like RR.  Not a bad start… this could go somewhere.  Except of course that it’s called BURIED.  SO I should have known better.  My bad.

It then goes through a series of events that reveals Ryan (I can’t even remember what his character’s name is in this movie – because I don’t freaking care!) has been buried alive by Iraqi insurgents (or something) while being a contract worker in Iraq.  They have kidnapped him and want ransom from America (because that ALWAYS works).  Two long and excruciating hours later, he is almost rescued but then is dead.  Seriously, that is about how it goes.

There’s a snake that he was completely unaware of for half of the movie that suddenly crawls out of his pants leg and he has to fight it off.  There’s a cell phone that he’s using while pleading for his life with some of the most ignorant and annoying people to ever walk the earth. There’s a wife that conveniently leaves her cell phone somewhere on the ONE DAY he needs her and wants to say good-bye from his coffin.  There’s some other useless crap that builds suspense and leads you to believe that MAYBE, JUST MAYBE there might be hope for this poor pansy ass that can’t come up with a way to dig himself out of a shallow grave.  But in the end, it’s all just CRAP.

He dies.  He dies without trying to fight.  He dies while everyone else bugs the shit out of you.  And he dies while help on the other end of the cell phone runs to a buried coffin (that a fellow kidnapper lead them to) only to discover as the last grain of sand chokes out his life,  that it’s some other poor sap that they’ve tried this scam on before.

There is such a lack of depth and purpose and creativity to the whole thing that I just want to KICK MY DOG!  At least Tom Hanks had the sense God gave a turnip to make friends with Wilson on the island to give us something to work with on that one.

The best part?   I know for a fact it cost $5 to produce this film. The entire thing takes place in a box made of rotten, re-purposed barn wood.  There is a cell phone, a zippo and a pocket knife (all belonging to the director,) and there is Ryan.  The major cost was a flash light that must have come from the Dollar Store because it only worked 27% of the time.

I hate my husband for making me watch this, I hate RR for even reading the script, I hate Sandra Bullock for her high pony tail in the Proposal and I HATE THIS FUCKING MOVIE.

holly jolly disorder

{I’d like to preface this by saying, I actually have a few disorders (which are probably real and serious.)  I’m not making light of any true and life-altering afflictions by writing this.  If you suffer from a disorder, I ask you to see this for the fun-poking satirical post it is, and not get your panties all in a wad about my non-disorder.}

 

I Clark Griswol’d the shit out of Christmas this year.  If you’re not a fan of the movie “Christmas Vacation” that may not mean a lot to you so I’ll just break it down like this:  I overdid pretty much everything.  And that, in and of itself, is the way I like to do things.  I can turn the most simple of activities into an epic event.  There will be color-schemed outfits, an itinerary and matching scrapbook templates for whatever situation I choose to  make a family memory out of.  If you’re involved in said event, you better plaster a smile on your face and pretend to enjoy it or I will TAKE YOU OUT.  That alone is a disorder.  What I  can do with that affliction around the Christmas Holiday/Winter Solstice Extravaganza is a damn derangement.

Here’s how it all began… Not once in our nine years of togetherness had the Hubbs and I spent a holiday entirely at home.  There are three families to juggle and at least one of them always feels left out.  So… we RUN.  Some time in the recent past one or more of the kids asked us if Santa even knows where we live.  That was it for me.  The Hubbs and I decided, family drama be damned, Santa’s fitting his fat ass down our chimney this year.  {Nevermind our fireplace is gas.}  Sometime around Halloween it was official and I began planning.

We invited one side of my in-laws to join us – mom, dad and two sisters-in-law, plus an awesome golden lab type dog.  {I dunno- she’s big and lopey and cute.}  This was going to be EPIC.  (That word just cracks me up when used to describe… pretty much anything.)

In case I forgot to mention it, I’m totally Clark  Griswold.  I’m Clark on a year that we won’t even be home.  A year when I get to be hostess and my home is the North Pole of family Christmas gatherings?  Well, I’m just fucking nuts!  We had the most gorgeous Christmas trees.  (Yes, that’s plural.)  I spent my kids’ college funds on gifts I’m pretty sure they still haven’t even seen yet.  I spent THREE DAYS pouring over cookbooks and websites determining our Christmas Eve and Day Menus.  I can’t say it any way other than I lost my freaking mind.   AND IT WAS EPIC.

And then… Christmas came and went in a fucking blur.  There is just no other way to put it.  I started decorating the house a couple of days after Thanksgiving and I finished on Christmas Eve.  I spent the holiday season running around like a damn lunatic.  I loved every moment.  Never you mind my back was so out of whack I couldn’t even bend over without looking like Betty White after the Boston Marathon {oh yah- she’s a runner}.  No need to even mention I had a bit of a cold coming on and was in severe danger of being the Typhoid Mary of the birth of the Christchild.  None of it mattered.  I existed on four hours of sleep and the adrenaline rush of being Mrs.  Claus and Betty freaking Crocker all rolled into one.  AND IT WAS EPIC.

Then… it happened.  The final meal was consumed.   Most of the Christmas mess was somewhat contained.  And I fell apart at the seams.  I developed the Holiday Hangover from Hell.  {I only had one glass of wine with dinner.  Oh- and a couple of mimosas earlier.  None of that is of any consequence.}  This was a Holly.Jolly.Hang.Over.

The Hubbs calls it my Post-Christmas Depression.

That cold I’d been staving off hit like a mac truck.  My back literally just fell right out of my ass.  I sat around on the couch for two and a half days looking dazed and confused and I still can’t walk from one room of the house to the next without wondering why the hell I came in here in the first place.

I can’t bring myself to take down the Christmas decorations because I just can’t believe it’s over.  My Christmas tree consists of bare branches with a pool of needles at its base and it looks lovelier than ever with the ornaments just tinking in the wind.  Never mind it could go up in flames at any moment because I refuse to turn the lights off.  It holds the memories of laughter and HOLY-SHIT-HOW-MUCH-MONEY-DID-WE-SPEND and marks the first and BEST Christmas we’ve ever had as a family at home.  I freaking LOVED having Christmas here.  I know I became a prisoner of materialism and overdoing it.  I promise to tone it down next year {maybe}.  I’ll try not to have a holly jolly hangover for three days.  There are no guarantees.  None.  I just can’t wait to do it again.

I hope your celebrational debauchery was equally hangover inducing.  Happy New Year.  I look forward to sharing my resolutions with you.  #1 on the list will be… earn real hangovers.  {okay, maybe not #1}

a few tidbits…

First of all, tidbits sounds kind of like a dirty word to me.  I don’t know…

So I have been writing blogs in my head for days now, and none of them are well formed pieces of artwork but I have to get them out of my head before I explode.  This is going to be the most random and ill formed blog post you ever read.   Raise your hand if you’re surprised.

Let’s start with the most ridiculous.  And inappropriately, horribly, TMI.  (which I kind of feel bad about.)  Saturday night, late, I started my period.  Again.  God, why won’t it just go away?  I’ve been in menopause for three years now.  GOD.

Anywho, for some godforsaken reason I didn’t have necessities. Neither Jim or I were in a position to be driving to the store in the middle of the night.  Because we are lazy sloths.  So, I decide I’d use one of the 500,000 diapers that I have hanging around the house as a horribly sucky necessity {not sure why I can’t just say the word} for the night and then swing by the store on the way to church Sunday morning.  {I know, crazy.  We actually made a repeat appearance.}  I got the crappiest night of sleep ever. Probably because I can’t even wear a pad so why the hell I thought I could wear a freaking diaper is beyond me.  But, I suffered through it and schlepped the family to church Sunday morning.

We, of course, were running behind so I decided to just take one for the team and not stop at the store.  I was sure the church would have one of those machines in the bathroom and I could just deal with it once I got there.  Apparently, the Presbyterians don’t believe in necessities because there was no goddamned machine.  Whatever.  Jesus wouldn’t mind and I was kind of getting used to the thing.  And I was all hopped up on pain killers.

I’m pretty sure there are saints in heaven based on the sacrifices they made to get their heathen family into God’s house.  Add little old me to that list.  I win.

So… while we’re on the subject of the lord, I’ll just say that I am pretty darn proud of the impropers for our rediscovered devotion to the jesus.   Whatever.  We’re still just us, but we like going to this church.  Except for the fact that I am just an emotional wreck 100% of the time that we’re there.  I cried like a freaking moron during most of the thing.  I am totally not a crier.  Anymore.  I think I was just teary because I was sitting in a diaper.  Who wouldn’t cry whilst sitting in a diaper in God’s house and taking communion.  Duh.

I did come to peace with something at some point after my diaper clad communion experience and I think you should know this too.  In case you should ever, you know, need to know this about me.  Like for a pop quiz or something.  I am a real pain in the ass when it comes to rumors.  If I hear something about someone I know, I always have to investigate.  I need to know if what I’m hearing is true or not.  And if I know something I’ve heard is not necessarily the most accurate of information, I can’t rest until I know that it’s squared away.  I guess it’s because I know how much it can really hurt if people think they know something about you and really don’t know the half of it.  Or don’t know the why.  Or whatever.  I just have a hangup.  OKAY?!?!  So I’m not really a good person to tell secret information to.  But I am a kick-ass pal to have around if someone didn’t get their story straight and it needs to be resolved.  So just put that in your hat and wear it around like a feather.  The Hubbs says that I just need to relax and mind my own freaking business but I have a hard time with that.  And I don’t know for sure that it’s something I really want to spend my energy to change.  I think it’s a reasonably good quality.  Especially when I’m wearing a diaper.

sundays aren’t just for football anymore.

I’m going to attempt to write about a semi-serious subject without offending anyone… which means I’ve started, deleted and restarted this post about 700 times.  So I’m just going to jump right in there and say this:

The “Impropers” attended church for the first time in about eight years today.  I won’t bore you with the details of Mr. Improper and my previous church experiences that have led up to our absence from the place for the past eight years.  I’ll just tell you that after literally living every single day of our lives revolving around church in a cult-like atmosphere for our whole adult lives, eight years was a welcome reprieve away.  And we have a lot of misconceptions and baggage.  And we are getting past all that.

We have been batting around the idea of going back to church for a few months- in all honesty, mostly for the sake of the kids.  But every time we remember how it’s gone when we’ve had this wild idea before, and that idea quickly just gets shelved.  {I should clarify, we have been to church 4 times in these years.  Aside from one Catholic mass on Christmas Eve, we’ve never stayed for the whole thing.  I told you… baggage.}  Anywho, I’m not sure what got into me, but last night around 8:00 I decided it was time, and the Hubbs lovingly agreed to go.  What a guy.

We both woke up this morning with an array of feelings.  I felt like a kid on the first day of school and Hubbs was just bajiggity about pretty much everything.  We were both our own respective wreck.  And the thing that just bugged me to death was that we were the stereotypical “newcomers” that I witnessed Sunday after Sunday my whole damn life.  “I’m a freaking professional church-goer. Why the hell do I feel like this?” just kept going through my brain on a loop.  But I pushed through, tried not to yell and scream at the kids the whole way out the door (to avoid being that stereotype-) which I failed at, and we managed to make it to the church parking lot with 4 minutes to spare.

For the first time, we made it through the whole thing.  Granted, there were a few moments when I wasn’t sure… my Little Man wasn’t so sure about his Sunday School class and we almost got to use that as an opportunity to bolt, but we didn’t.  And the pastor was on the normal side.  No one spoke in tongues or knocked anyone over and prophesied to us… that was a bonus.  And it was the most normal, peaceful Sunday Morning experience I’ve had in a very, very long time.  I honestly didn’t realize how much I was needing the normalcy of packing the kids off and taking them to church.

And then it was over and we picked up the kids from their classes and the Hubbs all but dragged us to the car by our hair to get the hell out of there!  I can’t remember the last time I saw him move that fast.  No one, and I mean  no. one. was going to introduce us to the welcoming committee or invite us to lunch or ask us our names on this, our first Sunday this side of heathendom, and live to tell about it.

And, as far as we can tell, it looks like some Sundays might include a little more than football for the Impropers.  And I think I’m okay with that.   Go figure.

 

if your aunt had balls she’d be your uncle

So the other morning I woke up with a catchy little tune in my head.  Not a song tune per say, but a little sing-songy ditty that spent the better part of the day DRIVING ME NUTS.  Worse than the nagging tune was the fact that I knew some of the words but not all of them.  So I decided to google what I knew of it and see what happened.

Dear Google,
Can you please tell me anything you know of that sounds a little something like this?
“If [blank] and [blank] were [blank] and [blank] then [blank].”

And, do you know what?  The GOOG knew what the hell I was talking about!  Bing could not have handled that!

Turns out that “If ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts we’d all have a Merry Christmas.”  I don’t know where the hell I heard that.  I mean, who the heck says that?  Probably my gramma.  God that woman was awesome!

The Goog also turned me onto this one: “If your Aunt had balls then she’d be your Uncle.”  Wise insight.

But dammit that stuck in my head ALL DAY.  Then at dinner I couldn’t hold it in any longer.  I just blurted it out like a turret’s sufferer all cracked up on caffeinated sugar.  My daughter looked at me like I sprouted another head.  “MOM!  That is INAPPROPRIATE!”  I just giggled.  And then said it again.  And Again.  About 25 times over the course of the rest of the night.  It was like a 12 year-old boy took over my mouth and I just couldn’t stop.

Finally, when we were all sitting around watching TV and winding down for the night, my little man put an end to my adolescent shenanigans.  I just had to say it one last time.  And his response,

“Mom, I’m touching my bawls right now!”

Well, shame on me for opening this can of worms.  Someone should put some fricking soap in my brain!

oh sweet lord… did she just really write a blog about this??? {uh yah, she did. good god.}

I can NOT stress  the following disclaimer/warning enough:

If you are a man, you most definitely DO NOT want to read this. As a matter of fact, if you are a woman you probably don’t want to either, but If you are a man  and you read this, I will not be held responsible for it’s long-term effects on your psyche.

If you know me at all, you know I have no shame, which is why I am about to share this with you.  I have a serious problem right now.  Actually, I  have a serious problem tri-fecta.  I am currently in the middle of

  1. my Period.  No big deal, right?  This happens all the freaking time and I so know how to handle it.  Except when it is coupled with
  2. a yeast infection.  Remember my trip to the dentist.  That resulted in antibiotics.  Those cause bad things to happen in the nether regions.  Which I don’t understand but can absolutely attest to.
  3. There is no third problem.  I realize a tri-fecta implies three elements  but, seriously?  Did you read #1 and #2.  Need there be more?  Those two things combined are a tri-fecta like none other, and I don’t care if you like it or not.

There are no words to describe the anguish.  No words to convey the torture.

My lady parts are just not anything like they’ve ever been in their life.   It hurts so bad to pee that I literally squat above the toilet to try to keep anything from touching anything so as to prevent as much of the burning as possible.

If I didn’t know better… I would suspect I have herpes or something.  Can you get that from a public toilet because I did just recently use one in a Costco and it wasn’t looking so good.  OH MY GOD.  I also lent some pants to a friend and I’m not sure if she wears panties.  I know I don’t.  And I’m also not positive if she is Herpes Negative.  (I know I Am.  Or at least I used to be.)  JesusMaryandJoseph, can you freaking get Herpes from going commando in pants that a Herpes infested rounder went commando in?  Does anyone know the answer to this?  Is this how I’m going to “come out” of the herpes closet?  {I swear to freaking god honey, if I have Herpes, THIS is how I got it!!!}

So anyway, assuming this IS just the most god awful yeast infection paired with the period from hell, I decided I had to do SOMETHING drastic to stop the pain.  The kids were starting to get a little freaked out by the weird “pee pee dance” Ms.  Keli was doing all day long today.   So I think back on the only other time I’ve ever had an incurable yeast infection and what they told me to do.  I was pregnant with Elle.  {I don’t know why I feel you need to know that.  Yet there it is.}

They told me to do two things.  One was… wait for it… apply plain yogurt to the affected area.  Errr…. that’s a negatory folks.  Not gonna happen.

The other was to take a bath in either really cold, or really hot water.  I can’t remember which.   Makes sense for it to be really cold.  I mean, in this situation, really hot water could produce a loaf of bread for all I know.  So maybe it’s really cold.  Must be.  But then, I go to run my really cold bath and decide that WonderBread be damned, I am NOT taking a freaking cold bath.  So I run it really hot.

I burned my feet.  I burned my knees.  I burned my ass.

But I think it helped my problemo tri-fecta and I thought you all should know too.