Sex. I am fully aware that sex is not the highlight of a marriage. But right now, it seems like it is. It's there, the holy grail of full fledged adulthood. I can see it peaking at me from dusty corners and poopy toilet lids. It hides in the grease film that engulfs my head and the toe hairs that feel the need to party. It taunts me playing catch-me-if-you-can. And because it's so close and so unachievable, I think about it ALL. DAY. LONG.
I JUST WANT TO FEEL LIKE A WOMAN. With lady bits. Who is in a relationship with somebody who thinks my lady bits are neat.
And you know, I am in this relationship with this man who knows what a spanking is. And he thinks my lady bits are pretty neat. (At least he used to. It's been so long I'm not even sure he knows what lady bits are anymore.)
We do all the right things. Write messages on pieces of paper that float around in the dustbowl aka our mole hole aka the place we call home. We even use our phones, because a picture is worth a thousand words. And sometimes words are worth as many words as you typed. We smile at each other nicely. We talk (in person) how wonderful it would be to "play that old banjo" and "eat at the clam bake" and "fox trot around the world" and "twist and shout". We talk about it all. With smiles of course.
But here's the problem.
WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS NAME, WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS GAME
For real. I have another baby. And all of that ^^^^^ is true. Without an ounce of writers exaggeration.
And so all the time that I could be spending "filling up the old urn" and "walking the bat cave" I instead spend feeding forever my first love child. (For real, he is my first love child. *sigh* *giggle* that was fun. A time when my body was a wonderland. And sleep was optional. And overrated. And sometimes, downright stupid.) And washing dishes for Big D because he's never home. And sometimes I like to show him that I love him. And homeschooling. And laundry and cleaning the pee pool that collects at the back of my toilet. Laundry. And enzyming the poop stains away. And making up things to eat, because that takes a real artist. Especially when you don't go grocery shopping. You would think that my baby weight might have dwindled. Not an ounce. Not. One. Bloody. Ounce. It's stuck. And boy, do I feel like a woman. Well, surfacely. My thighs not only touch each other. They smoosh and smack and dimple. And when I walk they do their own dance. Actually, everything does its own dance. Quite an interesting sensation . . . .bunny trailllllll .......................And I spend money. Because apparently I stress spend money. And amazon prime is secretly my lover. And poor Big D is stuck smack in the middle of it. Too tired to yell at me. And too in love with me since I washed his dishes.
It's dreadful. I sit and feed WW and then just think. Think about all the neat things I should look up to see if AP has it. Did you know that almonds are amazing? As in superfood amazing. And they make really good milk for WW. Because apparently my super power right now is making milk. But did you know that raw almonds aren't really raw. At least in the US. They have to be pasteurized. And that happens with either a steam process that cooks most of the goodness away. Or, with a chemical toxic waste fumigation bath. And so if you want almonds, simple simple almonds. With all the goodness that they're supposed to come with, you have to dig hard to make sure you're getting plain old almonds. How incredibly stupid is that. I JUST WANT A BLOODY ALMOND! Straight from the tree. Pick the damn almond and hand it over. Apparently, it can't be done. Sorry WW, you have to have half-ass milk.
So that's the trouble I get in, just by pulling out my milk bags. But I do want to tell you some good news. We (Big D and I) found a time to have our genitalia go a courting. It actually happened.
Dinner was sizzling on the stove, at the verge of being done (sausage. No pun intended. For real.) The kids were 5 minutes from the end of their movie they were watching, WW was at the very last seconds of his evening nap, and Friday Friends were to arrive at any moment. Yes, all of this was happening, and it was the most prime(al) time to reacquaint ourselves.
Does it count if you lift the lid of a garbage dumpster, peak inside at all the goodies, snatch one thing, and then leave . . . does that count as dumpster diving?
And I'll leave you to figure out what all of that means. It's not too difficult. But I will say, that's how incredibly awesome it was. (sarcasm dripping like a diarrhea explosion)
I'll end with this: there is always hope. That's my take away. And my two cents. And my best advice. And the coolest thing I could come up with to say. And what I really believe.
Because if I didn't believe that, there would be no reason at all to try again. To be and do my absolute best. And so I make the conscious choice to choose to hope.
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Wonder No More
Oh, it's happened. The thing that parents - probably more so mothers, than fathers - expect, know, is bound to happen. Someway or another. That really awkward happening. Where you don't know how to prepare for it. Or even know how you're going to respond to it. You just hope that all the stars align and make it, the "happening", happen as smoothly as will allow.
This past weekend came straight out of heaven. The weather, that is. 80 F. With full sun. So much hope glittered that day. I was feeling needy, as usual. And Big D thought it incredibly appropriate to do his best at avoiding the fact that I needed a Dr. Pepper right then and there, on the spot.
You might be thinking I sound a little bratty at this point. But I can assure you - I was not bratty. At least in the beginning.
We stopped at the grocer after church. (Yup, went to church) Big D needed to get milk and pickles.(another long, ridiculous story) I asked him to also grab some Dr. Pepper. My tongue was drowning in saliva, just from the thought of chemicals and cancer.
Now, I don't think it's very good natured of a wife to ask . . . *real whiney voice* "did you get milk? did you get pickles? did you get Dr. Pepper?" when he gets back to the car. It's 3 items. I expect that a grown, reasonably minded-man can remember 3 things. And I should really restrain all my nagginess.
So I restrained. And it wasn't even hard for me.
I even let him eat his lunch before I brought up my Dr. Pepper. And by bringing up, it was just a simple "where did you put the Dr. Pepper?"
And the next part, is the part in the story where I roared. And displayed everything so natural and unlovely that every woman possess. I think I stomped once or twice. And made some ugly faces. Maybe some curse words thrown in for good measure. And demanded. DEMANDED, immediate action.
Even with the fine display of displeasure and urgency, Big D still thought it was appropriate to ride his bike to fetch the forgotten beverage.
And what's a girl to do? He already made up his mind. He wanted to ride his bike. He knew I was beyond rabid tiger-like. There's only so much of a fit that can be thrown over something as childish as a drink.
So I chose to trust that Big D would move his very-out-of-shape legs, very fast the few miles and mountain he needed to ride. (I'm working on trust) (that's why I didn't naggy ask at the grocer, the first time, if he had remembered everything)
Let me tell you, I really think only 7 minutes went by before he was back in the house. Puffing, red-faced and slightly miserable looking.
And I looked as pleased as a spoiled brat on Christmas - waiting for my pony to be presented.
............................................................
Um..................Yup, the "pony" was left at the stable. Because somebody forgot to bring their wallet.
And then I shut down. Because you can only get so mad before it becomes too emotionally exhausting.
I felt a little bad for Big D. . . . .butmorebadforme.
The third time, he drove. And remembered. And by the time he got back, I was so relieved. And needy. He was so pumped full of anger, frustration, and testosterone - that we agreed to take care of business. Adult style.
To set the tone: 80 degrees, sunny and bright, middle of the afternoon, windows open, both kids outside - and had been outside for awhile - playing like kings and queens.
At this point, the adult as to make a choice. Go out and tell the children to NOT come inside unless there is blood oozing from some body. Or, believe in fairy tales and all things false and movie-like and just do "it" because the chances of the kids coming inside on this incredible day - are slim to none.
We chose choice B - believe in farty-tales.
And with that choice, we then had to make another choice. Close the bedroom door, and have no warning of when child A or child B or child A and B could come barging in. Or choose to keep the bedroom door open so that we could hear the little warning pitter-patters and apply appropriate coverage.
Once again, we chose choice B. Keep door open.
I also will preface the next part with the key point, that the consummation of our marriage, plan - was indeed going to happen fast. In other words, a "quickie". Two minutes - tops.
1:27 seconds - we hear the toilet lid slam down and the faucet turned on.
For those of you that have been to our mole-hole, you know very well that the bathroom door is directly across from our bedroom door.
List of thoughts and actions that happened in the next .005683 seconds:
1) How did any child walk by our door without me seeing them
2) It must be Murnice, because she can be stealth like
3) But that slamming of the lid was definitely boyish
4) Panic from Big D
5) Hysterical giggling from me
6) Very nervous "what do we do?!" from Big D
7) "They've already seen everything, so just hold still" from me
8) Audible yell from me, "nice job kids"
And then I found out it was just Ed. I really really think an angel carried him into the house, plopped him on the toilet, and caught his pee in his own angel hands - because there is just no other explanation as to how a bumbling, chatty-Kath, trippy-slap-feeted, pigpie - almost 3 year old boy could have walked through my house (hard wood floors) past my bedroom door, and peed without a scent of a sound.
When I yelled, "nice job kids", Ed interpreted that as "come into the bedroom and take a good peaksy. And while you're at it, lets talk for awhile."
"Hey dad, why are you snuggling with mom? Can you get Murny the gum down. She wants the gum. Mom, I see your ninnies. Haha, dad - you have a big butt. Can you get the gum. It's in the garage. It's too high." etc - for another 2 minutes. Just round and round. "Gum" - meaning Big D's cross bow. . . . . (I feel like I should be a disclaimer here that says, we have never allowed our children to play or use the cross bow. Or any cross bow.)
So I finally said, "Ed, daddy wants to spend time with mama's boobies" (earlier that week, he and Murnice got into a verbal altercation over what Dad liked better - boobies or nipples. I don't think that's ever a phone call, over lunch, you expect to get from your kids. . . . . . Dad picked boobs - for the sake of the children. Don't judge what happens over here in this family. I have bizarre children)
And then he snickered a few more times about things that strike a 2-year-old as humorous, and finally left.
Approximately 21 seconds later, I HEARD (this time) both blessings come into the house, and tramp down the hallway.
I start whisper screaming "THEY'RE COMING!!!!!!" And I'm not sure if Big D was taking the scripture of "doing everything as unto the Lord" aka giving it your all and applying it at that moment. Or . . . . if he just didn't care. Or . . . .if there was no level of comprehension of "they're coming" ...................................
. . . . . Yup . . . . . . .and then we had 2 kids in the bedroom with us. Giggling at the-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words, display.
Things I am grateful for:
1) The modest position we chose to consumate
2) That we don't ever have to waste another speck of a wonder, dreading the "great reveal"
3) That the children do not seem to be struggling from any forms of PTSD, OR have asked any questions
4) That Big D and I were able to not "be weird" causing confusion and tears
And now I'm going to run away, and not make eye contact with anybody for awhile.
This past weekend came straight out of heaven. The weather, that is. 80 F. With full sun. So much hope glittered that day. I was feeling needy, as usual. And Big D thought it incredibly appropriate to do his best at avoiding the fact that I needed a Dr. Pepper right then and there, on the spot.
You might be thinking I sound a little bratty at this point. But I can assure you - I was not bratty. At least in the beginning.
We stopped at the grocer after church. (Yup, went to church) Big D needed to get milk and pickles.(another long, ridiculous story) I asked him to also grab some Dr. Pepper. My tongue was drowning in saliva, just from the thought of chemicals and cancer.
Now, I don't think it's very good natured of a wife to ask . . . *real whiney voice* "did you get milk? did you get pickles? did you get Dr. Pepper?" when he gets back to the car. It's 3 items. I expect that a grown, reasonably minded-man can remember 3 things. And I should really restrain all my nagginess.
So I restrained. And it wasn't even hard for me.
I even let him eat his lunch before I brought up my Dr. Pepper. And by bringing up, it was just a simple "where did you put the Dr. Pepper?"
And the next part, is the part in the story where I roared. And displayed everything so natural and unlovely that every woman possess. I think I stomped once or twice. And made some ugly faces. Maybe some curse words thrown in for good measure. And demanded. DEMANDED, immediate action.
Even with the fine display of displeasure and urgency, Big D still thought it was appropriate to ride his bike to fetch the forgotten beverage.
And what's a girl to do? He already made up his mind. He wanted to ride his bike. He knew I was beyond rabid tiger-like. There's only so much of a fit that can be thrown over something as childish as a drink.
So I chose to trust that Big D would move his very-out-of-shape legs, very fast the few miles and mountain he needed to ride. (I'm working on trust) (that's why I didn't naggy ask at the grocer, the first time, if he had remembered everything)
Let me tell you, I really think only 7 minutes went by before he was back in the house. Puffing, red-faced and slightly miserable looking.
And I looked as pleased as a spoiled brat on Christmas - waiting for my pony to be presented.
............................................................
Um..................Yup, the "pony" was left at the stable. Because somebody forgot to bring their wallet.
And then I shut down. Because you can only get so mad before it becomes too emotionally exhausting.
I felt a little bad for Big D. . . . .butmorebadforme.
The third time, he drove. And remembered. And by the time he got back, I was so relieved. And needy. He was so pumped full of anger, frustration, and testosterone - that we agreed to take care of business. Adult style.
To set the tone: 80 degrees, sunny and bright, middle of the afternoon, windows open, both kids outside - and had been outside for awhile - playing like kings and queens.
At this point, the adult as to make a choice. Go out and tell the children to NOT come inside unless there is blood oozing from some body. Or, believe in fairy tales and all things false and movie-like and just do "it" because the chances of the kids coming inside on this incredible day - are slim to none.
We chose choice B - believe in farty-tales.
And with that choice, we then had to make another choice. Close the bedroom door, and have no warning of when child A or child B or child A and B could come barging in. Or choose to keep the bedroom door open so that we could hear the little warning pitter-patters and apply appropriate coverage.
Once again, we chose choice B. Keep door open.
I also will preface the next part with the key point, that the consummation of our marriage, plan - was indeed going to happen fast. In other words, a "quickie". Two minutes - tops.
1:27 seconds - we hear the toilet lid slam down and the faucet turned on.
For those of you that have been to our mole-hole, you know very well that the bathroom door is directly across from our bedroom door.
List of thoughts and actions that happened in the next .005683 seconds:
1) How did any child walk by our door without me seeing them
2) It must be Murnice, because she can be stealth like
3) But that slamming of the lid was definitely boyish
4) Panic from Big D
5) Hysterical giggling from me
6) Very nervous "what do we do?!" from Big D
7) "They've already seen everything, so just hold still" from me
8) Audible yell from me, "nice job kids"
And then I found out it was just Ed. I really really think an angel carried him into the house, plopped him on the toilet, and caught his pee in his own angel hands - because there is just no other explanation as to how a bumbling, chatty-Kath, trippy-slap-feeted, pigpie - almost 3 year old boy could have walked through my house (hard wood floors) past my bedroom door, and peed without a scent of a sound.
When I yelled, "nice job kids", Ed interpreted that as "come into the bedroom and take a good peaksy. And while you're at it, lets talk for awhile."
"Hey dad, why are you snuggling with mom? Can you get Murny the gum down. She wants the gum. Mom, I see your ninnies. Haha, dad - you have a big butt. Can you get the gum. It's in the garage. It's too high." etc - for another 2 minutes. Just round and round. "Gum" - meaning Big D's cross bow. . . . . (I feel like I should be a disclaimer here that says, we have never allowed our children to play or use the cross bow. Or any cross bow.)
So I finally said, "Ed, daddy wants to spend time with mama's boobies" (earlier that week, he and Murnice got into a verbal altercation over what Dad liked better - boobies or nipples. I don't think that's ever a phone call, over lunch, you expect to get from your kids. . . . . . Dad picked boobs - for the sake of the children. Don't judge what happens over here in this family. I have bizarre children)
And then he snickered a few more times about things that strike a 2-year-old as humorous, and finally left.
Approximately 21 seconds later, I HEARD (this time) both blessings come into the house, and tramp down the hallway.
I start whisper screaming "THEY'RE COMING!!!!!!" And I'm not sure if Big D was taking the scripture of "doing everything as unto the Lord" aka giving it your all and applying it at that moment. Or . . . . if he just didn't care. Or . . . .if there was no level of comprehension of "they're coming" ...................................
. . . . . Yup . . . . . . .and then we had 2 kids in the bedroom with us. Giggling at the-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words, display.
Things I am grateful for:
1) The modest position we chose to consumate
2) That we don't ever have to waste another speck of a wonder, dreading the "great reveal"
3) That the children do not seem to be struggling from any forms of PTSD, OR have asked any questions
4) That Big D and I were able to not "be weird" causing confusion and tears
And now I'm going to run away, and not make eye contact with anybody for awhile.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
You Can't Win Them All
It has been on my heart more and more - eating healthy.
I don't mean, drinking my milk and eating my greens. Because I don't do either of those things.
What I mean is, looking more into the quality of the food I'm eating. Going back to basics. Real material. Grandparent traditions. You know, junk like that.
Just because it's been on my heart, doesn't mean that I'm doing it all-together-now, style. I'm doing a lot of reading and researching. What will work best with my personality and our lifestyle. . . . .
I'd like to thank Mother Green Toes and The Prairie Homestead for kicking starting me. There are so many exciting things out there that I had no idea existed. Like eating dirt. And other things, that I did know about - but have never read an article that gave me the down-and-dirty (no pun intended), solid facts about - say, . . . . the health benefits of squatting while turding.
Moving on . . . .
With that being said, in the middle of all this exciting reading that I've been doing, Big D and I have really been get. ting. it. on. So much so, that there has been an alteration in my Ph level, leading to a collection of more yeast than normal. *ahem*
Ladies, let me encourage you to stop rummaging through your chemical drawers, and start looking on your kitchen counters. All's you need is a little of God's green earth crammed up into some-man's-land for relief and healing.
Healer of choice: fresh garlic cloves. Peeled of course. It smells incredibly divine. And makes me dream of fresh bread.
Midwife also suggested: taking shots of apple cider vinegar.
Ok, unbeknownst to the world (and Big D) I have been thinking about this for awhile. But it sounds overwhelming. And Easter eggish. And oh, so sour. And chore-ish.
But given the choice of being a walking bread machine, or not . . . .I'll take my shot. With a happy heart.
I have never (I say this with truth) felt more like a queen. The rush it provided. Screams came out involuntarily. Arms lost complete control, and flapped like a bird on crack. It gave me more of a rush than skinny-dipping at an illegal location with 3 male friends in the middle of winter. Would. (Did).
Yes. I will be doing this every night. And ANY time I need to feel alive.
So, with garlic cloves and apple cider vinegar under my belt (no pun intended) - I'm really starting to feel like I'm moving somewhere.
The next step was (yes, I said was) to take some fermented cod liver oil every day. It's such a small amount. And the benefits alone would want to make anyone open up and swallow.
The kind of CLO I got - recommended to me by none other than, M.G.T (she is the queen of CLO) ALSO had coconut oil (health) and butter oil (wealth) (not really, just more health - and a bonus of oral health - which is great, because I don't go to the dentist. Long story.) in it.
Today was the day to crack open the bottle. No reason why I chose today. Probably because I was feeling so brave from my shot of ACV.
I did take a whiff before scooping my spoonful, (It was a solid, because of the coconut oil) which caused me to stare long and hard at that spoonful. Thinking all sorts of encouraging and positive hogwash. And then I said, "it can't be that bad." And crammed it into my mouth.
At that precise moment:
a) I thought I was going to die
b) The phone rang
c) I started to gag and dry heave
d) Ed started screaming
I refused to spit it down the drain - because it cost so much money. And so I started to frantically flail around the kitchen looking for a suitable dish to spit it into. Now, once the offensive rotting fish liver is out of your mouth - it really isn't out of your mouth. CLO mixed with coconut and butter oil - makes the thickest, most liquid-resistant coating known in the scientific world. It also, somehow, swims up into your nasal passages.
You can gag and dry-heave all you want. Blow your nose. Cram your mouth full of chocolate cookies. It's there to stay. And you just have to go with it.
I answered the phone while cough-gagging. Took care of screaming Ed. And had 17 nightmares. About what to do with my daily allotment of CLO.
I decided the next step, was to make a smoothie. All sorts of yummy things. Liver juice included. I mixed it real good. Smelled it multiple times. I didn't gag. I tasted it. Didn't gag. In fact, I couldn't taste Nemo's guts at all.
Oh, I was feeling real proud. Until I got to the bottom of the barrel. Only to see that the oil had hardened onto the bottom of my blender. You know, with all the frozen fruits and ice cubes. . . . (idiot)
Two tries for a day equaled enough turmoil. And so I melted it with hot water and dumped it down the drain.
Except, when you mix fermented cod liver oil with hot water - you get a fine blast of death, in the face. That permeates throughout the entire kitchen. And fresh mingles with the old minglers - up your nose.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 2.
The cold water only hardened up the oil, which clogged the sink. Leaving me to have to reinstate the hot water.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 3.
I finally dumped about a gallon of clorox down the drain. And that seemed to neutralize the air enough to breath some.
I can honestly say:
1) I'm not giving up yet. One more recipe to try - and if that doesn't work, I'm going to choose to be ok with throwing it in the trash.
2) That was the worst thing I have ever, ever tasted and or smelled. It had me begging for my old offensive list of: coconut water, beets, fish eggs, and . . . . splooge. (TMI?)
3) You can't win them all.
My health-aware goals for the next couple of weeks/months:
To make my own bread
To make my own yogurt
To make elderberry elixer
To make vanilla extract
To make dishwasher tablets
To continue to be aware of what I'm eating. How is it being made? What the heckity heck is in it?
P.S. I can still taste fish lube. It must be stuck to my lips. They feel extraordinarily smooth.
I don't mean, drinking my milk and eating my greens. Because I don't do either of those things.
What I mean is, looking more into the quality of the food I'm eating. Going back to basics. Real material. Grandparent traditions. You know, junk like that.
Just because it's been on my heart, doesn't mean that I'm doing it all-together-now, style. I'm doing a lot of reading and researching. What will work best with my personality and our lifestyle. . . . .
I'd like to thank Mother Green Toes and The Prairie Homestead for kicking starting me. There are so many exciting things out there that I had no idea existed. Like eating dirt. And other things, that I did know about - but have never read an article that gave me the down-and-dirty (no pun intended), solid facts about - say, . . . . the health benefits of squatting while turding.
Moving on . . . .
With that being said, in the middle of all this exciting reading that I've been doing, Big D and I have really been get. ting. it. on. So much so, that there has been an alteration in my Ph level, leading to a collection of more yeast than normal. *ahem*
Ladies, let me encourage you to stop rummaging through your chemical drawers, and start looking on your kitchen counters. All's you need is a little of God's green earth crammed up into some-man's-land for relief and healing.
Healer of choice: fresh garlic cloves. Peeled of course. It smells incredibly divine. And makes me dream of fresh bread.
Midwife also suggested: taking shots of apple cider vinegar.
Ok, unbeknownst to the world (and Big D) I have been thinking about this for awhile. But it sounds overwhelming. And Easter eggish. And oh, so sour. And chore-ish.
But given the choice of being a walking bread machine, or not . . . .I'll take my shot. With a happy heart.
I have never (I say this with truth) felt more like a queen. The rush it provided. Screams came out involuntarily. Arms lost complete control, and flapped like a bird on crack. It gave me more of a rush than skinny-dipping at an illegal location with 3 male friends in the middle of winter. Would. (Did).
Yes. I will be doing this every night. And ANY time I need to feel alive.
So, with garlic cloves and apple cider vinegar under my belt (no pun intended) - I'm really starting to feel like I'm moving somewhere.
The next step was (yes, I said was) to take some fermented cod liver oil every day. It's such a small amount. And the benefits alone would want to make anyone open up and swallow.
The kind of CLO I got - recommended to me by none other than, M.G.T (she is the queen of CLO) ALSO had coconut oil (health) and butter oil (wealth) (not really, just more health - and a bonus of oral health - which is great, because I don't go to the dentist. Long story.) in it.
Today was the day to crack open the bottle. No reason why I chose today. Probably because I was feeling so brave from my shot of ACV.
I did take a whiff before scooping my spoonful, (It was a solid, because of the coconut oil) which caused me to stare long and hard at that spoonful. Thinking all sorts of encouraging and positive hogwash. And then I said, "it can't be that bad." And crammed it into my mouth.
At that precise moment:
a) I thought I was going to die
b) The phone rang
c) I started to gag and dry heave
d) Ed started screaming
I refused to spit it down the drain - because it cost so much money. And so I started to frantically flail around the kitchen looking for a suitable dish to spit it into. Now, once the offensive rotting fish liver is out of your mouth - it really isn't out of your mouth. CLO mixed with coconut and butter oil - makes the thickest, most liquid-resistant coating known in the scientific world. It also, somehow, swims up into your nasal passages.
You can gag and dry-heave all you want. Blow your nose. Cram your mouth full of chocolate cookies. It's there to stay. And you just have to go with it.
I answered the phone while cough-gagging. Took care of screaming Ed. And had 17 nightmares. About what to do with my daily allotment of CLO.
I decided the next step, was to make a smoothie. All sorts of yummy things. Liver juice included. I mixed it real good. Smelled it multiple times. I didn't gag. I tasted it. Didn't gag. In fact, I couldn't taste Nemo's guts at all.
Oh, I was feeling real proud. Until I got to the bottom of the barrel. Only to see that the oil had hardened onto the bottom of my blender. You know, with all the frozen fruits and ice cubes. . . . (idiot)
Two tries for a day equaled enough turmoil. And so I melted it with hot water and dumped it down the drain.
Except, when you mix fermented cod liver oil with hot water - you get a fine blast of death, in the face. That permeates throughout the entire kitchen. And fresh mingles with the old minglers - up your nose.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 2.
The cold water only hardened up the oil, which clogged the sink. Leaving me to have to reinstate the hot water.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 3.
I finally dumped about a gallon of clorox down the drain. And that seemed to neutralize the air enough to breath some.
I can honestly say:
1) I'm not giving up yet. One more recipe to try - and if that doesn't work, I'm going to choose to be ok with throwing it in the trash.
2) That was the worst thing I have ever, ever tasted and or smelled. It had me begging for my old offensive list of: coconut water, beets, fish eggs, and . . . . splooge. (TMI?)
3) You can't win them all.
My health-aware goals for the next couple of weeks/months:
To make my own bread
To make my own yogurt
To make elderberry elixer
To make vanilla extract
To make dishwasher tablets
To continue to be aware of what I'm eating. How is it being made? What the heckity heck is in it?
P.S. I can still taste fish lube. It must be stuck to my lips. They feel extraordinarily smooth.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Fifteen Ways? Double-Time With an Extra "Ew"
As if trying their hand at one list wasn't enough. They had to write another list. A lady list. And I thought the man list was as stupid as pie.
The lady list is a joke. I think.
And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.
Prepare yourselves. Gird your loins. . . .
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.
1. Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon. And that I have the harder job
2. I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing. Try your hardest to be thorough with this task. As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3. You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom. But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely. And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield. And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4. I don't want to be caught looking at myself. So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost. But things that would be appropriate to say to me: a) your boobs have never looked perkier b) your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . . and other fine things of that sort.
5. Bring the tv into the bedroom. I may spend more time in bed. I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day. Send me emails. And don't ask how my day is going. If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me. If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7. I am offended by #7
8. Don't waste your time. Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank. (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9. Yes, yes. Write me lots. But write when you're pissed at me. It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10. Don't waste your time. Unless I get knocked up again. And then come pull me out of the car.
11. If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed. And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12. When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13. When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know. I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird. It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food. But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14. This lady is a raging lunatic.
15. This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more. I sometimes get real itchy to throw something. Or dump dinner down the drain.
I have no closing thoughts or comments.
The end.
I puked.
The lady list is a joke. I think.
And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.
Prepare yourselves. Gird your loins. . . .
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife
- Hug and kiss her every morning before leaving the house.
- Go to bed at the same time she does.
- Brush her hair while complimenting her eyes and appearance.
- When she's studying herself in the mirror, tell her, "You are so beautiful."
- Evict late-night television from your bedroom.
- During mid-afternoon, call or send her an email to ask how her day's going.
- Try your hand at making breakfast on Saturday morning.
- Put gas in her car, vacuum the floor mats, and clean the windows.
- Write her a short love letter. List several ways she has blessed you this year.
- Resurrect common courtesies: Hold the car door open. Offer her your arm.
- Put the toilet seat down.
- If you hear her engaged in a tough situation, compliment the way she handled it.
- When you're together in a crowd, find a way to brag on her.
- Help her put the kids to bed.
- Pray with her every day. Every day!
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.
1. Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon. And that I have the harder job
2. I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing. Try your hardest to be thorough with this task. As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3. You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom. But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely. And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield. And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4. I don't want to be caught looking at myself. So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost. But things that would be appropriate to say to me: a) your boobs have never looked perkier b) your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . . and other fine things of that sort.
5. Bring the tv into the bedroom. I may spend more time in bed. I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day. Send me emails. And don't ask how my day is going. If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me. If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7. I am offended by #7
8. Don't waste your time. Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank. (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9. Yes, yes. Write me lots. But write when you're pissed at me. It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10. Don't waste your time. Unless I get knocked up again. And then come pull me out of the car.
11. If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed. And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12. When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13. When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know. I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird. It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food. But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14. This lady is a raging lunatic.
15. This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more. I sometimes get real itchy to throw something. Or dump dinner down the drain.
I have no closing thoughts or comments.
The end.
I puked.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Fifteen Ways?
I got an email from Big D this morning. It said this:
"Not sure who came up with these, but not even close."
And this is what followed:
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Husband
"Not sure who came up with these, but not even close."
And this is what followed:
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Husband
- Write him a letter and send it to his office, or put a love note in his lunch box or his briefcase.
- Prepare his favorite meal.
- Arrange an evening out for just the two of you.
- Wear his favorite dress with your hair done the way he likes it.
- Purchase something small and frivolous for him that he won't buy himself.
- Give him a nicely framed picture of yourself, or of you and the children, for his office.
- Surprise him with a trip to do something he likes.
- Put the children to bed early and prepare a candlelight dinner.
- Do something that especially pleased him back when you were dating.
- Pray and read the Scriptures with him daily.
- Take walks together.
- Keep your junk out of the garage.
- Greet your husband warmly after work.
- Wear his favorite negligee, or buy a new nightgown to add sizzle to your evening attire.
- Clean out the car for him.
Monday, September 23, 2013
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 5
So I've kinda been ignoring this story. It's hard to write when I don't feel sad. I skimp on information, and hurry the story. And make it sound more lovely than it is.
I left off where I just found out that I was pregnant for the second time. I felt no bond. I was excited, but it was an outward excitement. My heart felt nothing. Except betrayal. I couldn't trust my body to grow a baby.
I was desperate to feel pregnant. Bloated, tired, achy, nauseous, anything. I wanted confirmation. I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted a baby.
I was in an odd emotional state. Of wanting something, desperate. But not believing, accepting.
At 5 weeks pregnant, Sister Bear had her wedding. The wedding party had to wear all white.
5 weeks pregnant was when I lost my first baby. I was a mess, just thinking about miscarrying and wearing all white. I don't look at Sister Bear's wedding pictures and think, "Sister Bear's wedding". I think - "5 weeks pregnant with a baby I never held".
I survived the wedding.
I played head games of: I think I feel a little nauseous. I think I feel bloaty. But I didn't. I felt nothing. I called my midwives and told them I just didn't feel pregnant even though I was registering as pregnant according to pee tests. I had more blood work done - and it confirmed that I was pregnant. My levels were good.
I named my fetus Ned. So when he died, I could say: "Ned is dead." And that was the way that I was handling my pregnancy. Just knowing that I wouldn't hold this baby.
I still don't know if it was intuition that this baby wasn't mine. Or if it was my nonbelief that killed Ned.
In the middle of August one weekend, I went to Pier 1 with Queen Bee. I told her I was pregnant a few weeks earlier. I ran into an old neighbor. She asked if I was pregnant. I said no.
When I got home, I used the bathroom. And was bleeding. I told Queen Bee to go home. Big D had a friend over. He got kicked out too. I like to think about how that conversation went. Big D: "So, um - my wife is losing our baby, so you need to go home." Brandon: "Um, this is weird. Good-bye." (In my head, that's how the conversation went.)
The next day was Murnice's 4th birthday. I made a tie-dye cake while wearing a big crunchy pad. Waiting for my baby to fall out. I cried all day. We went to the beach. I made 4 trips to the park bathroom. Waiting. Hoping that I wouldn't have to say good-bye to my baby in a dirty, sandy public bathroom.
Big D and I did the best we could celebrating. Celebrating life. Celebrating Murnice. Celebrating what we had been given.
We put our new 4-year-old to bed. And around 9 that night, Ned slipped out. The finalization is hardest. Because there is always hope. The devastation, rampant. And Big D is in the shadows. Again. Unwilling to mourn with me, together. Unwilling to acknowledge that this was ours.
Ned laid in the bottom of the toilet. I did not have the heart to flush our baby. And I did not have the strength to scoop him out. He was just there. And I was stuck. Feeling so guilty for not feeling brave enough to scoop him out.
Jesus was so kind. I had prayed earlier that it would be a gentle miscarriage. And it was. So peaceful, so gentle and complete.
The end.
I left off where I just found out that I was pregnant for the second time. I felt no bond. I was excited, but it was an outward excitement. My heart felt nothing. Except betrayal. I couldn't trust my body to grow a baby.
I was desperate to feel pregnant. Bloated, tired, achy, nauseous, anything. I wanted confirmation. I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted a baby.
I was in an odd emotional state. Of wanting something, desperate. But not believing, accepting.
At 5 weeks pregnant, Sister Bear had her wedding. The wedding party had to wear all white.
5 weeks pregnant was when I lost my first baby. I was a mess, just thinking about miscarrying and wearing all white. I don't look at Sister Bear's wedding pictures and think, "Sister Bear's wedding". I think - "5 weeks pregnant with a baby I never held".
I survived the wedding.
I played head games of: I think I feel a little nauseous. I think I feel bloaty. But I didn't. I felt nothing. I called my midwives and told them I just didn't feel pregnant even though I was registering as pregnant according to pee tests. I had more blood work done - and it confirmed that I was pregnant. My levels were good.
I named my fetus Ned. So when he died, I could say: "Ned is dead." And that was the way that I was handling my pregnancy. Just knowing that I wouldn't hold this baby.
I still don't know if it was intuition that this baby wasn't mine. Or if it was my nonbelief that killed Ned.
In the middle of August one weekend, I went to Pier 1 with Queen Bee. I told her I was pregnant a few weeks earlier. I ran into an old neighbor. She asked if I was pregnant. I said no.
When I got home, I used the bathroom. And was bleeding. I told Queen Bee to go home. Big D had a friend over. He got kicked out too. I like to think about how that conversation went. Big D: "So, um - my wife is losing our baby, so you need to go home." Brandon: "Um, this is weird. Good-bye." (In my head, that's how the conversation went.)
The next day was Murnice's 4th birthday. I made a tie-dye cake while wearing a big crunchy pad. Waiting for my baby to fall out. I cried all day. We went to the beach. I made 4 trips to the park bathroom. Waiting. Hoping that I wouldn't have to say good-bye to my baby in a dirty, sandy public bathroom.
Big D and I did the best we could celebrating. Celebrating life. Celebrating Murnice. Celebrating what we had been given.
We put our new 4-year-old to bed. And around 9 that night, Ned slipped out. The finalization is hardest. Because there is always hope. The devastation, rampant. And Big D is in the shadows. Again. Unwilling to mourn with me, together. Unwilling to acknowledge that this was ours.
Ned laid in the bottom of the toilet. I did not have the heart to flush our baby. And I did not have the strength to scoop him out. He was just there. And I was stuck. Feeling so guilty for not feeling brave enough to scoop him out.
Jesus was so kind. I had prayed earlier that it would be a gentle miscarriage. And it was. So peaceful, so gentle and complete.
The end.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
The Worst Night And Why I Hate Being A Lady
Dear Diary,
Being a woman is very difficult for me. I'm not completely upset with being a woman, I like having boobs (as stretched and pancaked as they are) But I have an extra amount of dysfunction when it comes to relating to woman.
I'll start by listing all the things I love about women.
1) I love their bodies. All shapes, all sizes. How they carry themselves. How they accentuate. How they compensate.
2) I love their comfort. Through looks. Through food. Through snuggles.
3) I love their ability to be honest, when asked.
4) I love their vulnerability.
5) I love their hope.
6) And I love that they were created, because life, the world, was incomplete without her.
"Given the way creation unfolds, how it builds to ever higher and higher works of art, can there be any doubt that Eve is the crown of creation? Not an afterthought. Not a nice addition like an ornament on a tree. She is God's final touch.....She fills a place in the world nothing and no once else can fill. . . . . . The whole vast world is incomplete without (you) . . . ."
(An excerpt from Captivating. One of my favorite books)
And now I will list why being a woman is mind numbing and awful for me.
1) I can not handle all the crying. Sobbing. Whimpering. Snuffling. That occurs. And I'm not talking about legitimate crying. Because there is such a thing.
2) I can not handle the fakeness, the putting on aires. The wanting to be liked and accepted by all. The need to lie in order to not hurt feelings, to keep up reputations, to answer a question the way you think the other person wants the question answered. Not wanting to appear less than holy.
3) I can not handle the blatant inseccurities. The nonacceptance of who women are. Not knowing what type of love they deserve. And the inability to act like a lady.
I feel I relate better with men. But as you know, married women don't like their husbands hanging out with a lady girl. Which has left me to flounder in search of lady girl friends, since that's the appropriate thing to do. The socially acceptable thing. (Blah and gag)
. . . . . . .
Which has led me to try new things.
I walked into a death trap last night.
I would have rather gone to 3 baby showers and 1 mother daughter banquet. (Which is saying a lot - if you know me.)
Now I'm not dissing lady groups. A lot of lady girls benefit from such events. But put me in one of those *ahem* situations, and I get a little desperate with A LOT of excited. Nothing makes me start searching for excuses of some sort, to disappear. Or a weapon of deadly force to end the agony of my poor, nonlady girl self.
I will say, I was lead blindly into the death trap. And as soon as I walked in - to the intimate sized room with a large conference table, round robined with ladies . . . .I gagged. And if I were smart enough, I would have just excused myself right then and there announcing my diarrhea condition.
But I had hope. And I was feeling hopeful. And I wanted to extend myself in hope. That maybe. Maybe there would be something grand. I do want more connection. More intimacy with the lady types, since this is my lot in life. Being a lady, that is.
I will not go into details. But my night consisted of hearing and watching A LOT of sobbing and wiping of tears. Doodling on paper with colored pencils. Praying which included touching. A lot of touching. And sighing. And giggles. And more giggles. And more crying. And more touching. And tissue grabbing.
I do want to say again, nothing wrong with any of that. It just happens to be the part of ladyness that I get very nervous about. (I use the word nervous, lightly.)
Take Aways
1) If you know yourself well and thoroughly, stay away from things that make you hurl dinner chunks.
2) God knows the personality you have, be free in who you are.
3) Don't fit to the form of who you're not.
4) Because that's what somebody says you're suppose to do.
5) Ed likes to spit, so it all runs down his tum tum. And then he smears it into his belly button.
Being a woman is very difficult for me. I'm not completely upset with being a woman, I like having boobs (as stretched and pancaked as they are) But I have an extra amount of dysfunction when it comes to relating to woman.
I'll start by listing all the things I love about women.
1) I love their bodies. All shapes, all sizes. How they carry themselves. How they accentuate. How they compensate.
2) I love their comfort. Through looks. Through food. Through snuggles.
3) I love their ability to be honest, when asked.
4) I love their vulnerability.
5) I love their hope.
6) And I love that they were created, because life, the world, was incomplete without her.
"Given the way creation unfolds, how it builds to ever higher and higher works of art, can there be any doubt that Eve is the crown of creation? Not an afterthought. Not a nice addition like an ornament on a tree. She is God's final touch.....She fills a place in the world nothing and no once else can fill. . . . . . The whole vast world is incomplete without (you) . . . ."
(An excerpt from Captivating. One of my favorite books)
And now I will list why being a woman is mind numbing and awful for me.
1) I can not handle all the crying. Sobbing. Whimpering. Snuffling. That occurs. And I'm not talking about legitimate crying. Because there is such a thing.
2) I can not handle the fakeness, the putting on aires. The wanting to be liked and accepted by all. The need to lie in order to not hurt feelings, to keep up reputations, to answer a question the way you think the other person wants the question answered. Not wanting to appear less than holy.
3) I can not handle the blatant inseccurities. The nonacceptance of who women are. Not knowing what type of love they deserve. And the inability to act like a lady.
I feel I relate better with men. But as you know, married women don't like their husbands hanging out with a lady girl. Which has left me to flounder in search of lady girl friends, since that's the appropriate thing to do. The socially acceptable thing. (Blah and gag)
. . . . . . .
Which has led me to try new things.
I walked into a death trap last night.
I would have rather gone to 3 baby showers and 1 mother daughter banquet. (Which is saying a lot - if you know me.)
Now I'm not dissing lady groups. A lot of lady girls benefit from such events. But put me in one of those *ahem* situations, and I get a little desperate with A LOT of excited. Nothing makes me start searching for excuses of some sort, to disappear. Or a weapon of deadly force to end the agony of my poor, nonlady girl self.
I will say, I was lead blindly into the death trap. And as soon as I walked in - to the intimate sized room with a large conference table, round robined with ladies . . . .I gagged. And if I were smart enough, I would have just excused myself right then and there announcing my diarrhea condition.
But I had hope. And I was feeling hopeful. And I wanted to extend myself in hope. That maybe. Maybe there would be something grand. I do want more connection. More intimacy with the lady types, since this is my lot in life. Being a lady, that is.
I will not go into details. But my night consisted of hearing and watching A LOT of sobbing and wiping of tears. Doodling on paper with colored pencils. Praying which included touching. A lot of touching. And sighing. And giggles. And more giggles. And more crying. And more touching. And tissue grabbing.
I do want to say again, nothing wrong with any of that. It just happens to be the part of ladyness that I get very nervous about. (I use the word nervous, lightly.)
Take Aways
1) If you know yourself well and thoroughly, stay away from things that make you hurl dinner chunks.
2) God knows the personality you have, be free in who you are.
3) Don't fit to the form of who you're not.
4) Because that's what somebody says you're suppose to do.
5) Ed likes to spit, so it all runs down his tum tum. And then he smears it into his belly button.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Fight! Fight! Fight!
Big D and I haven't spoken since Sunday.
Ok, honest truth. I like to fight. I like the honesty that comes from it. I like the purging of all things emotional. I like the rawness. I like the desperation. I like the grabbing for just the right words to fling. Words that will either make a great point, or words that hurt, which goes back to honesty. And I love nothing more than honesty.
Did you know that I love 100% honesty. And despise deception? More than one million percent?
Another thing I love about fighting: I love the elusiveness that comes with fighting. It's like a break from marriage. I don't have to try. I just, can not "care" for however long the fighting lasts. Like, that's the time to do things that are stupid. Also, it gives me more ammunition to be mad.
For example: Big D has this idea that riding his bike to work is a good idea. Well, in theory it's great. However, a friend of ours just got hit while riding his bike on the way to work. That story makes me a nervy wife. But hey, you want to ride your bike to work when we're fighting? Great idea. Don't really care as much.
On the other hand, if we're having this great week. Lots of naughty boom boom time. Laughing together on the couch after the kids go to bed. Snuggling on sunset walks - yeah, I'm going to care a lot more if you choose "risky" behavior.
So, this fighting gives me a break from holding on and caring. As much. (Of course I have 2 weeny whiner kids, and the thought of being a single parent makes me hurl - but . . . .)
So, when I say we haven't talked since Sunday, I mean talk like husband and wives talk. Once we're fighting and our wall of not caring and protection goes up, we jump into these bicky banter sessions. It's great. It's like talking to somebody who has no emotional grip on you at all.
"Today, I'm wearing the underwear you hate. And I'm going full on bangs. Also, I bought 7 more pairs of shoes." "Well, I'm going bowling tonight after work. And then tomorrow I'm swimming in the lake before the sun comes out. A mile straight out, and then a mile back to the shore. All by myself. Also, for lunch I'm going to be eating 3 garbage plates."
So, that's how our conversations go. And have been going since the beginning of Monday.
One last thing I love about fighting. I love becoming friends again. I love when Big D comes home from work and, legitimately is happy to see me. And snuggles extra hard. And watches Grey's Anatomy with me. And drinks wine with me. And tells me that I'm the most magical mother and cooker this side of Lake Ontario. And I really love it when he gets desperate to have THIS hot biscuit for dinner.
Also, I came up with a new word. Wankfaggler. I have a meaning for it that I will not share. But I would love some new suggestions . . .
Take Aways
1) Give me a fight any day.
2) The reason I don't mind fighting, is because I've been doing this married thing for awhile now. And I know that marriage is purely a very hilly ride. It's a long ride down the hill, and a long ride back up the hill. And a very short visit at the top of the hill. But it's a cycle. You'll always go down. And you'll always come back up. There are enjoyable parts all along the way. And therefore, fights do not make me nervy.
Ok, honest truth. I like to fight. I like the honesty that comes from it. I like the purging of all things emotional. I like the rawness. I like the desperation. I like the grabbing for just the right words to fling. Words that will either make a great point, or words that hurt, which goes back to honesty. And I love nothing more than honesty.
Did you know that I love 100% honesty. And despise deception? More than one million percent?
Another thing I love about fighting: I love the elusiveness that comes with fighting. It's like a break from marriage. I don't have to try. I just, can not "care" for however long the fighting lasts. Like, that's the time to do things that are stupid. Also, it gives me more ammunition to be mad.
For example: Big D has this idea that riding his bike to work is a good idea. Well, in theory it's great. However, a friend of ours just got hit while riding his bike on the way to work. That story makes me a nervy wife. But hey, you want to ride your bike to work when we're fighting? Great idea. Don't really care as much.
On the other hand, if we're having this great week. Lots of naughty boom boom time. Laughing together on the couch after the kids go to bed. Snuggling on sunset walks - yeah, I'm going to care a lot more if you choose "risky" behavior.
So, this fighting gives me a break from holding on and caring. As much. (Of course I have 2 weeny whiner kids, and the thought of being a single parent makes me hurl - but . . . .)
So, when I say we haven't talked since Sunday, I mean talk like husband and wives talk. Once we're fighting and our wall of not caring and protection goes up, we jump into these bicky banter sessions. It's great. It's like talking to somebody who has no emotional grip on you at all.
"Today, I'm wearing the underwear you hate. And I'm going full on bangs. Also, I bought 7 more pairs of shoes." "Well, I'm going bowling tonight after work. And then tomorrow I'm swimming in the lake before the sun comes out. A mile straight out, and then a mile back to the shore. All by myself. Also, for lunch I'm going to be eating 3 garbage plates."
So, that's how our conversations go. And have been going since the beginning of Monday.
One last thing I love about fighting. I love becoming friends again. I love when Big D comes home from work and, legitimately is happy to see me. And snuggles extra hard. And watches Grey's Anatomy with me. And drinks wine with me. And tells me that I'm the most magical mother and cooker this side of Lake Ontario. And I really love it when he gets desperate to have THIS hot biscuit for dinner.
Also, I came up with a new word. Wankfaggler. I have a meaning for it that I will not share. But I would love some new suggestions . . .
Take Aways
1) Give me a fight any day.
2) The reason I don't mind fighting, is because I've been doing this married thing for awhile now. And I know that marriage is purely a very hilly ride. It's a long ride down the hill, and a long ride back up the hill. And a very short visit at the top of the hill. But it's a cycle. You'll always go down. And you'll always come back up. There are enjoyable parts all along the way. And therefore, fights do not make me nervy.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Allow Me to Take Care of That for You
I am a bit of an extremist. A bit of an all-or-nothing type of lady. It's like, give me whole beard or nothing. Go big - or don't show your face. And don't try to grow a beard if you have awful facial hair. . . . .. Moving on . . . .. . Or, I'd rather have the fullest bowl of soup or no soup at all. Or, bring me to orgasm or don't even think about it. Or, sing as loud as you can with as much vigor allowed, or don't sing at all.
Also I like to make "points". Even if it ruins my life. One of these points that I shamelessly love to prove - is of Big D's complete unawareness of leaving his junk laying around. And there is nothing more aggravating than seeing a grown man's junk laying around.
Big D carries junk around in plastic grocer bags.(EW!) (Clearly, a pet peeve) And one time, he dropped his bag that he emptied, on our shoe pile. The pile that sits right next to our front door. The pile that is directly in my visionary line while sitting on my couch. And to make a point, I left that awful bag there. Waiting to see how long it would sit there.
Now I know that you probably think that I'm nuts. And need immediate prayer for my prideful heart. But you also must look at it from a quizzical heart perspective. How unobservant is he? How long will he push the bag aside to grab his shoes? I am proud to say, that it stayed there a full year.
One full year I stared at that bag, while I sat on my couch. Wondering, how you can ignore an awful, white, crunchy, plastic bag - laying on your shoes?
I wish I could remember how the white bag left it's year long stay. I feel like horns and a marching band should have announced it's departure. But it was completely non-monumental - hence why I can't remember.
One of my favorite things to do with Big D's junk laying around, is to wing it into the yard. But there are rules that I follow in order to keep me in check and appropriate - otherwise I would operate as a loose cannon.
Rule #1 Make sure item has been in sight for at least a week.
Rule #2 Make sure item is in a spot that makes life miserable (ie plastic bag laying on shoe pile, gross old college stein sitting on counter in the way of doing anything productive, etc.)
Rule #3 Announcing my displeasure and desire for junk to be put out of sight.
Rule #4 Allowing a reasonable amount of time to relocate, said junk. (ie 3-7 minutes)
And then I throw. And I throw with great pleasure. I wing things as far as I can. And I love even more when there's 3 feet of snow. Legitamately, I am airing Big D's dirty junk. And all the neighbors can see his junk rolling in the yard. Or half buried in a snow bank.
When we lived in apartments (on the 3rd floor) . . . that added an extra level of pleasure. Not only would I fling as hard as I could, but then there would be this moment of silence, where the junk would be flying. And in that moment of silence, my joy would exponentiate in greatness. I would imagine the explosion crash - that usually ended up being a muffled thud . . . I would fantasize about all the people who had watched me from their large windows that faced our balcony. And I would get quite giddy when it came time for Big D to come home.
Also, another thing that I'm really good at. Starting projects that I've asked Big D to do or help me with. Usually when I start them by myself - it's in a great rage. And I become very full of energy and strength. Which actually means that I'm destroying something and making the project 7.0087 times longer.
Like one time I destroyed the whole front garden with a pickax. Big D loved me a million for doing that.
And for everything else I've destroyed and or have given flying lessons too.
Take Aways
1) I secretly love when Big D doesn't take care of his things.
2) Yes, I make Big D nervy.
3) He didn't marry me because I was a safe choice.
4) He has verbalized to me (numerous times) his enjoyment in my unpredictability.
5) I feel no sorrow or remorse for being unpredictable.
6) I love to throw. Especially when I shouldn't be throwing "it".
The End.
Also I like to make "points". Even if it ruins my life. One of these points that I shamelessly love to prove - is of Big D's complete unawareness of leaving his junk laying around. And there is nothing more aggravating than seeing a grown man's junk laying around.
Big D carries junk around in plastic grocer bags.(EW!) (Clearly, a pet peeve) And one time, he dropped his bag that he emptied, on our shoe pile. The pile that sits right next to our front door. The pile that is directly in my visionary line while sitting on my couch. And to make a point, I left that awful bag there. Waiting to see how long it would sit there.
Now I know that you probably think that I'm nuts. And need immediate prayer for my prideful heart. But you also must look at it from a quizzical heart perspective. How unobservant is he? How long will he push the bag aside to grab his shoes? I am proud to say, that it stayed there a full year.
One full year I stared at that bag, while I sat on my couch. Wondering, how you can ignore an awful, white, crunchy, plastic bag - laying on your shoes?
I wish I could remember how the white bag left it's year long stay. I feel like horns and a marching band should have announced it's departure. But it was completely non-monumental - hence why I can't remember.
One of my favorite things to do with Big D's junk laying around, is to wing it into the yard. But there are rules that I follow in order to keep me in check and appropriate - otherwise I would operate as a loose cannon.
Rule #1 Make sure item has been in sight for at least a week.
Rule #2 Make sure item is in a spot that makes life miserable (ie plastic bag laying on shoe pile, gross old college stein sitting on counter in the way of doing anything productive, etc.)
Rule #3 Announcing my displeasure and desire for junk to be put out of sight.
Rule #4 Allowing a reasonable amount of time to relocate, said junk. (ie 3-7 minutes)
And then I throw. And I throw with great pleasure. I wing things as far as I can. And I love even more when there's 3 feet of snow. Legitamately, I am airing Big D's dirty junk. And all the neighbors can see his junk rolling in the yard. Or half buried in a snow bank.
When we lived in apartments (on the 3rd floor) . . . that added an extra level of pleasure. Not only would I fling as hard as I could, but then there would be this moment of silence, where the junk would be flying. And in that moment of silence, my joy would exponentiate in greatness. I would imagine the explosion crash - that usually ended up being a muffled thud . . . I would fantasize about all the people who had watched me from their large windows that faced our balcony. And I would get quite giddy when it came time for Big D to come home.
Also, another thing that I'm really good at. Starting projects that I've asked Big D to do or help me with. Usually when I start them by myself - it's in a great rage. And I become very full of energy and strength. Which actually means that I'm destroying something and making the project 7.0087 times longer.
Like one time I destroyed the whole front garden with a pickax. Big D loved me a million for doing that.
And for everything else I've destroyed and or have given flying lessons too.
Take Aways
1) I secretly love when Big D doesn't take care of his things.
2) Yes, I make Big D nervy.
3) He didn't marry me because I was a safe choice.
4) He has verbalized to me (numerous times) his enjoyment in my unpredictability.
5) I feel no sorrow or remorse for being unpredictable.
6) I love to throw. Especially when I shouldn't be throwing "it".
The End.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Weekend Catch Up - Labor Day
Yeah, I've been slack in writing. The problem being: Sister Bear is in town. And I've been spending probably, too much time with her.
Sister Bear is 37 weeks, great with child. She also is starting a photography biznazz. She wanted to use me and the rest of us, the Witherhalls to play around with different poses and backgrounds. Things of that nature. Things to broaden her portfolio.
So, she thought it would be neat to try a more "intimate" shoot. Which included Big D and myself.
First she picked out all these clothes that were a) either plastered to my bottom. Or, b) falling off of me in a boner-inducing way.
Then she chauffeured us in Mother's minivan out to the edge of civility. Where we found my father hiding in the tall grass spying on a rabid raccoon covered in flies, but still alive
Rabid raccoon and intimacy. I was completely overjoyed. For multiple reasons 1) I was half dressed, and we drove to the precise location of where my father was. 2) There was a rabid raccoon meandering about with flies. 3) We could not see rabid raccoon approaching because of tall grass. 4) We had to listen for rustling and watch for grass movement. 4) I could not run in the clothes I was wearing. 5) There were no rocks to throw when rabid raccoon with flies, appeared.
I guess the title of that photo shoot - if it had a name, would be called: Lips and Buns. It was not my favorite moment in time. Big D is still giggling and trying to keep his "manhood" under wraps.
Also, the least flattering moment, was when Sister Bear was doing a close-up. And these were her precise words: "ew! your mustache is growing. Relax your face!"
*AHEM* Did that really just happen? You just said my mustache is growing? I mean, I know I have blonde fuzzies, but is it really that noticeable/horrific? And then you want me to completely relax my face after saying something like that to me?
That was great. I guess I'll just blame it on the pregnancy hormones.
Other highlights include:
1) Having quite a few more photo shoots. Including trespassing. A lot. Sister Bear is so talented.
2) Fighting with Big D most of the weekend.
3) Having an important man at church ask how I was. And I told him that we were fighting. And he felt nervous. Maybe because I had crazy eyes. And asked us to lunch. And it was magical.
4) Started a bible study called: Good Morning Girls. Not the best name. But I'm trying . . . .
5) Celebrated Murnice's birthday for the 3rd? time. She wanted spaghetti and balls. (she doesn't call them balls - just me) And I spent all day making a cauldron of sauce and balls - and she didn't really like it. It's a good thing I like her.
6) Going to a wedding. Where Sister Bear lost it. And Big D was in the wedding. So it was me, with 3 wittle kids and a very pregnant hormonal emotional lady that I was in charge of. It got REALLY exciting for about 58 minutes.
7) Big D and I are still sleeping in the same bed = miracle.
The raccoon is no longer with us. It happened to be in the road when Mother was driving. One account said she ran and backed over it 5 times. Another account said 7. She enjoys wilderness hit and runs. I think she likes to use it as her hand/eye coordination practice.
The end.
Sister Bear is 37 weeks, great with child. She also is starting a photography biznazz. She wanted to use me and the rest of us, the Witherhalls to play around with different poses and backgrounds. Things of that nature. Things to broaden her portfolio.
So, she thought it would be neat to try a more "intimate" shoot. Which included Big D and myself.
First she picked out all these clothes that were a) either plastered to my bottom. Or, b) falling off of me in a boner-inducing way.
Then she chauffeured us in Mother's minivan out to the edge of civility. Where we found my father hiding in the tall grass spying on a rabid raccoon covered in flies, but still alive
Rabid raccoon and intimacy. I was completely overjoyed. For multiple reasons 1) I was half dressed, and we drove to the precise location of where my father was. 2) There was a rabid raccoon meandering about with flies. 3) We could not see rabid raccoon approaching because of tall grass. 4) We had to listen for rustling and watch for grass movement. 4) I could not run in the clothes I was wearing. 5) There were no rocks to throw when rabid raccoon with flies, appeared.
I guess the title of that photo shoot - if it had a name, would be called: Lips and Buns. It was not my favorite moment in time. Big D is still giggling and trying to keep his "manhood" under wraps.
Also, the least flattering moment, was when Sister Bear was doing a close-up. And these were her precise words: "ew! your mustache is growing. Relax your face!"
*AHEM* Did that really just happen? You just said my mustache is growing? I mean, I know I have blonde fuzzies, but is it really that noticeable/horrific? And then you want me to completely relax my face after saying something like that to me?
That was great. I guess I'll just blame it on the pregnancy hormones.
Other highlights include:
1) Having quite a few more photo shoots. Including trespassing. A lot. Sister Bear is so talented.
2) Fighting with Big D most of the weekend.
3) Having an important man at church ask how I was. And I told him that we were fighting. And he felt nervous. Maybe because I had crazy eyes. And asked us to lunch. And it was magical.
4) Started a bible study called: Good Morning Girls. Not the best name. But I'm trying . . . .
5) Celebrated Murnice's birthday for the 3rd? time. She wanted spaghetti and balls. (she doesn't call them balls - just me) And I spent all day making a cauldron of sauce and balls - and she didn't really like it. It's a good thing I like her.
6) Going to a wedding. Where Sister Bear lost it. And Big D was in the wedding. So it was me, with 3 wittle kids and a very pregnant hormonal emotional lady that I was in charge of. It got REALLY exciting for about 58 minutes.
7) Big D and I are still sleeping in the same bed = miracle.
The raccoon is no longer with us. It happened to be in the road when Mother was driving. One account said she ran and backed over it 5 times. Another account said 7. She enjoys wilderness hit and runs. I think she likes to use it as her hand/eye coordination practice.
The end.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
List of Gratefulness/Things I Love - But Only For Today
Things that I love love love - or possibly don't love, but am grateful for.
1) A story to tell that hopefully brings something good to others. (I was lying in bed last night and realized that it's going to be a never ending story - mainly because I'm writing every blue-dog detail of 5ish years.)
2) Ed saying to Murnice, "Murny, you wanna make babies?" - Meaning, draw babies. Um, I fell in love with him 31 pounds more.
3) Sister Bear calling me at quarter of eleven last night to ask what my message was that I gave B.B. Bobby. (Seriously!) The message I gave to Bobby was, "tell S.B. 11 o'clock at the beach". And Bobby couldn't remember that? And then S.B. has to call me when I'm fast asleep? I guess at this point you're all thinking, "don't answer the phone." But I have to keep my phone 3 inches from my head at night because I've had just enough late calls that have to do with spousal fights and cockroaches and smashed Tupperware and tinker on the edge of having to call the SWAT team in to diffuse.
4) Ed has been telling Big D for a few weeks now that he loves him. It's very sweet. But Ed hasn't shared his love with anybody else, and being the person who pushed him out of my vagina - I feel I should be the first that he loves. Out of pure devotion. But yesterday, when I was scrounging in the fridge, Ed saw a whole bowl of hard boiled eggs. And he told me he loved me. a) I am thrilled he finally found it in his heart to utter those words to me. b) I am horrified that the only reason he loves me is because I boiled some eggs for him.
5) Getting a text from S.B. saying that she was going to McDicks. (for coffee). Um . . . "mcdicks" cracks me up. Or maybe I'm over tired from less than important phone calls in the middle of the night. Yes, quarter of eleven is the middle of the night.
6) Ed obsessed with his "nest" in our bedroom. Ok, so Ed has been sleeping in our bed for weeks now. And it's so sweet and not snugly with very little sleep. Big D gets very hateful over this topic. And I'm getting grumpier night by night. So I ended up making a "nest" on the floor by our bed that he is, can we say - in love with. I made it so when he woke up in the middle of the night he could come to his nest. But his nest is the only place he's sleeping. And for quite a few nights in a row, it has greatly impinged on Big D's and my very adult time that was supposed to go down.
7) Finding some "workout" clothes at TJMAXX that I can stomach wearing. AKA - Big D hates them. I say they are "workout" clothes because I found them in the workout section. I legitimately will feel like a queen wearing them. You may find me wearing workyouty clothes every once in awhile. But you will NEVER find me wearing sneaks. EVER. Or if i do, it will be a very hidden and private affair.
8) Watching B.B. Wensleydale twirly grow into man. He recently became a believer, and his maturity has just blown me to the moon. And possibly the stars. I'm so excited to see what this next year has for him.
9) I recently became privy to some very disheartening/angering/appalling/shocking/wear-my-boxing-mitts, information. And I want nothing more than to yell it from the roof tops. Shedding light where the darkness is. Bringing truth to the deceived. Letting the world know what's happening to a blind eye. So I prayed about it. Asking God what I was supposed to do with this information. And he IMMEDIATELY said, "use it for good". Not fully sure what that means, but I'll do my best. P.S. have I ever mentioned how much I love getting an answer, not to mention an immediate answer from God?
Take Aways
1) I think there are 13 more things I want to chat about - but I must get ready for the leachy beach.
2) I'm not quite sure why I'm in such a grateful mood this morning.
3) Also I said a blessing over Big D has he walked out the door to work. He got really weirded out. And left real fast.
4) Can you believe today is Thursday?!
5) Now that's good news. I love Fridays best.
1) A story to tell that hopefully brings something good to others. (I was lying in bed last night and realized that it's going to be a never ending story - mainly because I'm writing every blue-dog detail of 5ish years.)
2) Ed saying to Murnice, "Murny, you wanna make babies?" - Meaning, draw babies. Um, I fell in love with him 31 pounds more.
3) Sister Bear calling me at quarter of eleven last night to ask what my message was that I gave B.B. Bobby. (Seriously!) The message I gave to Bobby was, "tell S.B. 11 o'clock at the beach". And Bobby couldn't remember that? And then S.B. has to call me when I'm fast asleep? I guess at this point you're all thinking, "don't answer the phone." But I have to keep my phone 3 inches from my head at night because I've had just enough late calls that have to do with spousal fights and cockroaches and smashed Tupperware and tinker on the edge of having to call the SWAT team in to diffuse.
4) Ed has been telling Big D for a few weeks now that he loves him. It's very sweet. But Ed hasn't shared his love with anybody else, and being the person who pushed him out of my vagina - I feel I should be the first that he loves. Out of pure devotion. But yesterday, when I was scrounging in the fridge, Ed saw a whole bowl of hard boiled eggs. And he told me he loved me. a) I am thrilled he finally found it in his heart to utter those words to me. b) I am horrified that the only reason he loves me is because I boiled some eggs for him.
5) Getting a text from S.B. saying that she was going to McDicks. (for coffee). Um . . . "mcdicks" cracks me up. Or maybe I'm over tired from less than important phone calls in the middle of the night. Yes, quarter of eleven is the middle of the night.
6) Ed obsessed with his "nest" in our bedroom. Ok, so Ed has been sleeping in our bed for weeks now. And it's so sweet and not snugly with very little sleep. Big D gets very hateful over this topic. And I'm getting grumpier night by night. So I ended up making a "nest" on the floor by our bed that he is, can we say - in love with. I made it so when he woke up in the middle of the night he could come to his nest. But his nest is the only place he's sleeping. And for quite a few nights in a row, it has greatly impinged on Big D's and my very adult time that was supposed to go down.
7) Finding some "workout" clothes at TJMAXX that I can stomach wearing. AKA - Big D hates them. I say they are "workout" clothes because I found them in the workout section. I legitimately will feel like a queen wearing them. You may find me wearing workyouty clothes every once in awhile. But you will NEVER find me wearing sneaks. EVER. Or if i do, it will be a very hidden and private affair.
8) Watching B.B. Wensleydale twirly grow into man. He recently became a believer, and his maturity has just blown me to the moon. And possibly the stars. I'm so excited to see what this next year has for him.
9) I recently became privy to some very disheartening/angering/appalling/shocking/wear-my-boxing-mitts, information. And I want nothing more than to yell it from the roof tops. Shedding light where the darkness is. Bringing truth to the deceived. Letting the world know what's happening to a blind eye. So I prayed about it. Asking God what I was supposed to do with this information. And he IMMEDIATELY said, "use it for good". Not fully sure what that means, but I'll do my best. P.S. have I ever mentioned how much I love getting an answer, not to mention an immediate answer from God?
Take Aways
1) I think there are 13 more things I want to chat about - but I must get ready for the leachy beach.
2) I'm not quite sure why I'm in such a grateful mood this morning.
3) Also I said a blessing over Big D has he walked out the door to work. He got really weirded out. And left real fast.
4) Can you believe today is Thursday?!
5) Now that's good news. I love Fridays best.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Worst Idea of the Year Thus Far
I'm derailing from doom and gloom today. Just need a little break.
So, once upon a time, I woke up last Sunday with a strange persona. Normally I LOVE just sitting home on my (fill in the blank). But this particular morning I got dressed, looked super fancy, and fully expected to go to church. But, Big D was incredibly grumpy and said he wasn't going. So I made sweet, sweet love to him and whispered something along the lines of going canoeing with the kids.
This day was going exactly the way Big D would describe his wildest dreams. Naughty Karen and then gross adventure time. (See, I said I woke up with a strange persona.)
He eager beaver agreed. Since this was one of his dreams for the summer. And I quickly moved before I realized what I had agreed to.
It could not have been a more perfect day. Weather was insanely divine. We were text-book renters. Arrived on time. Grabbed the proper floatation devices. And waited by the shuttle. Not all the other renters where as fine as we were at following the rules.
We survived our third-world-country ride to the launch destination and were the first to be launched. That was neat, because we were the only ones with kids. And also the only ones who hadn't canoed together. Ever. Actually I'm making that up. I don't know if we were the ONLY ones. But because we were first, we were made a spectacle of.
It started out so romantic. Big D in the back. Me in the front. Kids in the middle. Perfect family. Minus the fact that Big D had never had canoeing lessons. And I have. Big D thinks that in order to make a turn, you paddle really hard. (Did I emphasize "really"? Because when a turn appeared, it was like he turned the jet engine on in the back)
Now this quickly got old. Quickly. I was getting tired of crashing into the banks. (Remember, we are in front of all the other boaters) And I decided I was going to be the steer-er. And kicked Big D to the front. He cried. But we did not tip over.
Probably an hour into the trip things started to go from romantic to worse decision of the year thus far. (Today I like using the words "thus far.")
I am comfortable and fine with steering. I enjoy steering. However, Big D still thought that he had to paddle as fiercely as he could when he spotted the next hair-pin turn. I basically did not do any paddling - I was just a rudder. And we were still crashing at a anger inducing rate.
An hour and a half into the trip we started noticing an alarming amount of very large spiders in our boat. I don't know if I've shared this or not - but I don't do spiders. If there is a choice of: spider gets too close OR boat gets tipped - boat gets tipped. Also, Ed decided he was tired of sitting nicely, and blue was wet - so the next sensible thing to do was to start screaming. Which showcased Big D's very pleasant mood. He started hooting and hollaring. Yelling things to the other boaters. Snarling and gnashing of teeth. I literally wanted to whale him over the head with my oar. But he was too far away. Lucky for him.
The only non-complainer of the whole trip was Murnice. Who just kept on paddling, aka hitting our oars with her oar and throwing water up on Ed and blue - which was not helping Ed's attitude, which only gave fuel to Big D's fire attitude.
At this point I had mentally, emotionally, physically, and almost spiritually given up. My right arm was burning due to the fact that I had to keep my oar on the right side of the ship. Emotionally I couldn't handle Ed crying and Big D being a fruit tart. I wanted to just stop and snuggle the poor wet boy. But I was too afraid of a) tipping over b) losing sight of the spiders c) drifting into more spider homes d) collecting more spiders e) wasting time f) never making it back home g) getting lost at sea. My left butt bone had dug a hole through my small amount of muscle and large amount of jiggle and was sitting squarely on the hard metal seat.
And then, we came to a fork in the river aka stream. We were with a large group of people. And everybody went to the left. And we went to the right. Before I knew it, we were paddling against the current. And everything began to escalate into a down-right emergency. With one final dramatic huffy paddle, I threw our boat head on into the biggest, spideriest, reptile filled bank there was. We rammed hard. Which got Big D really excited. I think he also realized that it was his turn to wear his grown up panties, take control, and get us home.
He started to paddle really hard. Making his earlier jet engine look like a paddle boat.
The part that I didn't tell you, was that our boat had flipped around with my massive crash, and we were now backwards.
Big D didn't care. He was going home. And I decided I might be able to scrounge up the energy to help.
You know the Olympic boat races, where they're going so fast that bodies are flying forwards and then lunging backwards? Yeah, we could have been medal contenders in the Olympics. Ed was holding on for his dear life. Not a peep was coming out. Murnice had put her paddle away and was hanging on hard.
And we were flying. I think we were actually flying up over the water, like they do in the cartoons.
Wouldn't you know that we ended up taking the short cut. Beat everybody by a mile. Or maybe a 1/2 mile. I think the workers were a little confused to why the canoe was coming in at such a disconcerting speed backwards.
And that will be the last time that I EVER come up with ridiculous ideas.
Take Aways
1) Just because you wake up with a different attitude towards life, doesn't necessarily mean you should embrace your new ideas.
2) But if you choose to embrace your new ideas, be sure you know how long of a ride it's going to be.
3) Or, just stay home.
4) On the couch.
5) And watch tv.
So, once upon a time, I woke up last Sunday with a strange persona. Normally I LOVE just sitting home on my (fill in the blank). But this particular morning I got dressed, looked super fancy, and fully expected to go to church. But, Big D was incredibly grumpy and said he wasn't going. So I made sweet, sweet love to him and whispered something along the lines of going canoeing with the kids.
This day was going exactly the way Big D would describe his wildest dreams. Naughty Karen and then gross adventure time. (See, I said I woke up with a strange persona.)
He eager beaver agreed. Since this was one of his dreams for the summer. And I quickly moved before I realized what I had agreed to.
It could not have been a more perfect day. Weather was insanely divine. We were text-book renters. Arrived on time. Grabbed the proper floatation devices. And waited by the shuttle. Not all the other renters where as fine as we were at following the rules.
We survived our third-world-country ride to the launch destination and were the first to be launched. That was neat, because we were the only ones with kids. And also the only ones who hadn't canoed together. Ever. Actually I'm making that up. I don't know if we were the ONLY ones. But because we were first, we were made a spectacle of.
It started out so romantic. Big D in the back. Me in the front. Kids in the middle. Perfect family. Minus the fact that Big D had never had canoeing lessons. And I have. Big D thinks that in order to make a turn, you paddle really hard. (Did I emphasize "really"? Because when a turn appeared, it was like he turned the jet engine on in the back)
Now this quickly got old. Quickly. I was getting tired of crashing into the banks. (Remember, we are in front of all the other boaters) And I decided I was going to be the steer-er. And kicked Big D to the front. He cried. But we did not tip over.
Probably an hour into the trip things started to go from romantic to worse decision of the year thus far. (Today I like using the words "thus far.")
I am comfortable and fine with steering. I enjoy steering. However, Big D still thought that he had to paddle as fiercely as he could when he spotted the next hair-pin turn. I basically did not do any paddling - I was just a rudder. And we were still crashing at a anger inducing rate.
An hour and a half into the trip we started noticing an alarming amount of very large spiders in our boat. I don't know if I've shared this or not - but I don't do spiders. If there is a choice of: spider gets too close OR boat gets tipped - boat gets tipped. Also, Ed decided he was tired of sitting nicely, and blue was wet - so the next sensible thing to do was to start screaming. Which showcased Big D's very pleasant mood. He started hooting and hollaring. Yelling things to the other boaters. Snarling and gnashing of teeth. I literally wanted to whale him over the head with my oar. But he was too far away. Lucky for him.
The only non-complainer of the whole trip was Murnice. Who just kept on paddling, aka hitting our oars with her oar and throwing water up on Ed and blue - which was not helping Ed's attitude, which only gave fuel to Big D's fire attitude.
At this point I had mentally, emotionally, physically, and almost spiritually given up. My right arm was burning due to the fact that I had to keep my oar on the right side of the ship. Emotionally I couldn't handle Ed crying and Big D being a fruit tart. I wanted to just stop and snuggle the poor wet boy. But I was too afraid of a) tipping over b) losing sight of the spiders c) drifting into more spider homes d) collecting more spiders e) wasting time f) never making it back home g) getting lost at sea. My left butt bone had dug a hole through my small amount of muscle and large amount of jiggle and was sitting squarely on the hard metal seat.
And then, we came to a fork in the river aka stream. We were with a large group of people. And everybody went to the left. And we went to the right. Before I knew it, we were paddling against the current. And everything began to escalate into a down-right emergency. With one final dramatic huffy paddle, I threw our boat head on into the biggest, spideriest, reptile filled bank there was. We rammed hard. Which got Big D really excited. I think he also realized that it was his turn to wear his grown up panties, take control, and get us home.
He started to paddle really hard. Making his earlier jet engine look like a paddle boat.
The part that I didn't tell you, was that our boat had flipped around with my massive crash, and we were now backwards.
Big D didn't care. He was going home. And I decided I might be able to scrounge up the energy to help.
You know the Olympic boat races, where they're going so fast that bodies are flying forwards and then lunging backwards? Yeah, we could have been medal contenders in the Olympics. Ed was holding on for his dear life. Not a peep was coming out. Murnice had put her paddle away and was hanging on hard.
And we were flying. I think we were actually flying up over the water, like they do in the cartoons.
Wouldn't you know that we ended up taking the short cut. Beat everybody by a mile. Or maybe a 1/2 mile. I think the workers were a little confused to why the canoe was coming in at such a disconcerting speed backwards.
And that will be the last time that I EVER come up with ridiculous ideas.
Take Aways
1) Just because you wake up with a different attitude towards life, doesn't necessarily mean you should embrace your new ideas.
2) But if you choose to embrace your new ideas, be sure you know how long of a ride it's going to be.
3) Or, just stay home.
4) On the couch.
5) And watch tv.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 2
This is not my favorite thing - going back and remembering. Trying to gather all the small parts that have made up this big part of our life. Because there are so many small parts. I wished I had journaled it all then.
With the birth of Murnice, I knew that I wanted to pursue something in the more natural field of medicine. I thought a good place to start was becoming a doula. It was a simple weekend class, read a few books - and that qualified you to attend births. Which I wanted to do. I wanted to be part of the magic that happens when babies enter the world.
I liked the class. Abhorred the instructor. And never finished the course to qualify becoming a doula. Ok, the honest truth is - I didn't think I was good enough/knew what I was doing. (which goes back to my lie that I'm not good enough) And I did abhor the instructor, which didn't help with me feeling supported in pursuing.
So then I decided that I was going to go to massage therapy school. Murnice was 18 months when I started. I loved, loved, loved, massage therapy. I loved my classes. I loved my classmates. I loved the consistency and schedule. And I loved that I was at the top of my class. I met some really great people. And I became in the know of the body and how to naturally treat. I loved learning. And I started learning about how to naturally treat infertility. I felt like a queen.
A couple of things I remember about my infertility and going to massage school.
1) My closest friend at school had a miscarriage (years ago) when the baby was 3 months. She was so lovely to me during this time in my life.
2) I decided to try infertility treatment at a clinic (which I'll write about more in a bit) but for those of you who have taken Clomid - (and for those of you who have NOT taken Clomid) know that the vaginal area smells worse than 7 rotting fish carcases. And when you smell that special, and you're naked on a massage table - you feel pretty self conscious. Not to mention, hyped up on all sorts of hormonal highs and lows. . . . . I was treated so lovely and gently.
3) In the back of my head, or you could say - in my mind's eye - I felt that at graduation I would be pregnant. It was just a feeling I had.
With infertility, you must be baby free after trying to conceive for one full year before you are named "infertile". After trying for almost two years to conceive I decided I wanted to give drugs a try. Because I firmly believe that God is not always just going to hand over what's wanted. Sometimes you have to work hard. Sometimes you have to open yourself up to new ideas. God has given us a brain. And God has guided the brain to create medicine. I remember not wanting to do the meds, but that want of a baby was bigger.
The clinic was awful. But that was my own perception. I walked in with an almost 3 year old. And there was a lot of hate and anger and judgment given to me through eyes. I felt awful parading my 3 year old around and wanting another baby.
I remember having to go to the clinic it seemed like every other day. Getting blood drawn, checking levels, checking viable eggs. I remember freaking out about taking Clomid - the possibility of having multiples. And not wanting that. To the point where if the choice was multiples or none, I was choosing none. The medical team decided that I should take only half of the recommended dose. I remember wigging out with having so much blood drawn. And crying a lot. I remember the nurse who was a Christmas Angel who was so sweet to me, and used the baby needle. And I literally didn't feel a thing. And I thought she was magic. I remember when it was time to have my eggs checked, there was only a male doctor to do it. And he was so rough and insensitive, physically and emotionally. I am angry that I allowed somebody to treat me the way he did without standing up for myself - physically and emotionally. I am angry that Big D just stood there watching what was happening. But I think he was in as much shock as I was. I never went back. And I didn't get pregnant.
That's all I'm writing today.
With the birth of Murnice, I knew that I wanted to pursue something in the more natural field of medicine. I thought a good place to start was becoming a doula. It was a simple weekend class, read a few books - and that qualified you to attend births. Which I wanted to do. I wanted to be part of the magic that happens when babies enter the world.
I liked the class. Abhorred the instructor. And never finished the course to qualify becoming a doula. Ok, the honest truth is - I didn't think I was good enough/knew what I was doing. (which goes back to my lie that I'm not good enough) And I did abhor the instructor, which didn't help with me feeling supported in pursuing.
So then I decided that I was going to go to massage therapy school. Murnice was 18 months when I started. I loved, loved, loved, massage therapy. I loved my classes. I loved my classmates. I loved the consistency and schedule. And I loved that I was at the top of my class. I met some really great people. And I became in the know of the body and how to naturally treat. I loved learning. And I started learning about how to naturally treat infertility. I felt like a queen.
A couple of things I remember about my infertility and going to massage school.
1) My closest friend at school had a miscarriage (years ago) when the baby was 3 months. She was so lovely to me during this time in my life.
2) I decided to try infertility treatment at a clinic (which I'll write about more in a bit) but for those of you who have taken Clomid - (and for those of you who have NOT taken Clomid) know that the vaginal area smells worse than 7 rotting fish carcases. And when you smell that special, and you're naked on a massage table - you feel pretty self conscious. Not to mention, hyped up on all sorts of hormonal highs and lows. . . . . I was treated so lovely and gently.
3) In the back of my head, or you could say - in my mind's eye - I felt that at graduation I would be pregnant. It was just a feeling I had.
With infertility, you must be baby free after trying to conceive for one full year before you are named "infertile". After trying for almost two years to conceive I decided I wanted to give drugs a try. Because I firmly believe that God is not always just going to hand over what's wanted. Sometimes you have to work hard. Sometimes you have to open yourself up to new ideas. God has given us a brain. And God has guided the brain to create medicine. I remember not wanting to do the meds, but that want of a baby was bigger.
The clinic was awful. But that was my own perception. I walked in with an almost 3 year old. And there was a lot of hate and anger and judgment given to me through eyes. I felt awful parading my 3 year old around and wanting another baby.
I remember having to go to the clinic it seemed like every other day. Getting blood drawn, checking levels, checking viable eggs. I remember freaking out about taking Clomid - the possibility of having multiples. And not wanting that. To the point where if the choice was multiples or none, I was choosing none. The medical team decided that I should take only half of the recommended dose. I remember wigging out with having so much blood drawn. And crying a lot. I remember the nurse who was a Christmas Angel who was so sweet to me, and used the baby needle. And I literally didn't feel a thing. And I thought she was magic. I remember when it was time to have my eggs checked, there was only a male doctor to do it. And he was so rough and insensitive, physically and emotionally. I am angry that I allowed somebody to treat me the way he did without standing up for myself - physically and emotionally. I am angry that Big D just stood there watching what was happening. But I think he was in as much shock as I was. I never went back. And I didn't get pregnant.
That's all I'm writing today.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 1
I'm going to do this. I'm going to write about my journey of infertility and miscarriage. I've never written down the whole story. And I need too. Time has healed some and I feel brave enough to share about Big D's and my very personal story.
I also hope that you will share your story. When you feel brave enough. Because what I've found, is that so many women have and are bathed in infertility and miscarriage. This is a part of who we are. But we women hold it too close. And the new mama's don't know that we have a history. And the cycle continues. Are we ashamed? Or in grief? Whatever the case, we have turned it into this taboo topic.
I hate that nobody talks about the very realness of infertility and miscarriage. I hate that we get asked, "how many kids do you want?" And we except to have what we want. I hate that people are rude enough and ask very personal questions that revolve around you and your partner's sex life.
Anyway, here's our story:
When I got pregnant with Murnice, it was a "whwhwhoooooaaaaa" thing. I don't like to say a "whoops". Anyway, the point of that whole statement is that I got pregnant very easily. On the first explosion inside my lady bits.
I promptly got an IUD after giving birth. And I don't regret that decision. After exactly a year, I had it removed because I felt emotionally stable enough to have another baby. I assumed I would be pregnant within a month.
Within "that" month - (I'm not sure if it was the following Sunday, or 3 Sundays later) I was up front shaking my money maker (kidding, just dancing) and God said to me, "I'll give you a baby at the right time". And I said, "yeah that's neat God, but now is the right time." And he chuckled and snortled. And I went on dancing.
That was my first promise. It was August 2006.
From that first promise to Ed, time has become very jumbled in my head. I don't have a timeline, just a general idea.
The next two years were filled with a lot of frustrations and anger. It was really easy to question the IUD, wondering if that was the culprit. I just needed something to blame at that time. It was awful whenever friends or family announced that they were having ANOTHER baby. I felt I needed this personal warning that Billy and Susie were going to start trying to have a baby. I needed to emotionally prepare myself that there was going to be a baby announcement sometime in the future. It was the absolute WORST being taken off guard with a baby announcement. And I would have to force a smile out and say something nice. When in reality I hated their very being, and would cry for a million hours after I was alone.
I remember Big D and I didn't make too much of a fuss over actual intercourse. I never got crazy about temperature or secretions, or feelings of love, or any of that stuff that can make infertile couples hate sex. We bunnified when we wanted and how we wanted. Although we did start using a pH friendly lube that wouldn't kill Big D's baby makers.
And that's all I'm going to write today.
I also hope that you will share your story. When you feel brave enough. Because what I've found, is that so many women have and are bathed in infertility and miscarriage. This is a part of who we are. But we women hold it too close. And the new mama's don't know that we have a history. And the cycle continues. Are we ashamed? Or in grief? Whatever the case, we have turned it into this taboo topic.
I hate that nobody talks about the very realness of infertility and miscarriage. I hate that we get asked, "how many kids do you want?" And we except to have what we want. I hate that people are rude enough and ask very personal questions that revolve around you and your partner's sex life.
Anyway, here's our story:
When I got pregnant with Murnice, it was a "whwhwhoooooaaaaa" thing. I don't like to say a "whoops". Anyway, the point of that whole statement is that I got pregnant very easily. On the first explosion inside my lady bits.
I promptly got an IUD after giving birth. And I don't regret that decision. After exactly a year, I had it removed because I felt emotionally stable enough to have another baby. I assumed I would be pregnant within a month.
Within "that" month - (I'm not sure if it was the following Sunday, or 3 Sundays later) I was up front shaking my money maker (kidding, just dancing) and God said to me, "I'll give you a baby at the right time". And I said, "yeah that's neat God, but now is the right time." And he chuckled and snortled. And I went on dancing.
That was my first promise. It was August 2006.
From that first promise to Ed, time has become very jumbled in my head. I don't have a timeline, just a general idea.
The next two years were filled with a lot of frustrations and anger. It was really easy to question the IUD, wondering if that was the culprit. I just needed something to blame at that time. It was awful whenever friends or family announced that they were having ANOTHER baby. I felt I needed this personal warning that Billy and Susie were going to start trying to have a baby. I needed to emotionally prepare myself that there was going to be a baby announcement sometime in the future. It was the absolute WORST being taken off guard with a baby announcement. And I would have to force a smile out and say something nice. When in reality I hated their very being, and would cry for a million hours after I was alone.
I remember Big D and I didn't make too much of a fuss over actual intercourse. I never got crazy about temperature or secretions, or feelings of love, or any of that stuff that can make infertile couples hate sex. We bunnified when we wanted and how we wanted. Although we did start using a pH friendly lube that wouldn't kill Big D's baby makers.
And that's all I'm going to write today.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Trouble in Rivercity
Dear World,
I am living with a Velociraptor. And this is what he looks like. He is quite manly, has large upper thighs. And quite gentlemanly-ish. Wears a top hat and mustache. On occasion he will ride his bike to work - following all bike rules: staying on bike path, staying to the right of other riders, singing while riding to let others know that he is approaching, and keeping his tail in a straight line behind bike - to not get tangled in wheels nor wallop passerbyers.
I understand that living with a Velociraptor sounds actually quite nice. And I would say for the most part, it's lovely.
However, there is a problem. Whenever I get close to my manly Raptor, he gouges my feet, ankles, and or legs (depending on what position we are in) with his ginormous toe issue.
He was created this way, so there is nothing I can physically do about this - minus an amputation.
But I'm wondering world, how can I go about a peaceful, physical relationship with all my bottom leg accessories intact?
Yours Truly,
Shredded Legs
Take Aways
1) For realz.
2) Advice needed.
3) Getting desperate.
I am living with a Velociraptor. And this is what he looks like. He is quite manly, has large upper thighs. And quite gentlemanly-ish. Wears a top hat and mustache. On occasion he will ride his bike to work - following all bike rules: staying on bike path, staying to the right of other riders, singing while riding to let others know that he is approaching, and keeping his tail in a straight line behind bike - to not get tangled in wheels nor wallop passerbyers.
I understand that living with a Velociraptor sounds actually quite nice. And I would say for the most part, it's lovely.
However, there is a problem. Whenever I get close to my manly Raptor, he gouges my feet, ankles, and or legs (depending on what position we are in) with his ginormous toe issue.
He was created this way, so there is nothing I can physically do about this - minus an amputation.
But I'm wondering world, how can I go about a peaceful, physical relationship with all my bottom leg accessories intact?
Yours Truly,
Shredded Legs
Take Aways
1) For realz.
2) Advice needed.
3) Getting desperate.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Low Lady on the Totem Pole
Big D and I have a severe difference. It's "OUR" fight. (You know, every couple has a fight that ALL the fights go back to)(Sister Bear's is about cockroaches. Friday Friends is about car key placement.) Our fight is about Big D never being home.
It used to be sports that took him away from home. He was on 5 different teams of various ball-themed activities when we first met and into our first couple years of marriage. Then it briefly went to friend visits. Then work meetings. And now it's a pleasant mixture of rabbi activities and work meetings. (I say "pleasant" with a twisted tongue.) He saves his friend get-togethers for the weekend. When the family can come. (This sounds so kind of him - but it's actually awful)
So in my eyes, I am competing for attention with all of these activities. And I want to be #1 at all points of the day, week, (including weekends) and forever. I am an introvert and love my couch. And I want Big D to love my couch almost as much as I do. AKA sit on the couch with me till he puts his butt before me, and farts.
Ok, I know I sound awful and greedy and so selfish. And truthfully, I'm all of those things.
However, that being said - I know that after 9 years of fighting to be the top of the totem pole, I know that I will only get as far as right below the scariest face. I have tried threats, seduction, food, promises, and other sorts of techniques that a lady should not admit too. . . . . . And he always leaves for whatever is more exciting than the couch.
I promise you, he sits in his big empty office at work, and thinks up ways to avoid the couch. Last night he went straight from work to a "peer support group meeting for fellow MBA graduates - minus Big D who is not a graduate - yet". AND get this! They got the college to provide food for them. How do people even think up these things?!
If I were on that committee - or any committee . . . .
"Foxy, we need to have a meeting ." "Ok, my couch is comfortable, lets meet there. And we'll drink tea."
"Foxy, lets have mom's group." "Ok, lets have it at my house. We can sit on my couch."
"Foxy, lets have intercourse." . . . . . . . (Secret: that's the real reason why my couch is so smeared)
(I'm getting so sidetracked)
Anyway, sometimes I try to act like a grown-up. I try to have a somewhat mature attitude. I'll put Big D's activities into my calender to try and make it seem a bit fancier than it really is. Sometimes when things appear fancy I have a better attitude.
So last night I started out with a better attitude. I took an afternoon nap while the kids watched an abundance of tv. I made boxed mac and cheese with tuna for dinner. (it was incredible) Then I read a few chapters to them to alleviate my guilt, put them to bed - and eagerly awaited Big -who was going to sit on the couch and watch Burn Notice and then New Girl with me, while we chatted about our days like grownups.
Except that's not how it went. Lets just say that after 2 episodes of Burn Notice AND 2 episodes of New Girl Big D still had not come home. And I got *ahem* a little excited. And then stormed off to bed like a spoiled poop stain.
So, 3 readers . . . What is your main fight? Do share. And then tell me if you have a solution for your main fight - or if you just take the opportunity to really duke it out. Because sometimes a duke session is really what the Dr. has ordered.
Take Aways
1) Find a permanent couch buddy and pay them handsomely.
2) Never have expectations. Especially if they're romantic.
3) Continue to rock as a mother and have outstanding evenings with your children.
4) I can't decide which one is better - tv or chemical dinner. Both were amazing. So . . . do both.
5) Maybe add something, like a little sodypop with dinner.
6) Have "poor me" treats hidden in the cupboards.
It used to be sports that took him away from home. He was on 5 different teams of various ball-themed activities when we first met and into our first couple years of marriage. Then it briefly went to friend visits. Then work meetings. And now it's a pleasant mixture of rabbi activities and work meetings. (I say "pleasant" with a twisted tongue.) He saves his friend get-togethers for the weekend. When the family can come. (This sounds so kind of him - but it's actually awful)
So in my eyes, I am competing for attention with all of these activities. And I want to be #1 at all points of the day, week, (including weekends) and forever. I am an introvert and love my couch. And I want Big D to love my couch almost as much as I do. AKA sit on the couch with me till he puts his butt before me, and farts.
Ok, I know I sound awful and greedy and so selfish. And truthfully, I'm all of those things.
However, that being said - I know that after 9 years of fighting to be the top of the totem pole, I know that I will only get as far as right below the scariest face. I have tried threats, seduction, food, promises, and other sorts of techniques that a lady should not admit too. . . . . . And he always leaves for whatever is more exciting than the couch.
I promise you, he sits in his big empty office at work, and thinks up ways to avoid the couch. Last night he went straight from work to a "peer support group meeting for fellow MBA graduates - minus Big D who is not a graduate - yet". AND get this! They got the college to provide food for them. How do people even think up these things?!
If I were on that committee - or any committee . . . .
"Foxy, we need to have a meeting ." "Ok, my couch is comfortable, lets meet there. And we'll drink tea."
"Foxy, lets have mom's group." "Ok, lets have it at my house. We can sit on my couch."
"Foxy, lets have intercourse." . . . . . . . (Secret: that's the real reason why my couch is so smeared)
(I'm getting so sidetracked)
Anyway, sometimes I try to act like a grown-up. I try to have a somewhat mature attitude. I'll put Big D's activities into my calender to try and make it seem a bit fancier than it really is. Sometimes when things appear fancy I have a better attitude.
So last night I started out with a better attitude. I took an afternoon nap while the kids watched an abundance of tv. I made boxed mac and cheese with tuna for dinner. (it was incredible) Then I read a few chapters to them to alleviate my guilt, put them to bed - and eagerly awaited Big -who was going to sit on the couch and watch Burn Notice and then New Girl with me, while we chatted about our days like grownups.
Except that's not how it went. Lets just say that after 2 episodes of Burn Notice AND 2 episodes of New Girl Big D still had not come home. And I got *ahem* a little excited. And then stormed off to bed like a spoiled poop stain.
So, 3 readers . . . What is your main fight? Do share. And then tell me if you have a solution for your main fight - or if you just take the opportunity to really duke it out. Because sometimes a duke session is really what the Dr. has ordered.
Take Aways
1) Find a permanent couch buddy and pay them handsomely.
2) Never have expectations. Especially if they're romantic.
3) Continue to rock as a mother and have outstanding evenings with your children.
4) I can't decide which one is better - tv or chemical dinner. Both were amazing. So . . . do both.
5) Maybe add something, like a little sodypop with dinner.
6) Have "poor me" treats hidden in the cupboards.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Receive-Me-Not Lines
I do indeed have major issues regarding my bubble. Bubble of space. Space that is mine. All mine. No sharing. I think my bubble is a good 4 feet on each side/all around me. When my bubble is invaded I either:
a) sweat like a hairy toe in a polyester sock
b) panic and can't hear a word that is being said
c) am unable to comprehend words and or actions
d) suffocate
e) think violent thoughts
f) become statuesque
All big people - take note, STAND BACK. And I will be much more pleasant. I might even say something nice to you. Tell you that I like your socks, er something. If you want to chat, you should get out of my bubble. I like talking to people through my bubble windows, not in my bubble house.
Oh, and I don't like being touched. But I do accept massages. Only the professional kind. Because I'm a professional and I don't appreciate nonprofessional touches. (just being real) (aka - I am a LMT, just not practicing)
Also, I hate. HATE - kissing, making-out, pecking, smacking nobs, exchanging saliva, rubbing faces and touching chin juice. Major invasion of bubble. I seriously feel like I'm suffocating. Actually, I was kicked out of a boy's house one time because I wouldn't kiss him anymore because I felt like I was suffocating. (hehe) (for real) (his nickname was: Morgasm) (stop judging)
I don't like seeing kissing in movies. I start suffocating, just thinking and seeing what's happening to their bubble space.
Hugs are hard for me too. But I can survived them. And have never been kicked out of somebody's house because I refused to hug. Actually I'm pretty critical about hugs. Maybe another post for another time.
Moving on . . .
But one of the WORST occasions for me to have to endure, is the receiving line. Wedding, funeral, and highschool shows. I actual writhe just thinking about them. I purposefully ignore them. They are awkward and more awkward. And what are you supposed to do with them? (them being the people in the lines) Hugs? Talk? Whatever happens in these lines = bubble invasion on the highest level.
So how does a grown woman go about these lines? (in case I ever feel like being a grown woman and trying out a line)
Do you go through the whole line ignoring those you don't know? Acknowledge ONLY the people you do know? What about the people you know, but not that well? Is there a level of acknowledgment? Strangers = ignore (look straight ahead), Acquaintances = high five, Good friends/family = hugs?
But what if you know them, and they don't know you? Then what?
So, here's what I did at the latest receiving line: walked out of the line, made a BIG half-moon shape and walked straight to the person I came to see. Exchanged a few words. Then panicked, because the people standing next to thepersonIcametosee was expecting some sort of congratulatory acknowledgement. So I gave them a thumbs up. And then ran away. (they didn't like the thumbs up) (even though I smiled)
Take Aways
1) It is never appropriate to grow up when you feel as awkward about life as I do.
2) Stand back.
3) Children don't bother my bubble boundaries.
4) Ok, the truth is, I panic about hugs too.
5) Big D is welcomed into my bubble. But no mushy face. Not joking.
Fun Fact
The time we went to Friday Friends house for their 6-year-old's birthday party, and Ed pooped a few logs in the grass. And then their 6-year-old told her mother that next year she was going to ask that nobody pooped in the grass at her birthday party.
a) sweat like a hairy toe in a polyester sock
b) panic and can't hear a word that is being said
c) am unable to comprehend words and or actions
d) suffocate
e) think violent thoughts
f) become statuesque
All big people - take note, STAND BACK. And I will be much more pleasant. I might even say something nice to you. Tell you that I like your socks, er something. If you want to chat, you should get out of my bubble. I like talking to people through my bubble windows, not in my bubble house.
Oh, and I don't like being touched. But I do accept massages. Only the professional kind. Because I'm a professional and I don't appreciate nonprofessional touches. (just being real) (aka - I am a LMT, just not practicing)
Also, I hate. HATE - kissing, making-out, pecking, smacking nobs, exchanging saliva, rubbing faces and touching chin juice. Major invasion of bubble. I seriously feel like I'm suffocating. Actually, I was kicked out of a boy's house one time because I wouldn't kiss him anymore because I felt like I was suffocating. (hehe) (for real) (his nickname was: Morgasm) (stop judging)
I don't like seeing kissing in movies. I start suffocating, just thinking and seeing what's happening to their bubble space.
Hugs are hard for me too. But I can survived them. And have never been kicked out of somebody's house because I refused to hug. Actually I'm pretty critical about hugs. Maybe another post for another time.
Moving on . . .
But one of the WORST occasions for me to have to endure, is the receiving line. Wedding, funeral, and highschool shows. I actual writhe just thinking about them. I purposefully ignore them. They are awkward and more awkward. And what are you supposed to do with them? (them being the people in the lines) Hugs? Talk? Whatever happens in these lines = bubble invasion on the highest level.
So how does a grown woman go about these lines? (in case I ever feel like being a grown woman and trying out a line)
Do you go through the whole line ignoring those you don't know? Acknowledge ONLY the people you do know? What about the people you know, but not that well? Is there a level of acknowledgment? Strangers = ignore (look straight ahead), Acquaintances = high five, Good friends/family = hugs?
But what if you know them, and they don't know you? Then what?
So, here's what I did at the latest receiving line: walked out of the line, made a BIG half-moon shape and walked straight to the person I came to see. Exchanged a few words. Then panicked, because the people standing next to thepersonIcametosee was expecting some sort of congratulatory acknowledgement. So I gave them a thumbs up. And then ran away. (they didn't like the thumbs up) (even though I smiled)
Take Aways
1) It is never appropriate to grow up when you feel as awkward about life as I do.
2) Stand back.
3) Children don't bother my bubble boundaries.
4) Ok, the truth is, I panic about hugs too.
5) Big D is welcomed into my bubble. But no mushy face. Not joking.
Fun Fact
The time we went to Friday Friends house for their 6-year-old's birthday party, and Ed pooped a few logs in the grass. And then their 6-year-old told her mother that next year she was going to ask that nobody pooped in the grass at her birthday party.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Naughty Big D
Nothing. NOTHING, gets me more excited than a Sunday-after-church grocer trip. During normal weeks I'll shop with just the kids. But with me living with Mother, it's just easier to make the dreaded trip right after church, when I'm already in the car. (Because I have no self-discipline during the weekend)
This is how a normal Sunday grocer trip goes:
Me: exhausted and overly ravenous = beyond witch like
Big D: anything but helpful
Kids: exhausted and overly ravenous = beyond brat like
******************************************************************
For as long as we've been married (9 years) Big D has been incredibly awful about thinking up a menu for the week AND making any sort of grocery list. If I absolutely refuse to do ANYTHING, he will make the same glorious list of:
spaghetti
fish
chedder beef enchiladas
tacos
WITH. OUT. FAIL.
DRIVES. ME. NUTS.
Ok, so on his grocer list, he'll write down spaghetti, fish, enchiladas, and tacos - AND THAT'S IT. Not what he needs to make those things. No side dishes. No refills of things we've run out of around here. Just 4 items. *Ahem* or 4 dinners.
So over the years I have demanded less and less of his help with food planning, unless I'm super desperate. Or going on strike. Both have happened. More than the sun has shined.
************************************************************************
Moving on to the usual grocer trip . . .
We walk in as a glorious family, loving and kind. Pleased to smell the fresh bread and see the pretty cupcakes. We grab the kids their free cookie - to shut them up for 3.0096 seconds. We stop and look at the poor lobsters. Ed just squeals and squeals with delight. And cries if we leave without saying "goodbye lobsters".
And then the fighting begins. Because I have the grocer list. Because I have MADE the list. Because I have planned the menu - I am the holder of the list, and the leader of the list. Big D is merely the cart pusher. And as a cart pusher I expect YOU to follow ME. But no, this is not what Big D does.
I'll say, "I'm going to get parsley". What I mean: you stay exactly where you are, or follow me - but I am going to grab a bag of parsley and then I will come straight back to you and put my parsley in the cart. And then we will move on to the next item".
What Big D hears, "I am going to play hide and seek now. Please run to the farthest part of the store and grab some random item without telling me where you are headed or what you're going to get. And we'll see how long it takes for me to find you".
INSTANT RAGE.
When I am rageful, I do not care who hears, observes, witnesses, listens, stares, records, or takes note of my behavior. Because it is all rational in the situation.
I have yelled, hollered, fought, thrown, stomped, squealed tires, and given the bird in the middle of the grocer. Literally, I turn into an animal. And it's ONLY when Big D accompanies me.
I blame him entirely for my rude behavior. Maybe in another 9 years, I will completely ban him from any sort of grocer trip with me. Sometimes it takes me a long time to make an intelligent choice/decision.
Take Aways
1) Big D needs a huge wallop on the seat of his pants.
2) Big D needs to learn some manners when it comes to doing a grocer run with the family.
3) Big D needs to read a recipe book.
Fun Fact
Whenever I send an email to a company or professional individual - I never hear back from them. Maybe they think I'm a joke. Maybe I should stop being honest and tell them what they WANT to hear, or what normal adults say. This is me having a pity-party because nobody ever gets back to me. waaaaahhhhh.
I love love love running into "swim kids" in random places (ie target) and saying "hi" to them, and they have no idea who I am. My favorite favorite part is when I say, "do I look different with clothes on?" And the parents softly gasp and then everybody giggles and says, "yes". Reactions to situations are so, so great.
This is how a normal Sunday grocer trip goes:
Me: exhausted and overly ravenous = beyond witch like
Big D: anything but helpful
Kids: exhausted and overly ravenous = beyond brat like
******************************************************************
For as long as we've been married (9 years) Big D has been incredibly awful about thinking up a menu for the week AND making any sort of grocery list. If I absolutely refuse to do ANYTHING, he will make the same glorious list of:
spaghetti
fish
chedder beef enchiladas
tacos
WITH. OUT. FAIL.
DRIVES. ME. NUTS.
Ok, so on his grocer list, he'll write down spaghetti, fish, enchiladas, and tacos - AND THAT'S IT. Not what he needs to make those things. No side dishes. No refills of things we've run out of around here. Just 4 items. *Ahem* or 4 dinners.
So over the years I have demanded less and less of his help with food planning, unless I'm super desperate. Or going on strike. Both have happened. More than the sun has shined.
************************************************************************
Moving on to the usual grocer trip . . .
We walk in as a glorious family, loving and kind. Pleased to smell the fresh bread and see the pretty cupcakes. We grab the kids their free cookie - to shut them up for 3.0096 seconds. We stop and look at the poor lobsters. Ed just squeals and squeals with delight. And cries if we leave without saying "goodbye lobsters".
And then the fighting begins. Because I have the grocer list. Because I have MADE the list. Because I have planned the menu - I am the holder of the list, and the leader of the list. Big D is merely the cart pusher. And as a cart pusher I expect YOU to follow ME. But no, this is not what Big D does.
I'll say, "I'm going to get parsley". What I mean: you stay exactly where you are, or follow me - but I am going to grab a bag of parsley and then I will come straight back to you and put my parsley in the cart. And then we will move on to the next item".
What Big D hears, "I am going to play hide and seek now. Please run to the farthest part of the store and grab some random item without telling me where you are headed or what you're going to get. And we'll see how long it takes for me to find you".
INSTANT RAGE.
When I am rageful, I do not care who hears, observes, witnesses, listens, stares, records, or takes note of my behavior. Because it is all rational in the situation.
I have yelled, hollered, fought, thrown, stomped, squealed tires, and given the bird in the middle of the grocer. Literally, I turn into an animal. And it's ONLY when Big D accompanies me.
I blame him entirely for my rude behavior. Maybe in another 9 years, I will completely ban him from any sort of grocer trip with me. Sometimes it takes me a long time to make an intelligent choice/decision.
Take Aways
1) Big D needs a huge wallop on the seat of his pants.
2) Big D needs to learn some manners when it comes to doing a grocer run with the family.
3) Big D needs to read a recipe book.
Fun Fact
Whenever I send an email to a company or professional individual - I never hear back from them. Maybe they think I'm a joke. Maybe I should stop being honest and tell them what they WANT to hear, or what normal adults say. This is me having a pity-party because nobody ever gets back to me. waaaaahhhhh.
I love love love running into "swim kids" in random places (ie target) and saying "hi" to them, and they have no idea who I am. My favorite favorite part is when I say, "do I look different with clothes on?" And the parents softly gasp and then everybody giggles and says, "yes". Reactions to situations are so, so great.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Why I Moved in With Mother
Here's the scoopy poopy.
Like I mentioned earlier last week, I've moved in with my mother. True dat.
And as much as I would like you all to think wild thoughts about the state of Big D's and my holy matrimony - I am pleased to tell you that we are fine and as smooth as butter.
I moved in with my mother for a selfish/nonselfish reason. Here goes.
When I turned 15 I started teaching swim lessons. And fell a bit in love - over time. I really was forced into the situation. Kinda like an arranged marriage. And over time my heart opened up to the love potential.
Things I Love About My Job
1) The pay
2) The challenge
3) The staff
4) The confidence in my ability to perform a job well done that has built over time
5) The results
6) The creativity
7) The reason to show off my firming buns
Things I Hate About My Job
1) The creepy dads
2) The chemical water that instantly gives me a rash
3) The temperature of the water
4) The possiblity of having to deal with a life or death situation
5) The conflicts
6) The bodily fluids/communicable diseases
So, every summer the swim program hosts a 6 week program - and last year I almost ended my marriage for the 37th time while doing the swim program. Every minute of every day has to be accounted for and Big D is anything but helpful. Honestly, it's worse than that. He turns into a dickleweed. And I turn into a roaring she-lion on steroids who just had 7 cubs. And we claw at each other and bite each other where it really matters.
When I finally decided to work this summer again (there were a lot of deciding factors) I thought maybe that moving in with Mother would be wise. I would get more sleep. I wouldn't have the stress of the commute (1 hour). And Big D and I would be separate and therefore loving when we had the opportunity to see each other (minus last night). The kids have a more consistent schedule and are a lot more pleasant to be around.
One week down, 5 to go. Big D is all about paying me extra attention . . . (every woman wants to feel desired - and I have felt desired, minus last night) Maybe it's just my new buns. I have gotten far less sleep - the kids are in bed with me. ("uggles mommy" - I think Ed is going through snuggle withdrawals since there really isn't a time to snuggle because there is always SO much work to be done at Mothers. So bed is the only place where I'm in one position for longer than 5 minutes.) I am less stressed and time constricted. The kids have a choice of 7-9 adults at any given time to play with/help/watch.
And then I came home - and my mole hole turned into this: (I hope this makes you all feel better about the condition of your mole hole. Or house - if you have an actual house.)
Take Aways
1) Choose unconventional ways to live life.
2) Find things that you love - and do them. Even if they're unconventional.
3) Sleep is over rated, stress is not.
4) Pay attention to the day you're in, leaving tomorrow for tomorrow.
Fun Fact
Ed is obsessed with feeling my armpits. He thinks they're soft. But when they're sweaty - which is 97% of the time - he says "ew" and them smears his sweaty fingers on the couch. I am destined to have the grossest couch forever and ever amen.
Like I mentioned earlier last week, I've moved in with my mother. True dat.
And as much as I would like you all to think wild thoughts about the state of Big D's and my holy matrimony - I am pleased to tell you that we are fine and as smooth as butter.
I moved in with my mother for a selfish/nonselfish reason. Here goes.
When I turned 15 I started teaching swim lessons. And fell a bit in love - over time. I really was forced into the situation. Kinda like an arranged marriage. And over time my heart opened up to the love potential.
Things I Love About My Job
1) The pay
2) The challenge
3) The staff
4) The confidence in my ability to perform a job well done that has built over time
5) The results
6) The creativity
7) The reason to show off my firming buns
Things I Hate About My Job
1) The creepy dads
2) The chemical water that instantly gives me a rash
3) The temperature of the water
4) The possiblity of having to deal with a life or death situation
5) The conflicts
6) The bodily fluids/communicable diseases
So, every summer the swim program hosts a 6 week program - and last year I almost ended my marriage for the 37th time while doing the swim program. Every minute of every day has to be accounted for and Big D is anything but helpful. Honestly, it's worse than that. He turns into a dickleweed. And I turn into a roaring she-lion on steroids who just had 7 cubs. And we claw at each other and bite each other where it really matters.
When I finally decided to work this summer again (there were a lot of deciding factors) I thought maybe that moving in with Mother would be wise. I would get more sleep. I wouldn't have the stress of the commute (1 hour). And Big D and I would be separate and therefore loving when we had the opportunity to see each other (minus last night). The kids have a more consistent schedule and are a lot more pleasant to be around.
One week down, 5 to go. Big D is all about paying me extra attention . . . (every woman wants to feel desired - and I have felt desired, minus last night) Maybe it's just my new buns. I have gotten far less sleep - the kids are in bed with me. ("uggles mommy" - I think Ed is going through snuggle withdrawals since there really isn't a time to snuggle because there is always SO much work to be done at Mothers. So bed is the only place where I'm in one position for longer than 5 minutes.) I am less stressed and time constricted. The kids have a choice of 7-9 adults at any given time to play with/help/watch.
And then I came home - and my mole hole turned into this: (I hope this makes you all feel better about the condition of your mole hole. Or house - if you have an actual house.)
Take Aways
1) Choose unconventional ways to live life.
2) Find things that you love - and do them. Even if they're unconventional.
3) Sleep is over rated, stress is not.
4) Pay attention to the day you're in, leaving tomorrow for tomorrow.
Fun Fact
Ed is obsessed with feeling my armpits. He thinks they're soft. But when they're sweaty - which is 97% of the time - he says "ew" and them smears his sweaty fingers on the couch. I am destined to have the grossest couch forever and ever amen.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Where I've Been - Day 1
I have so much to say, and no organizational skills this morning. So, long chaotic reading coming right up.
The Witherhalls were out of town for the past 40 hours. And Big D planned the whole trip. That sounds nice when I say that, like it was a romantic/surprise sort of thing. But the truth of the matter is: I was a weeny whiny baby who didn't want to go on this trip and refused to do ANYTHING to help get this trip in order. Including packing. Which I did a few hours before we left. But I told Big D he had to do it since it was his trip - and then I got really scared and did it myself.
Apparently being a poo nose wife works out in the end. Because it turns out, Big D arose to the challenge and out did himself. Maybe it's not so much that he arose to the challenge, but more so that these bounding chains of controlling wife-hood removed themselves and he was able to work as a free man. Hmmph
We left around 6 am Wednesday morning.- A whole day later due to Ed waking up Monday with a not pleasant fever and attitude that went with it. - Our destination: Sight and Sound Theater.
Weeny Whiny Baby Fit #1
WHO in their right mind names something this. It sounds like I'm going to be entertained by some puppets. Possibly Barney. Does this place have metal detectors? I'm thinking I may need to bring something in this joint to end my pain. (Was that inappropriate?) A little dramatic? But that's where my mind was at. I'm all for doing things for the kids - but when it comes to stage performances that are specifically for children. Small children. - I will gladly deprive. Without an ounce of sorrow or guilt.
I was so tired of hearing Big D say, "sight and sound theater" that I enforced the rule of calling it "ABC Train". And that made me feel better.
So, ABC Train actually is a big deal. Only 2 in the country. Which makes me think country = world. So, big deal. And it's a stage performance of bible stories. (Sounds super lame - abc trainish) But remember I said it's a big deal. So if you can think about bible stories in a big deal sort of way, maybe you'll be able to picture a large auditorium, mind blowing sets, beautiful costumes, (can I just say, the hair of these actors was enough for me. Oh yeah, and Shem) live animals, and lots of theater effects of lights and sounds. We saw "Noah". Now, my favorite part was the second half of show. Because the second half was when Noah and his family were on the ark. And all the way around this gigundas arena were curtains (that you didn't know were curtains) And they dropped the curtains, and for FOUR STORIES up - all the way around - were animals. In real simple terms - they made it so it felt/looked like you were on the ark.
And now I'm going to have to say: (Big D don't read this) I have to recommend this joint. They are showing Noah until November and then a new show begins.
Also, Big D really got top notch seats. Not sure if it was by the lucky front teeth of his head, or by researching - but they could not have been any better. I spanked him on the bottom two times and said "thank you".
After the showboat we drove to IKEA to return this. It made my house smell like a beef patty. And that doesn't work well in a mole hole house such as I have. You need a nice big house, one where you can really showcase this fine piece of meat.
Now this was my first trip to IKEA where I did not have to buy a large piece of furniture. Which got me REALLY excited. And Big D promptly fell into the depths of despair. Pouted a thousand pouts. Shed two tears. And growled. I pretended that I heard none of it. And with my best smile I bode him farewell and marched my bottom straight into creative land. Where for the first time EVER I had the chance to look at the small things. I think I almost hyperventilated and did 3 skippy twirls. And then as fast as I could, I waltzed through the top half of the store - grabbing small items that made me smile. Worked my way down to the bottom half. Ran into Big D. Hid around a corner, slowed my breathing and continued to shop like I didn't have some grumpy husband that I would have to contend with in the near future.
And Big D will say things like, "the reason I get so grumpy is because I have to entertain Ed". Ok, personally - Ed entertains himself with climbing on all the furniture. Big D only has to supervise. And because supervising is not what HE wants to do - he pouts. And becomes very dramatic. And there is no hope for our children because they have 2 parents who are both selfish and dramatic.
I finally finished. Really, it took 1 hour. Which I think is Houdini work. And Big D says, "lets get dinner here". And I said, "no". IKEA is not the most romantic place to eat. Cheap - yes. Convenient - yes. But I wasn't feeling cheap or convenient that night. I felt like a queen - with my small pretty purchases. And my belly wanted to match my head.
So Big D did a lot of research (3 chapters of On the Banks of Plum Creek worth) But it was worth it. And he found this incredibly delicious and perfect place that was not only scrum scrum and fit this romantic desire, but also grand for bringing piglets too. We appropriately slopped up the place. And our clothes.
I think we held hands for 3 seconds walking back to the car. Smiled satisfactorily. Farted once. And headed to the mystery hotel. That Big D said was in the ghetto.
Now I know for a fact - something the Whitherhalls don't go light on - are hotel rooms. We made that decision early on in our marriage - after far too many scary nights of threats of bugs, hairy pillows, and green and gold comforters. So, I was not worried about this ghetto place.
And sure enough, we drive into this brickyard where they just cleaned up a crime scene, and there beholds an old factory they turned into some artistically satisfying hotel.
Plans for the Night
1) Give kids shower. (I can't remember the last time they actually were covered in soap and water.)
2) Turn tv on to some kid show and put kids to bed.
3) Kids fall asleep immediately.
4) Adults order room service and watch interesting adult shows.
5) Giggle five times.
6) Be groped seven times.
7) Fall asleep happy and snuggled with tv still on.
How the Night Actually Went
1) Kids got bathed but only after Big D crawled in the shower with them because they both were screaming.
2) Turned tv on only to realize the only appropriate kid show was a tree-house building show on the animal planet. Nothing kid about it - except there were no disrespectful brats or nudity.
3) Kids are bored with show which only excites them and they refuse to sleep in their bed.
4) Big D complains about how hot the room is and sprawls out in the bed in a grumpy huff.
5) Kids jump around one too many times, land on Big D's peener.
6) Big D sends kids to their own bed = tears.
7) Big D falls asleep in 3 seconds.
8) Foxy watches the rest of the tree-house show and falls asleep.
9) Two hours later, Ed falls out of bed and ends up in ours = endless kicking to the face for the remaining 4 hours of sleep that remain in our busy schedule that Big D has planned.
Two Highlights of the First Day (with an extra highlight, and an extra)
1) Almost getting into a fight with the Mexicans
2) The 'Easy On, Easy Off' sign on the highway for McPoopers - that was anything but 'easy on, easy off'. And 'easy on, easy off' is going to be one of those things that you just say all the time - like, "happy birthday mama" and "MOM!!!! what's that noise???" and "IT'S NOT WORKING!"
3) Ed crying for a good part of the car ride because his tummy hurt. Because he now hoards is poopies AND his farts.
4) Seeing so many Amish. Loved.
Take Aways
1) Sometimes refusing to do anything results in better than expected adventures.
2) Leave kids home if you have any plans of snuggling.
3) Stay tuned for the next day's adventure.
Fun Fact
I was able to type this in about an hour - because the kids are still sleeping. Normally it takes me multiple hours, if not all day.
The Witherhalls were out of town for the past 40 hours. And Big D planned the whole trip. That sounds nice when I say that, like it was a romantic/surprise sort of thing. But the truth of the matter is: I was a weeny whiny baby who didn't want to go on this trip and refused to do ANYTHING to help get this trip in order. Including packing. Which I did a few hours before we left. But I told Big D he had to do it since it was his trip - and then I got really scared and did it myself.
Apparently being a poo nose wife works out in the end. Because it turns out, Big D arose to the challenge and out did himself. Maybe it's not so much that he arose to the challenge, but more so that these bounding chains of controlling wife-hood removed themselves and he was able to work as a free man. Hmmph
We left around 6 am Wednesday morning.- A whole day later due to Ed waking up Monday with a not pleasant fever and attitude that went with it. - Our destination: Sight and Sound Theater.
Weeny Whiny Baby Fit #1
WHO in their right mind names something this. It sounds like I'm going to be entertained by some puppets. Possibly Barney. Does this place have metal detectors? I'm thinking I may need to bring something in this joint to end my pain. (Was that inappropriate?) A little dramatic? But that's where my mind was at. I'm all for doing things for the kids - but when it comes to stage performances that are specifically for children. Small children. - I will gladly deprive. Without an ounce of sorrow or guilt.
I was so tired of hearing Big D say, "sight and sound theater" that I enforced the rule of calling it "ABC Train". And that made me feel better.
So, ABC Train actually is a big deal. Only 2 in the country. Which makes me think country = world. So, big deal. And it's a stage performance of bible stories. (Sounds super lame - abc trainish) But remember I said it's a big deal. So if you can think about bible stories in a big deal sort of way, maybe you'll be able to picture a large auditorium, mind blowing sets, beautiful costumes, (can I just say, the hair of these actors was enough for me. Oh yeah, and Shem) live animals, and lots of theater effects of lights and sounds. We saw "Noah". Now, my favorite part was the second half of show. Because the second half was when Noah and his family were on the ark. And all the way around this gigundas arena were curtains (that you didn't know were curtains) And they dropped the curtains, and for FOUR STORIES up - all the way around - were animals. In real simple terms - they made it so it felt/looked like you were on the ark.
And now I'm going to have to say: (Big D don't read this) I have to recommend this joint. They are showing Noah until November and then a new show begins.
Also, Big D really got top notch seats. Not sure if it was by the lucky front teeth of his head, or by researching - but they could not have been any better. I spanked him on the bottom two times and said "thank you".
After the showboat we drove to IKEA to return this. It made my house smell like a beef patty. And that doesn't work well in a mole hole house such as I have. You need a nice big house, one where you can really showcase this fine piece of meat.
Now this was my first trip to IKEA where I did not have to buy a large piece of furniture. Which got me REALLY excited. And Big D promptly fell into the depths of despair. Pouted a thousand pouts. Shed two tears. And growled. I pretended that I heard none of it. And with my best smile I bode him farewell and marched my bottom straight into creative land. Where for the first time EVER I had the chance to look at the small things. I think I almost hyperventilated and did 3 skippy twirls. And then as fast as I could, I waltzed through the top half of the store - grabbing small items that made me smile. Worked my way down to the bottom half. Ran into Big D. Hid around a corner, slowed my breathing and continued to shop like I didn't have some grumpy husband that I would have to contend with in the near future.
And Big D will say things like, "the reason I get so grumpy is because I have to entertain Ed". Ok, personally - Ed entertains himself with climbing on all the furniture. Big D only has to supervise. And because supervising is not what HE wants to do - he pouts. And becomes very dramatic. And there is no hope for our children because they have 2 parents who are both selfish and dramatic.
I finally finished. Really, it took 1 hour. Which I think is Houdini work. And Big D says, "lets get dinner here". And I said, "no". IKEA is not the most romantic place to eat. Cheap - yes. Convenient - yes. But I wasn't feeling cheap or convenient that night. I felt like a queen - with my small pretty purchases. And my belly wanted to match my head.
So Big D did a lot of research (3 chapters of On the Banks of Plum Creek worth) But it was worth it. And he found this incredibly delicious and perfect place that was not only scrum scrum and fit this romantic desire, but also grand for bringing piglets too. We appropriately slopped up the place. And our clothes.
I think we held hands for 3 seconds walking back to the car. Smiled satisfactorily. Farted once. And headed to the mystery hotel. That Big D said was in the ghetto.
Now I know for a fact - something the Whitherhalls don't go light on - are hotel rooms. We made that decision early on in our marriage - after far too many scary nights of threats of bugs, hairy pillows, and green and gold comforters. So, I was not worried about this ghetto place.
And sure enough, we drive into this brickyard where they just cleaned up a crime scene, and there beholds an old factory they turned into some artistically satisfying hotel.
Plans for the Night
1) Give kids shower. (I can't remember the last time they actually were covered in soap and water.)
2) Turn tv on to some kid show and put kids to bed.
3) Kids fall asleep immediately.
4) Adults order room service and watch interesting adult shows.
5) Giggle five times.
6) Be groped seven times.
7) Fall asleep happy and snuggled with tv still on.
How the Night Actually Went
1) Kids got bathed but only after Big D crawled in the shower with them because they both were screaming.
2) Turned tv on only to realize the only appropriate kid show was a tree-house building show on the animal planet. Nothing kid about it - except there were no disrespectful brats or nudity.
3) Kids are bored with show which only excites them and they refuse to sleep in their bed.
4) Big D complains about how hot the room is and sprawls out in the bed in a grumpy huff.
5) Kids jump around one too many times, land on Big D's peener.
6) Big D sends kids to their own bed = tears.
7) Big D falls asleep in 3 seconds.
8) Foxy watches the rest of the tree-house show and falls asleep.
9) Two hours later, Ed falls out of bed and ends up in ours = endless kicking to the face for the remaining 4 hours of sleep that remain in our busy schedule that Big D has planned.
Two Highlights of the First Day (with an extra highlight, and an extra)
1) Almost getting into a fight with the Mexicans
2) The 'Easy On, Easy Off' sign on the highway for McPoopers - that was anything but 'easy on, easy off'. And 'easy on, easy off' is going to be one of those things that you just say all the time - like, "happy birthday mama" and "MOM!!!! what's that noise???" and "IT'S NOT WORKING!"
3) Ed crying for a good part of the car ride because his tummy hurt. Because he now hoards is poopies AND his farts.
4) Seeing so many Amish. Loved.
Take Aways
1) Sometimes refusing to do anything results in better than expected adventures.
2) Leave kids home if you have any plans of snuggling.
3) Stay tuned for the next day's adventure.
Fun Fact
I was able to type this in about an hour - because the kids are still sleeping. Normally it takes me multiple hours, if not all day.
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