Day 13

Day 56 of eating straight eggs for breakfast.  Literally, 56 straight days of eating eggs.  And only eggs.  No toast.  No bacon.  Sometimes an avocado.  One day I made coconut flour pancakes and pretended they were amazing.  And one day I made chia coconut milk pudding, and decided that eggs were actually a gift from Jesus himself.  "Oh but Foxy, chia pudding is amazing!  So much health in one little cup."  Yeah, well.  did your pudding have delicious things?  Like berries and chocolate wisps?  And some honey or maple syrup?  And some fairy wing sparkles and unicorn dandruff?  Well, mine had some unsweetened coconut milk, chia seeds and a few twigs and 14 pebbles.  I gagged most of it down, focusing on the health benefits.  But it literally tasted like cow snot.  So it's eggs over here.  Tomorrow it will be day 57.  Thank you Jesus for chickens.

I continue to poop.  I continue to assume/makeup/wish really hard, that the white things I see embedded in the poos are the cursed wildebeest worms.

Yesterday my mood was significantly low and testy.  I also didn't poop.  There is a large and significant probability that holding onto all those toxins for an extra day did NOT help.  I wish I had realized this before I went to bed.  Next time, enema for sure.  Guys, for real.  Toxins don't just affect physically, but also emotionally.  I also was dealing with a lot of anxiety.  Because basically I'm going to die any second.  The anxiety could be coming from thyroid, candida, wormlies, adrenal, just pick one.

Talking about adrenals.  Do you guys even know you have something called your adrenals?  They sit on top of your kidneys.  They're a pretty big deal slash, important.  I'm going to add this article.  Because I think Dr. Axe makes it's pretty simple to understand.  And then this article mainly because I liked the picture.

My poor poor adrenals.  I think they're about as dead as doornail.  I even read that it's really important to not watch tv shows that are exciting.  That's like everything I watch.  So I'm not watching anymore.  I guess it's going to be me and Doc Martin for awhile.  That and medicinal, unsweetened tea.  And a granny bedtime of 9:00.  And a silky soft pastel pink nightgown that goes down to the floor.  With puffed sleeves and 17 pearl buttons that go up the front, clear to my adams apple.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Guys, my beautiful Queenie got married this weekend.  Big D and I went sans babies.  First of all, it was 401 degrees.  And I was pleasered than a punch bowl that I wore a shorter dress.  But it did make it awkward when beads of sweat starting running down my legs.  That happened.  Also, with my ridiculously ridiculous diet, I had to leave the reception to go eat a boring piece of meat at the local pub on the corner. . . ... .... . .  So much fanciness I had to pass up.  "Ma'am, would like a whole bunch of fancy drenched in something you can't eat, topped with the devil himself?"  Oh the Self.  Re.  Straint.  I had to maintain.

Also, one of the best parts happened all too quickly.  Big D and I were trying to dance.  I say "trying" because we're old.  And this new music they have out there is stuff that makes dancing hard.  For old people.  But let me tell you, there were some not old people who were dancing just fine.  Anyway, so we're out there.  Clapping off beat.  Clucking our tongues.  Trying not to step on the 47th wine glass that got dropped.  Attempting to shake our skeletal money makers. . . . .. And this magical thing happened.  This drunked girl grabbed Big D and threw him into this mini dance circle.  2 guys and 1 girl and Big D crammed into the middle.  There was so much grabbing and twisting and humping and grinding and touching.  I thought it was the most spectacular event.  And over all too soon.  And Big D almost started crying. 

I need to wrap this up because I'm starving.

Dinnner
A plain burger on a bed of greens topped with sauteed onions
Asparagus
Boiled potatoes and carrots drowned in butter - not for me, of course.

And on an ending note, a question for all of you from Ed. Who is 5.
"What's worse than fake rocks at San Diego?"  His answer is bad angels.

The end.

I Put My Back Into It

Every once in awhile, every great, great while, I do something that I like to call:  GNO.  Girls night out.  Generally we eat dinner, have a drink or two, throw our heads back and laugh, and talk about sex.

Last night it was something new.  We tried that Painting with a Twist thing.  You know, where everybody paints the same exact thing and then takes a picture. . . . . .

38 girls and 2 guys crowded into this room.  The music was dance club, obscenely loud.  And I'm guessing it was only to mask the 38 wine filled, estrogen overdriven, shrill screams that inevitably erupt from . . .  nowhere.  The 2 men were obviously dragged there. And I cried a little for them.

There is a reason that they encourage wine at this sorta thing.  Participating in this activity, can cause abrupt waves of intense anger.  The type of anger that makes you want to throw your dirty paint water in your neighbor's face.  Followed by death jabs of paintbrush on:  not-so-fine master piece. 

The paintbrush, SOMEhow manages to do what it isn't told to do.  And everybody knows it's not always the best choice to try to fix a painting when there is little experience involved. . . . .  Even Ed knows that blue and yellow makes green.  And green is never appropriate for snow.  Except for my painting.

Minus the anger, it was fun.  It wasn't great.  It wasn't awful.  It was just fun.

And then, the highlight of all highlights happened.  *shudder*

It was time to go.  I went over to the coat hooks, which were in an "L" formation.  (I will also preface this with:  my bottom is much larger than it normally is.)(baby weight)  I started looking for my coat which ended up in a frantic search that lasted 1.462 seconds.  I couldn't find my highly, desirable, brown Land's End jacket.  (It was just buried by all the other not-so-small parkas) But in my frantic pawing, I knocked someone's gigantic power mitten out of their coat.

I bent my large bottom over and somehow, SOMEhow, managed to lose my balance.  I did however, swing the main girth of my weight aka Mrs. Mcgillicutty aka my dimpled backside up against the wall to regain lost balance.  Or, what I thought was the wall.  Or, where the wall used to be.  Or, the wall that was still there, but was hiding.  I felt this odd sensation on my buns.  Something that didn't quite feel like a wall.  And feeling very confused, I literally put my back into "it".  I put every ounce of lady lumps I own, and gave it an "all or nothing" but chose an "all" and slammed my goods (still  bent over) into the wall that definitely was NOT a wall anymore.  And still feeling very confused as to what was happening, I stood up, straight and tall - Carmen Electra style - all the while pushing every bit of my womenhood backwards.  When I finally got to the upright position, there was a cozy, plush landing for my back.

And then, and ONLY then - did I realize that I had just given a man a lap dance.  Somehow, in stealth mode - ONE of the 2 men that were there, decided to slip behind me for a simple coat grab - oblivious that an R-rated moment was about to happen on him and to him.  There were no mysteries left to the imagination.  ALL was experienced.  We became one, if that is possible with your clothes on. (Which it is)

And then I left in a complete horrified stupor.  And the pizza flag whipping in the wind, whipped my painting.  My green snow painting.

Take Aways
1)  If you're going to become familiar with a complete stranger, do it thoroughly and quickly.

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.

I Will Not Swallow

I named her Mother Green Toes, because that's what she is.  She's a mother to a large car load of kids.  And she does things that would put a green-thumber to shame.

I got real lucky when B.B. Chuck married her.

These are some of the things that M.G.Ts does:
1)  Cloth diapers and cloth wipes
2)  Doesn't own a chemical
3)  Researches every bloody thing there is too research, and finds the  best there is
4)  Homebirths
5)  Grinds her own flour
6)  Eats Great-Grandmother's Soggy Old Feet on a regular basis (oatmeal)
7)  Her make-up is from the holy earth
8)  Garden and cans like she's on a witch hunt for peace and love
9)  For snacks and lunch, her car load of kids eat out of the garden and bushes and trees
10) She doesn't drink soda, or eat any processed food
11) She gets all of her teeth proceedures (fillings, root canals, etc.) done without any pain killers
12) Kidding with #11
13) She only wears Birkenstocks, Dansko, and Toms
14) She never growls
15) She cooks from scratch for all of her meals
16) She has an egg lady
17) And she makes her own yogurt, that she dumps too much evaporated milk into

But she does like her fancy cheese.  And her even more fancy coffee that's naturally decaffeinated using the Swiss Water method.  (Who has ever heard of this?)(I told you M.G.T. researches everything.)

The only only thing I have ever caught M.G.T. doing/using mainstream chemical U.S.A. - would be her shampoo and conditioner.  And it's good stuff.  But that's because she researched it and found good stuff.

Anyway, so M.G.T. was a real swell hostess when I stayed with her for that extra long amount of time.  And she offered to make me breakfast on occasion.  Eggs and muffins.  Naturally I agreed.

Steamy hot pumpkin muffins and jiggly-jelloey eggs.  So perfect.

But the next thing that happened was not perfect.  It was quite confusing. 

I took an extra large bite of egg runnies and muffin crumbs, and was immediately punched in the gag reflex.  I tipped my head back, as to not spew my load across the table and into M.G.T's face.

And then I didn't know what to do.  I was a guest.  And I had a hostess.  And it is not normally appropriate to lunge from the table while making guttural heaving grunts, and race to the sink - spitting and spitting and sighing and heaving some more.  And saying things like, "ew" and "gross" and "wow".

No, that's not appropriate at all.

But that's exactly what I did.  I don't know about you, but if you ever had a rotten egg crammed in your mouth, you would do the same thing too.  There's just something about that experience that turns you all ape-like and rabid.  And you can't think. And you don't care.  But you do know that that egg needs to come out, at all reputational-ruining, feeling-hurting, never-invited-back cost.

Can you believe that M.G.T. blamed her feeding me a rotten egg, on account of her egg lady?

Did I mention what a lucky lady I am to have M.G.T. as a sister?

Worst Aunt

I'm assuming that when normal people get the opportunity to have nieces or nephews, there is this push to be grander than all the rest.  I'm assuming that normal people want to be the coolest, or the nicest.  They want to be thought of, fondly.  And with smiles.

But not me.  I try to be as miserable as I can.  I like to say horrible things that send small children screaming for their mother or father's knees.

I contributed to many non-applause worthy acts, during my travels.  All of which I am pleased as punch about.

But two of my favorite, go like this:

1)  I was home alone with all 6 kids.  (2 of mine, and 4 of B.B. Chuck and Mother Green Toes )  And Chuck has this wooden toy house.  And the house has 4 different doors on it with 4 different door bells.  It comes with keys. And the kids have to pick the correct key for the correct door.  Well, some dad gum kid locked the keys in one of the doors.

And while I was sitting on a different couch, fiddle-faddling around.   I stuck my smallish sized pinky in the smaller sized hole that was placed in all the doors . . . And I stretched my poor pinky and could actually feel the lock on the inside of the door.

Brilliant idea!  All I needed was a smaller pinky to cram down into the hole to flip the lock!  (And then I would be known as the grandest aunt around.  Restoring loved toys to their rightful players.)

First I grabbed Murnice's pinky.  But her knuckle was too large.  And then I grabbed my 5 year old niece's pinky, Mildred.  Her pinky slipped in like salted butter.  And she felt the lock.  But dreadfully so, her pinky was too stubby to flip the lock.

But then, Mildred started screaming.  And hollering.  "MY PINKY!!!!  HELP!!  OW!! I CAN'T GET!!!!! OWWW!!"

Mildred's pinky was stuck in the wooden house.  And it was just me. And 6 kids.

And I kinda got a little excited.  Wondering if I should just smash the wooden house on the floor.  Hopefully sending it into a million splinters and releasing poor Mildred's pinky.  But Mildred's pinky was attached. . . .  I thought about the chainsaw that hopefully B.B. Chuck had some where.  And then I thought about poor Mildred's pinky getting the blood flow stopped up.  And the swollen factor.  And the screams and yelps of pain.

And then nurse mode took over pig-rat-worst-aunt mode.  And I had a semi-normal thought.  Lets freeze the finger with some cold water and dump a gallon of soap - and hope that something would slippy-slide out. 

Well, a few more roars, and Mildred's pinky was restored to herself.  And then I smiled nicely at her.  And patted her head 7 times.  And thanked the good Lord that no splinters, nor chainsaws were involved.

2)  Something I've picked up over the years, has been to sing before a meal.  Versus praying.  It's lovely.  It allows participation from everyone.  And with singing, it allows for great amounts of energy to be released.

I thought it would be nice to share singing with B.B. Chuck's family.  And since nobody had a better song to sing, - the Doxology it was.  Now with the Doxology, there are some splendid opportunities to really display one's vocal ranges. And I don't know about you - but when I sing that song . . . I. can. not. help. - but to open my mouth as wide and as long as fleshly possible, flutter my eye lashes while rolling my eyes back into my head, and to belt those particular notes that are begging to reverberate off the closest cathedrals stain glassed windows.  Sending them into a monumental, what used to be - of glass shards.

Yes, and I did all of that.  While the poor baby, who was just laid down to sleep - so the poor mother could actually eat dinner, roared awake.

And then I paid my pittance of hiding in the darken corner with the snuffling of horror baby.  So that Mother Green Toes could eat in peace, and with vigor.  Just like she was planning.  Before I showcased my true, great talent.


The end.

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.

Not the Safe Choice

I haven't really talked about this - but I have been interviewing for a job.  A nursey job.  It's been a 2 month process.

It was a perfect opportunity, doing something that I'm ridiculously excited about.  It could not have been a better set up for me - being a stay at home mom - or shall I say, SAHM.

First interview went great.  And that was because I didn't have to say much.  They just wanted to let me know what their business was all about.  And before I left we had set up a second interview.

Second interview was a tad more challenging.  I had to do a lot more tongue flapping.  There were a lot of forehead crinkles at things I would say.  And honestly, I was not expecting to be invited back.

But I was.  For a third time.  And I had the best time at my 3rd.  Maybe I was just getting used to the process.  Or I just decided to be my snazz-sparkle self.  It was glorious.  I walked away expecting not to get the job, but relishing in the fact that I was true down to my toes and that I got a bunch (and I mean a bunch) of funny looks and squirms.

Let me preface what I'm going to say next, by saying that my lie (and everybody has a lie that they're told) is that I'm not good enough.  Such a good lie.  And I believe more than I would like to admit.

I got the call yesterday that let know that they had "found somebody else that fit the job requirements better".

For those of you who have gotten this call for an opportunity that you were a bit stoked about - know the hurt.

First I believed the lie - I'm not good enough.  Then I cried 37 tears.  Then I wondered why it took two months and 3 interviews for them to tell me that I was too rad for them.  Then I started to question myself on how I answered the questions.  Then I got angry at their lack of open heartedness and their inability to take a risk and hire somebody who would rock their world on all the levels that their world is built.

And then I remembered that Jesus only gives us the best.  And that this was a gift.  And I wouldn't cry or feel rage for a perfect gift handed to me from Sally Jones, why should I feel grumpled over this gift - that I know is perfect.

So I'm choosing, choosing this gift.  Refusing the lie, the best I can.  And believing that God is allowing me the chance and opportunity to stay home full time, to homeschool full time, to have playtime with friends full time.  To continue to cook dinner 3x a week and wash poopy underwear full time.  I'm going to choose to trust the bigger and better picture that I can't see, but I'm learning about through experience.

I know in my heart of hearts that I was indeed the perfect person for this job opening.  But  I was not the safe candidate, and I understand a business wanting to make a safe decision.  I wasn't safe because I still have young children at home and the probability of me leaving the company within a few years is great - and training takes up to a year.  Also, they need somebody a tad more conservative in the vocal arena.

Take Aways
1)  Choose to look at the unpleasantries as a gift.
2)  Or at least try.
3)  Say no to your lie.
4)  And look at pictures of all the sweet babies that have entered their new world.  Welcome Miles, Evelyn, Benaiah, and Isaac!

Wonderland

My body is a dermatologist's wonderland right now.  The problem being:  chlorine is my enemy.

Anywhere that skin touches skin = hives, rashes, flare-ups, intense itching, and such.  Including my eye lids.

I have this incredibly sexy skin routine to help make life a tad more manageable as well as squander the rumor that I have body lice.  It is not preventative, only helps.

Here's how it goes:

1)  Before entering water, apply a thick layer of Vaseline under arms, behind legs, and (gulp) and where the sun don't shine unless Big D and I are being exciting - these are the areas that react the worst to the chlorine
2)  Immediately after exiting pool, rush to take a shower with Dr. Bronner.  Apply layer of Dr. Bronner and let sit for a minute.  Rinse off.
3)  Wipe down Vaseline area's of body with vinegar soaked cloth and let sit on skin for 1 minute.
4)  Hop around enthusiastically, pretending you're the Easter Bunny.
5)  Re-soap up body with Dr. Bronner and poof, scrubbing dangerously hard and rinse.
6)  Upon getting home for the day, apply layer of arrowroot powder via a make-up brush on Vaseline area's of the body.  This allows the body to not sweat, which exacerbates the vicious cycle of sweating, itching, move hives, etc.
7)  Right before bed, apply a thin layer of corticosteroid cream to arm and leg area.

It's more than a pain-in-the-butt.  It takes a lot of time.  My running off to the shower and minimal entrance into the pool makes me look like a weeny whiny baby . . . . . . ..  It's awkward when people touch me and they get a finger full of Vaseline (haha, that'll teach them for touching me)

And on top of all my skin pooplems, my head has decided to reject the whole idea of chlorine as well.  I sneeze all day.  Which produces massive amounts of snot.  (Do you know how hard it is to blow your nose while in the pool?)  I also look like I have a horrific case of wanky pink eye.  (I try not to get too close to the parents, for fear they'll panic, hit me over the head, and never send their children back)

So to sum things up,  I am a lust worthy lady over here.  Big D could not be more thrilled that he does not have to share the bed with the pink-eye, flea infested, Easter Bunny (get it?  The vinegar smell?)

You may ask, is it really worth it to work at a place where your body rejects your decision?  Yup.  Sure is. (Thanks for asking, by the way.)  It's like my skin is just being a naughty screamy two-year-old.  I'm not going to leave the store until I get what I came for.  You can scream all you want, but this mama ain't leaving.

This mama wants her bathroom redid.  I want to feel like a queen when bathroom duties call.  NOT like a sad turnip in a cardboard box.  Waaaaaahhh!

Take Aways
1)  Yup.

 Fun Fact
Murnice is learning how to play chess, which reminds me:  when Bruver Bear Chuck and I were kids of a reasonable age, we had to stop playing chess together.  Because, it always ended up in a bar-room brawl.  I think the reasonable age was teenagers old. Homeschoolers are cool.

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.

Never Assume

It's always a little awkward when you think you're the only person in the house.  And you produce an enormous amount of unflattering noises that come from unflattering places.  And maybe the songs you sing are a bit pitchy and rude.  And the crashing and thrashing that's being produced while cooking dinner is a tad alarming.

It can be quite awkward just assuming that you're all alone only to realize that maybe you're not.

And you happen to walk into the darkened living room and there beholden unto you, is a god-like creature sprawled in the recliner with a cup of coffee.

Things that physically happened 
1) My vocal cords collapsed, which resulted in a gasp and gargle, followed by a choke
2) My heart landed on the floor, flopped around and then crawled back into my chest cavity via the back door.

Things I thought
1)  Where did this creature come from?
2)  How did he get in this back room without me noticing?
3)  What is he doing lounging around drinking coffee?  (I have a thing for creatures that lounge and drink coffee.  Argyle socks are an added bonus)
4)  What are the things he's heard?
5)  How long has he been in here?
6)  Who is this special gift?

Things I said
(after  I was done choking, gasping, and my heart had resumed its normal behavior)  Are you a parent?

Then I ran - after we had a decent amount of awkward time, and went back to the kitchen and did kitchen things and died a thousand deaths.

It was like walking in on somebody taking a poop in your garage.

The good news was - it was dark.  And we couldn't see each other's eyes.  Just outlines.  And muscles. And coffee.  And voices.

And then the worst part happened.  That coffee drinking muscle creature stumbled out into the revealing lights.  I worked furiously.  *look busy and unapproachable* *scrub that cup*  And that man walked right over into my peripheral vision and stood.  And I washed.  And he stood there.  And I washed.   But he wasn't leaving.  Just staring.  And waiting.

*NO!  NO EYE CONTACT!*  But I had to.  Because he was just standing and waiting.  I had to look and acknowledge that the uncomfortable moment of number 584,395,110 in my life had happened.

I looked.  And the creature was gone.  It was just a regular blue-eyed man.  With muscles.  And a crumpled shirt.  And he asked where he could throw his coffee cup.

 ********************************************************************************

Doesn't this man know what the rules are of awkward meetings - at all cost, avoid another meeting?  Especially in the light?

Apparently he missed THAT memo.

Or maybe, that memo is only for women, and men get a different memo.

Take Aways
1)  Never assume that you are alone.
2)  Wear a bag over your head.  And don't cut eye holes.


Fun Facts
I moved in with my mother.  And that's all I'm going to say.