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 romantical. Show all posts
Showing posts with label romantical. 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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Romanticism
I have had the most romantic thoughts about what life was going to be like once I moved back home.
Sometimes, I get a bit silly - thinking such foolish thoughts. There has been nothing even remotely romantic about the past few days - minus that one time on Saturday that I got a movie from Red Box. But it was Lincoln. And although it was educational, and the script was excellent - I have never enjoyed watching movies that are filmed in the dark. It makes me quite batty. Physically and mentally. I chomped Big D's ninnies too hard. He screamed.
So in lieu of my romantic dreams being smashed and for my love of lists, here is a list of my grossly unromantic life here, at the Witherhalls:
1) Finding massively large, leggy, fast, spiders all throughout the house. Hidden is secret corners that aren't really secret. But when SOMEBODY doesn't clean for 6-weeks, including sweeping the kitchen floor because they think that they are as crumb-less as a piece of turkey breast - (*cough cough*) spiders do indeed take up residency. And then I have to spend my whole day babysitting these said spiders because I'm too afraid of trying to kill them. Missing completely while closing my eyes and screaming - and then the spider is lost, crawling over cozy spots instead of corners.
2) Sitting on my own toilet seat, and bathing my bottom in urine. Thank you Ed. Who pees 3000 times a day because he gets a starburst every time he pees. And he literally will pee, grab his "ink" starburst (that I have to unwrap because they are from last year's candy hunt and too old and too sticky for any sane person to unwrap is any sort of distinguished manner) And while he's still slurping the juice running down his chin from the very old and sloppy starburst, he will then run back to the toilet to squeeze out another 1/2 a drop of urine (that inevitably lands on the toilet seat) just to have another tasty "reat". Over and over. Multiplied by 3000 . . . . . .
3) Almost screaming and knifing make-believe person 17 times, in the bathroom. Big D has decided that triathlons are for him. And I'm so pleased that he is in love, working his degenerating muscles. However, Big D wants to feel fancy, and has bought any and everything that you could possibly need, want, use, think-about, dream-about, fantasize-about, lust after, wonder-about, and or wear. Including the full body size wetsuit. It's black. And very large. And Big D hangs it in the shower. Today I am cursing my peripheral vision.
THIS JUST IN THIS JUST IN !!!!!!!!!!
Ok, so as I was typing all the unromantic love busters, the most romantic thing happened.
It comes with a little story:
For those of you that talk on the phone with me (Sister Bear and Mother) know that my phone (my beloved Blueberry) is a piece of rotten butt juice. And PRAISE THE LORD, it was time for my early get-a-new-phone. And I got the iphone 4s. Not because I want to feel fancy, but more because it is the relative size of my Blueberry - and my hands are small. *snicker snicker* Now all weekend, nobody had called me. Because I only talk to Sister Bear and Mother - and they were busy with their important lives. But today, today I got a call from the very important Iss. And gee darn barn, I missed the call. But she left a voice message. Well, the iphone is a piece of junk that tries to appear fancier than it really is. It tells you that you have secret codes to get your voice mail. It said that I had an old secret code, and needed to make a new secret code. That's the biggest bunch of diarrhea squirts I've heard all day. So I tried to rectify the situation by calling my phone company. Alas, everything is under Big D's name and I don't have his important numbers memorized. (This is the longest lamest story ever . . . . ) Jumping to the end . . . . I just got a text message from said phone company that said what my secret wizard twirls had been changed. Which means that Big D, in the throws of trying to act professional and flirty with all the bimbos he works with - made a very important phone call. And fixed my ever alarming problem. (Ooohh baby, mama's getting hot tonight.)
(Kidding. But maybe not.)
I feel like a queen. And I'm going to make dinner now. And it's going to be good.
Take Aways
1) I hate surprises, but I loved this one.
2) You need good peripheral vision for spider babysitting, but not for wetsuit hangings.
3) My wanky eye is still wanky.
4) I am so hungry because I've eaten minus three corn kernels all day, due to my starburst unwrapping.
5) I'm going to eat 7 bowls of soup tonight.
Sometimes, I get a bit silly - thinking such foolish thoughts. There has been nothing even remotely romantic about the past few days - minus that one time on Saturday that I got a movie from Red Box. But it was Lincoln. And although it was educational, and the script was excellent - I have never enjoyed watching movies that are filmed in the dark. It makes me quite batty. Physically and mentally. I chomped Big D's ninnies too hard. He screamed.
So in lieu of my romantic dreams being smashed and for my love of lists, here is a list of my grossly unromantic life here, at the Witherhalls:
1) Finding massively large, leggy, fast, spiders all throughout the house. Hidden is secret corners that aren't really secret. But when SOMEBODY doesn't clean for 6-weeks, including sweeping the kitchen floor because they think that they are as crumb-less as a piece of turkey breast - (*cough cough*) spiders do indeed take up residency. And then I have to spend my whole day babysitting these said spiders because I'm too afraid of trying to kill them. Missing completely while closing my eyes and screaming - and then the spider is lost, crawling over cozy spots instead of corners.
2) Sitting on my own toilet seat, and bathing my bottom in urine. Thank you Ed. Who pees 3000 times a day because he gets a starburst every time he pees. And he literally will pee, grab his "ink" starburst (that I have to unwrap because they are from last year's candy hunt and too old and too sticky for any sane person to unwrap is any sort of distinguished manner) And while he's still slurping the juice running down his chin from the very old and sloppy starburst, he will then run back to the toilet to squeeze out another 1/2 a drop of urine (that inevitably lands on the toilet seat) just to have another tasty "reat". Over and over. Multiplied by 3000 . . . . . .
3) Almost screaming and knifing make-believe person 17 times, in the bathroom. Big D has decided that triathlons are for him. And I'm so pleased that he is in love, working his degenerating muscles. However, Big D wants to feel fancy, and has bought any and everything that you could possibly need, want, use, think-about, dream-about, fantasize-about, lust after, wonder-about, and or wear. Including the full body size wetsuit. It's black. And very large. And Big D hangs it in the shower. Today I am cursing my peripheral vision.
THIS JUST IN THIS JUST IN !!!!!!!!!!
Ok, so as I was typing all the unromantic love busters, the most romantic thing happened.
It comes with a little story:
For those of you that talk on the phone with me (Sister Bear and Mother) know that my phone (my beloved Blueberry) is a piece of rotten butt juice. And PRAISE THE LORD, it was time for my early get-a-new-phone. And I got the iphone 4s. Not because I want to feel fancy, but more because it is the relative size of my Blueberry - and my hands are small. *snicker snicker* Now all weekend, nobody had called me. Because I only talk to Sister Bear and Mother - and they were busy with their important lives. But today, today I got a call from the very important Iss. And gee darn barn, I missed the call. But she left a voice message. Well, the iphone is a piece of junk that tries to appear fancier than it really is. It tells you that you have secret codes to get your voice mail. It said that I had an old secret code, and needed to make a new secret code. That's the biggest bunch of diarrhea squirts I've heard all day. So I tried to rectify the situation by calling my phone company. Alas, everything is under Big D's name and I don't have his important numbers memorized. (This is the longest lamest story ever . . . . ) Jumping to the end . . . . I just got a text message from said phone company that said what my secret wizard twirls had been changed. Which means that Big D, in the throws of trying to act professional and flirty with all the bimbos he works with - made a very important phone call. And fixed my ever alarming problem. (Ooohh baby, mama's getting hot tonight.)
(Kidding. But maybe not.)
I feel like a queen. And I'm going to make dinner now. And it's going to be good.
Take Aways
1) I hate surprises, but I loved this one.
2) You need good peripheral vision for spider babysitting, but not for wetsuit hangings.
3) My wanky eye is still wanky.
4) I am so hungry because I've eaten minus three corn kernels all day, due to my starburst unwrapping.
5) I'm going to eat 7 bowls of soup tonight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)