The art of killing the mood: Chapter 3

One morning before school, Alan and I were having a great argument. It seems that the previous week Alan had sent Shepard to school with a bag of chips for a snack. The children are supposed to bring in a 'healthy snack' so I was a bit miffed by his decision. The discussion became more heated (and louder) since he was trying to defend himself and argue that a bag of chips was a healthy snack. I yelled, "Yeah, maybe compared to a bag of lard!" And on we argued, until...

Sage, who had been sitting at the breakfast table the whole time, piped up and said with a grin, "I need a bag of popcorn!! I'm enjoying this!" This shut us both up rather quickly.

Yes, wheter it be a good argument or good love (see Chapter 1 and Chapter 2) my children really know how to kill the deal.

J.Hi's secret

My boobs are once again sitting up and at attention. I am sure you all are relieved. My post Christmas mall aversion lasted a bit longer this year. But last week I was finally able to enter the mall and bra shop. I tried hard to find a bra other than a Victoria Secret bra because I really do not have a strong desire to spend $40 on one bra. However, through careful research (OK, so I went to one other place) I found that the VS bras are far superior. These lovelies are very well packaged now--no wiggling, jiggling, falling or flapping in the breeze (unless I choose to make those things happen.)

According to my bra expert Erica (I didn't check her credentials), I was wearing the wrong size bra. She measured me at a size smaller than what I was wearing but when she measured my cup size she went two cups bigger than what I was wearing. She said I measured at a D cup but she must have been coming on to me because I have never been a D cup. I decided to go for a more reasonable C cup. I love my bra! It's lifts, supports and it's so pretty. Man, I feel like a woman! I cannot stop looking down my own shirt.

I wish I could share with you my new and improved boobalicious figure but I'm not that kind of blogger. I refuse to stoop to such levels to get more readers. Although I have been known to do things that are out of character when people are chanting my name (and after lots of alcohol.) Shhhhhh, don't tell.

Jason loves you

Friday the 13th. What does that mean to me? Well, I am not superstitious so it would be just another day except for that damn movie. When you think of scary don't you think about that hockey mask? I know I do. I loved horror movies when I was younger, especially Friday the 13th Part 2. I never saw the original because I was too young at the time but I did see Part 2. It came out in 1981. I would have been 11 and I don't think my mom would have let me see it at that age either. I'm pretty sure I saw it years later when we got cable. I saw a lot of movies I shouldn't have seen when we got cable. I remember sitting up late into the night on weekends watching inappropriate TV. I had my finger on the remote and would change the channel if I heard the faintest creak or felt the slightest change in pressure. "Friday the 13th part 2" is one of those life changing movies because the images just stay in your brain. I never sit with my back to a large window. And I can't walk through the woods without looking over my shoulder to make sure I'm not being chased by a psycho. Here is one of my favorite clips referencing Jason from the movie "Nothing to Lose" with Martin Lawrence and Tim Robbins. Bad language alert: Don't watch at work!!

I also want to bring to your attention that today is Peter Tork's (The Monkees) birthday. What?!! I love The Monkees!!

Hope you all have a lucky 13th and I hope you get some good Valentine lovin' tomorrow. Monday is President's Day, so if you feel like spreading your wealth, send it on my way! Ha!

Opthamologists: scourge of America in the 21st century

**Warning: This post may contain strong language because I am really fucking pissed.

There is a great injustice going on in this world and I am here today to expose it. If you are a contact wearer you are probably aware of this problem. But you seeing eye people most likely have no idea of the travesty of justice that befalls the visually challenged. This is an issue that affects me everyday, for you see, I am practically blind. I started wearing glasses in fourth grade for near-sightedness. After an unfortunate school picture in 6th grade, I vowed to get contacts. So I have been wearing contacts for about 26 years now. I am not sure when this happened but sometime after I was married in 1994 I found that the eye centers were refusing to sell contacts to me unless I came in for a yearly exam. Since contacts can only be ordered and purchased with a prescription, I have been forced to see an opthamologist every year for about 10 years. I ask you, is this fair?! I think NOT. I don't see them harassing the glasses wearers. They aren't confiscating glasses if you don't get a yearly eye exam. I don't see dentists taking out crowns if one doesn't have yearly dental exam. And I don't have the birth control police coming to rip out my IUD if I don't have my yearly pelvic invasion. So why pick on the contact wearers?!

I have had to put up with 10 years of diatlated pupils, puffs of air in my eyes, stupid eye technicians (or eye monkeys as I like to call them), and "what's better--1 or 2? 1 or 2? 1 or 2? how about now? 2 or 3?" The eye monkeys really irritate me. I understand it's their job to check my vision but what right do they have to look in my eyes with that light thing? In my opinion if they don't have a DR in front of their name then they should not be looking inside my fucking eyeball! About 5 years ago I had a Lasix consultation in the hope of never seeing an eye doctor again but guess what? MY FUCKING CORNEAS ARE TOO FUCKING THIN!! Yes, the only thin thing on my whole body and it has to be my corneas! JUST GREAT!!!

I have to continue having my yearly exams and play along with their contact extortion racket. Monday I had a followup exam with the eye doc. They had given me a new brand of contact since the previous brand was causing an allergic reaction to my eyeballs. The followup was to check if the new contacts were working and to give me my prescription. My appointment was 10:45. I arrived at 10:43 and sat in the waiting room until 11:40. Finally got back to the room with the eye monkey who had me read some letters and then looked in my eye!!! FUCK!! So I finally told her "I have to leave in about 10 minutes to pick up my son from preschool." She said the doctor would be in any minute. 10 minutes go by and I walk out. I see her on the way and tell her that I have to leave and could I please have my prescription. She says no because the doctor has to see me. The doctor comes out and I tell him I have to leave. He will not give me my prescription either and says, "Well, just call back for another appointment."

DAMN FUCKING COCK SUCKING RETARDED ASS CLOWN!!!!

Just to show him I have not called back for another appointment. Yeah, that will teach him. But I need new contacts soon so I will have to go back. Do you see the injustice? Are you as angry as I am? Start a petition!! Write someone about it! March somewhere and protest! Join the cause by going to my website www.fuckalltheopthamoligistsmaytheyburninhell.shithead or www.number1isbetteryoueyemonkeypieceofshit.kissmyblackass. Help a sister out and save me from another 10 years of opthamology hell!

Tag, I'm it!

I have been tagged by Kimber p over at I Know, Right?! to participate in a picture game. (Thank you, girl!!) I am supposed to go to my 4th folder in which I keep pictures and post the 4th picture I see with an explanation. So here it is.

This is Sage and I when Sage was about 9 months old. Alan and I took him to a playground near our house and took tons of pictures of him. Sage was the center of our universe back then. He was the golden child and received all of our attention. Wow, how intense it is with your first child! With the second child, I think your love is still as strong but there is also a need to balance between the two. It's just not the same somehow. I am amazed at how far he (and we) have come since then and how much has changed. It makes me long for the baby he was but makes me happy for the boy he has become. *Sigh* Now I am starting to feel like I would like to have another baby which is why I will stop looking at this picture now and instead go look in the mirror. I am sure seeing my wrinkles, sprouting gray hairs, and stubborn fat will cure me of my baby making urges.

iPod revelation

I discovered that this song is #1 on my iTunes top 25 most played list. What does this say about me? I'm not sure but all I know is that it has a catchy beat and is fun to work out to. Happy Friday!

The enemy within

The reason why I have only been posting about once per week lately is because nothing is going on here. For the past month, things have been running smoothly. Alan and I are getting along, no major extended family drama, no house issues, and--here's the weirdest part--the kids have been fairly well-behaved. So how am I supposed to get any good material with all this peacefulness and tranquility? Sheesh!

This was not the case one month ago. Sage was causing lots of problems, Shepard was copying him and I blamed Alan for all of his damn Y chromosomes. Let me explain about my darling Sage. He is what Alan's mom refers to as a "strong willed child" or, as I like to say, **"a pain in my ass." Our relationship seems to have developed in a contentious one. We are constantly butting heads. He likes his way in all things, he will argue with me just to argue, and he enjoys seeing me yell (he actually admitted this once.) Keep in mind he is only 8 and yes, you may feel sorry for me when you think about his teenage years.

Back to one month ago. Sage was worse than ever. He decided that I hated him. I apparently manifested this hate by making him learn his multiplication facts and refusing to let him wear all camo all the time. Shepard was taking his lead and one day when I was trying to get him to put on a shirt with buttons, he said to me, "You hate me, don't you?" I really wasn't getting any respect (or support) at home and I was on the verge of taking off to an undisclosed location ala Marie Osmond when she got in her car and just left her family in the name of postpartum depression. She's like my hero!! It's been 4 1/2 years, can I still claim postpartum depression? But I didn't take off, somehow I got through it. Probably because my favorite TV shows started back up and I was able to escape a bit from the hell. Jack Bauer and The Others saved my family.

Lately, I have started noticing that there haven't been as many arguments. I haven't been called 'MEAN' in quite some time. When I told Sage to pick up some clothes off of the floor he said, "OK, Mommy" instead of "Are you crazy, Woman?!" Shepard has been very affectionate and telling me he loves me all the time. And it's been weeks since I've had the overwhelming urge to kick Alan square in the nuts. What's going on here?! Do they think I am stupid?! My suspiscions are piqued. My alert is on high. I know they're plottin' on me. They think they can lull me into a sense well-being with their love and good behavior and then POUNCE!! Well, I've got my eyes on them. They don't realize who they are dealing with. I am a Mother--my eyes are always open, my mind is always made up, my rules are law, I will always suspect the worst and my guard will NEVER be down.

Domestic Terroritsts------------>

Weapons used: Hugs, kisses, agreeable

behavior
Highly Dangerous: DO NOT TURN YOUR BACK!

**Ok, you know I love my kids more than life itself. I'd take a bullet for them, I'd throw myself in front of a train for them, yada yada...WHATever!

Listing brain

I have been doing lots of lists for Facebook lately so I decided that my Friday post will be in list form with no apparent rhyme or reason. I'm just going to tip my brain to the side and see what comes out.

1. I'm in desparate need of a new bra but I hate to bra shop. How do I know I need a new bra? My boobs keep spilling out of the sides! It probably looks like I have three to four boobs in there. I don't know what went wrong with this bra. It started out so well. I like Victoria Secret bras. But since they are so damn expensive you would think they would keep these sisters in check for at least a year. Don't you think that's reasonable? I suppose in this economic climate I should give other bras a try. I don't care about the name brand, I just need a bra that's going to hold these chesticles up and out there, right in your face.

2. I haven't been in a mall since a few days after Christmas. I have no desire to do so and that is why #1 is such a problem.

3. A Shepard funny--One morning Shepard crawled in bed with me and I told him, "Why don't you go kiss your brother awake." He said, "I can't! His breath smells like HORRID!"

4. I have been loading up my iTunes with all my CDs. I haven't listened to some of these CDs in years and now I can. Today I was listening to my iPod and came across a song I haven't heard in forever. It was an En Vogue song called "My Lovin' (You're never gonna get it.) The song made me think of college and my roommate during my 5th year (yeah, I was on the 5 year plan or so I told my parents.) Ok, stick with me here. Do you remember when it was cool to make funny and creative messages for your answering machine? Well, it must have been during my 5th year of college since my roomie and I did a message to that En Vogue song. It was the part when they break it down and sing "Never gonna get it, never gonna get it, never gonna get, never gonna get it, never gonna get it"...yeah, you get the picture. Except in our message sang, "Never gonna get us, never gonna get us, never gonna get...etc." and I did the "Whoa whoa whoa whoa" part. I just remember doing it over and over to get it just right and laughing and laughing the whole time. That's why I have a hard time getting rid of my old music because those songs evoke great memories.

5. Whew, that was a long one. Here's a short one--How come every time you come around my London, London Bridge wanna go down?

6. Alan gained a little weight around the holidays and has been very sensitive about it. You might think I would be more sensitive about his sensitivities but I am not going to coddle him. Coddling causes weakness. I think he looks as hot as ever so in an effort to snap him out of it, I have been going out of my way to tease him. I've been pulling from my 'Yo Momma's so fat' repertoire. Like this--Alan's so fat he has his own area code. Alan's so fat that his belly button doesn't have lint, it has sweaters. Alan's so fat when he steps on the scale it says 'To be continued.' Ha! Reverse psychology works, right? And it's more amusing. If you think of anymore fat insults, please send them along. It's for a good cause--Alan's self esteem.

7. The best thing happened last night. Alan leaned over to tuck Shepard into bed and broke the bed. Yes, it was perfect fodder for my 'Build Alan's self esteem' plan. Well, I will admit that the boys' bunk bed is a cheap ass piece of crap but the timing couldn't be more perfect. Now I have a new one--Alan's so fat, when he laid his lips on his son's head to kiss him goodnight, the mattress broke through the bed frame. Classic!

8. I have a girl crush on Padma Lakshmi from Top Chef.

9. I love the way Shepard blames Sage for everything. If we can't find something, Sage took it. If something breaks, Sage broke it. If he trips, Sage made him do it. If a cat pees on the laundry, Sage did it. Now we're all doing it. Whatever goes wrong, we just say, "Sage did it." It's a good thing George W was around to take the blame or Shepard might have blamed Sage for Hurricane Katrina, global warming, the tsunami, and the housing bubble bursting.

10. Speaking of Sage, he refuses to get a haircut. Since it's winter, I have been indulging him and now his hair is quite big. For a joke at Christmas, we bought him a pack of Afro picks. He loves them and sometimes will stick one in his hair and leave it there, like Freddie Washington in 'Welcome Back, Kotter.'

Mr. Kah-TARE!

Derby Day

I am writing this on Saturday morning. It is an exciting day for, you see, today is Pinewood Derby Day! My son Sage is a Cub Scout and Alan is his den leader. Every year in January, Cub Scouts everywhere are given a block of wood, four nail and four wheels. From this block of wood they are expected plan, design, and make their own racing car. Parents of cubs are only supposed to give advice and help with any dangerous cutting. On Derby Day, we all gather and the pack races these cars down a wooden track to determine the ultimate winner.

So for two years, Sage has been the main designer and builder of his vehicle. And for two years he has never won jack! Zilch! Nada! Not even one heat. Two losses and he was out. However, I noticed as we stood by and watched the other boys go on to compete for the win, there were an awful lot of dads standing around talking about their car design, where they distributed their weight and how they got their wheels to run so smoothly. Seems the dads are the ones competing, hmmmmm.

This year I told Alan, "I want Sage to win at least one race this year. So YOU make the car, leave him out of it. Oh, maybe he could paint it or something, but you do it. He has got to win!!" Alan worked very hard for 3 days on the car. Sage painted it in a camouflage pattern and named the car--The Camo Commando!! So, full of hope and anticipation, we are leaving for the race very soon. I will write the rest of this post later with the results. Cross your fingers!

THE RESULTS

Well, it's a good thing that Alan is pretty because he cannot build a damn derby car. Yes, Camo Commando went down in flames, just like Sage's previous cars--Pod Racer and Turbo Python. It didn't even win once. Sage was a good sport but in private told me, "This is stupid!" I agree, it is stupid. Stupid, stupid!! Beside they can do other things very well. Sage can climb a tree like he was born in a jungle and Alan can cook a steak to a perfect medium rare (honestly, it will make you cry in happiness it tastes so good.) So there are more important things that silly wooden racing cars.

The rest of the day was kind of a nightmare too. We came home to find that the cat had thrown up all over our hallway carpet. I had to leave Alan with that mess while I took Shepard to a birthday party. I am not sure who had the rawest deal--Alan, who spent the afternoon cleaning up cat puke or me, stuck in Chuck E. Cheese on a Saturday in the midst of eight birthday parties. It's a toss up.

Hopefully we can salvage the day. The kids are at grandma's for the night and Alan and I are going to dinner and spending the evening alone. He might even get lucky, if he doesn't piss me off. Ha!

I've been committed

I was looking back and realized that I have been blogging on a consistent basis for about a year. Ok, there were a couple of lapses here and there when my lazy fingers couldn't make it to the keyboard but, for the most part, I was committed to blogging this year. I have really enjoyed it and I hope all three to four of you who read my blog have enjoyed it too. But there comes a time in every bloggers life when you have to ask yourself--should I continue? do I really have anything worth saying anymore? It took me about half a second to decide that I probably shouldn't continue and I know I don't have anything worth saying. (And here's my big) BUT that hasn't stopped me in the past and it won't stop me now. So on I go.

I went for a massage recently at a school for massage therapists. My mom told me about it and I decided to try it since they give a one hour massage for $25 which is a killer deal. The catch is that you are the guinea pig for their learning hands. And that's not the only catch apparently which I learned while I was reading all the terms and conditions. I had to sign this little waiver before the massage in which I had to agree to act appropriately, not contact the student outside of the school for massages, be free from sickness, and wear underwear. Oops. You see, as I might have mentioned before, I am not a fan of underwear. So my first embarrassment of the day was having to tell the secretary at the massage school that I was not wearing any underwear. Then I was passed off to my therapist (who was informed that I was not wearing any underwear.) My therapist was a woman. When I have the choice I usually pick a woman because I really cannot relax with a man massager. I am too preoccupied thinking about stuff like--'Oh crap, I didn't shave my legs' or 'Are my nipples hard?' or 'Did he just peek when I turned over?' So I prefer women--in my massagers anyway. But I do like a big burly woman with strong hands. So when my massage lady asked me about the amount of pressure I like during a massage I said, "I like it hard." And that was my second embarrassing moment of the day. Did I actually say that?!

The massage went fine but I swear, no matter how much I tell them, they never spend enough time on my back and shoulders. Geez, my feet and hands really don't need that much attention. I don't lay down at the end of the day and say "Wow, my feet feel really tense tonight."

In conclusion, I am so glad that I can tell you about these little gems in my life because I wouldn't dare tell anyone else.

I want to be a BIG loser!

Since the new year I have been watching shows like "The Biggest Loser" and "National Body Challenge" and I have learned something--Losing weight is hard!! But these people on the shows have inspired me. After much discussion, Alan and I have finally come up with a diet plan we think we can live with. We have decided to eat and eat until we become morbidly obese and then have the weight loss surgery. How genius is that! Seems much easier to me. Exercise--Pshaw!! Healthy eating--Feh!! They're not so important in the whole scheme of things. Let's face it, I am way to busy with saving the planet, raising my children (and the neighbors' children--it takes a village, ya know), working hard to pay my taxes, and making sure my children are winners so they have self esteem.

I am just glad I came to this realization on this day of new beginnings. Yay, Obama! I figure by the time he is good and settled into the White House I will be well on my way to the goal weight of 100 pounds--OVERweight, that is! Then The Big O can slide me a piece of that pie (and that one and that one) to pay for my weight loss surgery. Oh, I'll also need some plastic surgery to get rid of all that unwanted skin and maybe to fix the huge cavern that is my nose.




So I am off for an Inaugural Day celebration lunch at Mickey D's. Super size that, please!!

Whose is bigger?!

We have two attics in our house--a walk up attic and a smaller space behind our master closet. A few years ago I was putting clothes away in our closet attic and due to a misstep happened to step on some exposed drywall. My foot went through the floor of the attic. It is a large grapefruit sized hole which allows us to see down into our garage. We have never repaired it and there are three reasons for that: 1. It is small 2. It is useful for spying on the children (to see if they're plotting on us.) and 3. We don't know how to fix it. We are not a handy people. However, I have had to endure years of teasing from my husband about putting my foot through the floor. He found it very amusing and somehow equated my putting my foot through the floor to being a silly air headed woman.

Well, tee hee. Guess what happened this weekend? We were straightening up for company on Saturday night. We like to have friends over on a fairly regular basis because it forces us to clean the house. In this case it was the motivation we needed to finally put away our Christmas tree that was still sitting in the living room. So Alan was working on that little project when all of a sudden I hear a big bump. I called up to him, "Alan?!" But no answer. A few minutes later I hear Alan call, "Um Houston, we have a problem. Come up here now!" As I climbed the stairs I saw Alan standing at the top with his head in his hand. As I emerged into the hallway this is what I found...

Yep, seems Alan had a misstep of his own while putting the tree away. Except it wasn't just his foot, it was almost his entire right leg. See all that brown stuff on the floor? That's all the insulation that dropped out. At first I was stunned then I laughed. Alan told me how he was hanging there with his right leg through the floor and the Christmas tree on top of him. With that image in my head I asked him, "Was your leg kicking?" Then I laughed until I cried. I made sure he was ok first, of course. One thing I know for sure is that I don't think I will be teased about my hole anymore. Let compare. Whose hole is bigger?

<--------My hole

Alan's hole--------->

When he goes, he goes big!!!

Yay Alan!!!

A new beginning!!!

No, not really. It's the same old me with the same old issues in 2009--husband, kids, weight, waxing. It's just me in 2009--Just J.Hi.

So, after my last panicked post things did improve. I was able to get in every Christmas thing I envisioned--cookies, decorations, lights, Santa, Nutcracker, shopping and family time. Unfortunately, no blogging or computer stuff at all. But, it was quite a nice holiday. I won't go so far as to say it was a vacation because it takes a lot of work to be that jolly. I had to work at 7 am on Christmas day--nurses are essential personal you know (or that's what I tell myself to get through it.) Anyway, my plan was to get up at 5:15 to take my shower and dress, wake the kids at 5:45 to have our Christmas morning and then leave for work by 6:30. The best laid plans, huh? The kids were jumping up on our bed by 4:45. So they had a plan of their own.

The most exciting gifts from Christmas include--Sage's Vulcan EBF-25 Nerf machine gun. We all took turns playing Rambo and peppering the evil terrorists (aka the cats) with our bendy ammo. I got a pretty purple iPod Nano. It's too bad the only time I listen to my iPod is when I'm doing something unpleasant like working out or cutting the grass. Alan received a set of satin sheets for our bed (from me.) We were very excited to try them out so we made the bed and climbed in. Alan declared it "Boner City." It did feel quite yummy. However, the sheets are also quite slidey. Everything slides off quite easily--comforter, children, mothers. It is also hard to get any traction for...well, things you need traction for.

Today was supposed to be the day I emerged from the Bat Cave and joined the real world again--wearing clothes other than sweats, coffee with friends, wearing a bra again. However, Shepard's got a case of the vomits. So, I guess I can stand one more day of lazy and blogging and catching up on my favorite blogs and reading and Wii. I love sick days.

Oh by the way, just for curiosity's sake, I googled 'boner city' and found that there is an actual song by that name. I've never heard of the band but this video is quite hilarious. Is the lead singer humping that guy? Check it out.

I'd like a peace of goodwill, please

This morning my eyes popped open wide at 5 am and I had my first Christmas anxiety attack. I knew it was coming--happens every year. Christmas was a lot more fun when I was a kid and not just because Santa visited me. My parents (especially my Mom) made Christmas perfect. We had the tree, the decorations, the music, the TV specials, the sugar cookie baking session, and every other detail you can imagine. She made it very special for me and I didn't even realize how great I had it.

Now I am responsible for the Christmas happiness of my children and I don't think I am as good at it as my mom was. It's very stressful. We have only half of our decorations up, the tree still needs to be trimmed, and I still have presents to buy. I always procrastinate on shopping since I hate shopping (well, for other people anyway.) I am baking today because I am in two cookie exchanges. The kitchen looks like a bag of cocaine exploded in it--I am a messy baker. I think I have inhaled more powdered sugar than went on the cookies. Sage's holiday party is Thursday and I have to send in a bottle of olive oil for that. It is an international holiday party--how festive. Then we have Shepard's party on Friday, teachers' gifts to buy, Christmas cards to send, and more baking for gifts--then there's wrapping presents, seeing family, and visiting Santa. Sorry have to go breathe in a bag now.

Bob Loblaw gave me pink eye

To understand that title you would have to be a "South Park" fan and an "Arrested Development" fan. And if you aren't then you are not as cool as I am.

The phlegm has been flying around here since before Thanksgiving. It started with Typhoid Alan then jumped to Shepard and then to me. So I have been suffering for the past week. The doctor gave me some lie about my burning throat and itchy ears being caused by a virus so no drugs for me. I wanted to tell her "Look I know you see a lot of sick people but I am feeling worse than all of them so cure me and do it now. I've got children and a husband to mother." Mothers should get top priority on any curing drugs in my opinion.

That reminds me, have you ever had to whisper scream? Saturday was my worst day and I spent most of it bundled up on the couch trying to fight the infection within. My family takes my unconscious state to mean that it's a 'no rules, no chores and no personal responsibility day.' So when dinner time came along and my husband had not gone to the grocery store like he was supposed to but instead said that he took "me time" on the Xbox, that's when the whisper scream was born. You can still be scary and menacing even when you are sick with no voice to speak of.

Just some advice if you are ever using the whisper scream yourself...To be most effective when using the whisper scream you must A.) Be close to the object of your ire--I mean right up on their shit B.) Use as many curse words as you can string together--and use your pointer finger in a stabbing motion when you say them C.) Threaten bodily harm in a descriptive manner.

Here's an example for you--Step in close and say, "Don't be fucking (finger stab) surprised if you wake up in the middle of the night to find that your balls are stuck in your shitty ass (finger stab) paper shredder being ground up into tiny bits. And while your blood is spurting and you are screaming, I'll be taking some fucking (finger stab) ME TIME (oh, do the fingers in air quotes when you say that) while I play Fable fucking II on the Xbox, you punk ass bitch (finger stab right into his chest.) Then you go back to your sick couch and pretend to sleep but make sure you have a pleasing smile on so it looks like you are dreaming about doing the bodily harm.

And that's how the whisper scream is done.

The cure for hiccups

I have discovered it! But more on that later.

At the beginning of our four days off I was full of hope and fancy ideas. I imagined quality time with our happy children and a peaceful Thanksgiving with our loving family. Why do I have these silly ideas? Am I high? It started well enough. Wednesday evening Alan and I took the kids to a movie and then spent the rest of the evening cuddling and watching TV in front of the fire. We were in such a good mood we even ended the evening with some boot knockin' and drifted off to sleep with smiles on our faces.


But I awoke at 1:30 am with severe nausea. At first I thought it might have been the popcorn. I have this disorder that causes me to continue eating popcorn until I make myself sick. However, along with the nausea, I also had chills and a headache and surmised that I was suffering from a virus. I was on the border of Vomitland but I fought it. I did not want to revisit that movie popcorn or my taco dinner. I did manage to make it through the night without losing it and was finally able to keep down a nausea pill and a sip of water. The nausea pill had the lovely side effect of making me sleep the whole day. So Alan was left to straighten the house and make the turkey for Thanksgiving.

I woke up about an hour before dinner. Alan was frantic since the turkey had gone into the oven an hour later than he planned and the cleaning had not been completed. I was a bit miffed and left to wonder what he had been doing for the past 8 hours. I also was perplexed as to why our children (or as I call them 'the help') were outside playing when there was work to be done. Do you think I went through 18 months of pregnancy, a C-section and a natural birth so they could have fun when my house needs cleaning?! And Geez Alan, if you can't multitask because you are retarded than at least use your resources! That left weak me to vacuum and dust. So the kids were running wild and Alan and were involved in a snippy snip fest when our 22 guests started to arrive.

The dinner was great and, since everyone brings their signature dish, the food was incredible. We only had two small incidents. There were two family members (one on his side and one on mine) who got mad and went out to sit in their car like silly whiny babies. They did return eventually and the evening was a success. Even Alan and I had made up by the end of the night. However, I told him that I would not be able to have sex with him for a while since the last time we did it I awoke a few hours later with severe nausea. I needed time to work through the trauma.

So this brings me to hiccups. Sunday evening I had a bad case of the hiccups and Alan managed to convince me that having sex would cure them. He made a very good case and I had to know if it was true. I had no sooner agreed to the sex when I realized the hiccups were gone. Just saying yes cured me completely!! I didn't even have to go through with the sex! I thanked Alan for curing me and then turned over and went to sleep. Don't worry, Alan got his the next morning. I am powerless to resist him for long. No, I am serious, I was powerless to resist him. It was really early and I was half asleep.

Drink, drank, drunk

Oh Alan, he's the love of my life. Together we have made beautiful memories that I hold dear to my heart--especially the drunk and hazy ones. So as promised, here is my favorite drunk Alan story.

The year was 1996...I think. Hey what do I know? I was drunk a lot too. Come on, we were young, newlyweds and childless. What else did we have to do? Well yeah, we did that a lot too. Ok, back to the story. Stop distracting me!! Since I was working at the hospital for an evening shift (3pm to 11pm) Alan decided to meet one of his high school buddies for "happy hour" after work. When I called him at home at 9pm there was no answer. I tried again at 10pm and no answer. I was starting to get really worried at that point and doing the woman thing of imaging the worst possible scenario. I also did the woman thing of calling every 10 to 15 minutes thinking that would make a difference. Near the end of my shift at about 11pm, I called again and this time he answered the phone with what sounded like "Aaaah Oooooo." I said, "Did you just get home?" And he answered, "aaa-wh-ga." My intense worried feelings switched to anger as I said, "Fine, I'm on my way home" and slammed the phone down.

When I arrived home I found him face down on the bed wearing a robe. I was able to rouse him enough to get him under the covers. I turned out the light and lay there fuming. All of a sudden I heard bad noises coming from his side of the bed. Noises kind of like the 'ack ack' of a cat with the 'gurgle huk' of a drunk guy. I sat up, turned on the light and saw him doing the heaving motions. I screamed, "Get up!! Go to the bathroom!!! Run!!" He got up, stumbled around the bed and started running toward the bathroom. I glanced at the bathroom and my brain screamed "Crap!" because the door was closed. I frantically jumped out of bed and started running toward the door to try and avert disaster but drunk guy inertia beat me out. He hit the closed door, bounced off of it and then spewed all over the door. I arrived at the door just in time to turn the dripping door knob and guide him to the toilet. While he was having his special time with the porcelin, I was busy wiping the door down and muttering curses under my breath at him.

As Alan finished up he started to giggle. He laughed and laughed and said, "I think I drank too much." I said, "You think?!" I helped him up and turned on the shower. I tried to remove his vomit splattered robe but he protested, "It's the only thing keeping me warm." I managed to wrestle it off of him and pushed him into the shower. Then he turned around and said to me, "You're mean!" (Oh my, the foreshadowing. I hear that phrase almost everyday of my life now that I have kids.) And I said to him, "Oh, you don't know what mean is! You wait until tomorrow, mister!" (Again foreshadowing, I had the motherly instinct even back then.)

I'm not as think as you drunk I am

Over the weekend we had some very good friends visiting from out of town--I'll call them Barbie and Ken. They are married and have kids the same ages as our kids. They live in another state now and so when we get together we make up for lost time. We enjoyed a long evening that included much food and drink. In fact, between the four of us we polished off three bottles of wine and several beers. After they left, Alan and I stayed up to clean the kitchen. We then went upstairs to check on the kids. As we passed by the boys' bathroom we saw a startling sight--someone had totally yakked in our sink (you know puked, vomited, barfed, blew chunks, did the technicolor yawn.) We were stunned, baffled, appalled and amused all at the same time. It was a sight right out of a fraternity party. After careful examination of the contents and volume of said vomitus we concluded that all kids were ruled out as suspects. It had to have been either Ken or Barbie. Since Ken had to drive, he didn't have more than a beer or three so we deduced that it had to be Barbie. Because there had been no attempt to clean up the mess and the fact that it was totally out of character for Barbie, we were quite shocked. When it came time to clean it up Alan disappeared, assuming, I suppose, that since I'm a nurse I was used to such things. I guess that's fair. I have seen a lot of vomit in my lifetime but I don't think one ever becomes used to it. I have learned to breathe through my mouth though.

The next morning I got a call from Barbie who confessed to the act. She was mortified and very apologetic. She explained that after she did it she left the bathroom to go downstairs to get some paper towels for clean up. However, by the time her foot hit the last step, she had forgotten. She woke in the middle of the night with the horrible realization that yes, it happened and yes, I left it in their sink! Sometimes I worry that I spend too much time with friends reminiscing instead of making new memories. But I think we just made a new memory. And I will cherish it.

****I love drunk stories so feel free to share some of your own. And coming soon...one of my favorite drunk Alan stories. Which one will it be? So many choices.

OMG TMJ WTF?

My saga of woe all started last week when I decided to clean the house. I vacuumed way too much and ended up with a lower back ache. I still had to continue with my normal activities--herding children, working my shifts at the hospital and house management. So my backache started a downward spiral of self-pity. Lying horizontal on the couch is not conducive to blogging or even reading my favorite blogs. So I am sorry I have neglected you. But come on, we were on a break!!

Anyway, the weekend passed and I thought "Ok, a new week, a new beginning" but that was a bunch of optimistic crap. I ended up at the doctor on Tuesday being diagnosed with TMJ or Temporomandibular joint disorder. He thinks I am grinding my teeth in my sleep and causing severe pain in the left side of my jaw. He said it's caused by stress and then he shook his head knowingly when he found out I had two sons. So the treatment is an anti-inflammatory (isn't that the treatment for everything?) heat, soft foods and stress reduction. I almost asked him for a doctor's note to give to Alan. Sorry honey, can't put any very large items in my mouth, doctor's orders.

Yesterday while the kids were in school I spent the morning doing a jigsaw puzzle while listening to ABBA on my iPod. It was strangely soothing. Yes, I am aware that is how many mental patients spend their time. So what's your point? It helped. I am not totally back to normal but I am ready to catch up with everyone. So be patient with me, I am Temporomandibularly Challenged.

Hips don't lie

For me exercise is one of those things that I know I have to do but have never loved--much like going to the dentist, having a pap smear or performing a Lewinsky. I don't care what form of exercise I am doing, I loathe it and watch the clock until it is mercifully over. It starts in the parking lot of the gym. I am driving around looking for the closest parking spot to the door. What is wrong with me? I didn't get the exercise gene. I swear I don't think I have endorphins, I've never gotten high at the gym, dammit.

My other problem is that I have a phobia associated with working out. I can't work out without listening to my iPod but I love to sing loudly when I listen to my iPod. Though when I am singing at the top of my lungs I am always inside my house or cutting the grass where no one can here me. So as I am walking the treadmill yesterday morning I am scared to death that I am going to start screaming out, in a Tourette's like fashion, song lyrics. Can you imagine? I'm rolling along on the treadmill and all of a sudden I belt out "All my flavors are guaranteed to satisfy!" Or I'm stepping along on the cross trainer when I throw my arms up and rapping "Now just throw your hands in the motherfucking air and wave the motherfuckers like you just don't care. What's my motherfucking name? Snoop Doggy Dooooooooog. Bow wow wow, yipee oh yippe a, Bow wow wow yippee O Shit!" (I just opened my eyes to see all the gym people starting at me with shocked faces.) So you see the problem, it's just too risky.

Today I decided to change it up and take a Zumba class. It's a dance/exercise class to jaunty Latin tunes. I haven't taken an exercise class in years so at first I was quite rigid and self-conscious. The instructor was Woooo Hooooing and people were shouting out "Ya-Ha!" and "Arriba!" I'm serious, they were. Cynical me was thinking 'What the hell am I doing here?!' There was a lot of shaking body parts involved and a lot of fancy shamancy steps and then the instructor called out "Are you ready to party, ladies?! Do the Merengue step!" Oh Patrick Swayze! Help me, where ever you are!! Then the jumping started and I think I peed myself--yeah, a little bit. (Curse you Shepard and your big head!) Now she's screaming "Don't forget to breathe!" Fuck, I forgot to breathe! By the end of class I had loosened up a bit and was getting my Shakira on. I even threw out a little 'Wooooo.' I couldn't commit to the 'Hooooo' though. Maybe next class. After class, I found myself wandering in the parking lot like a freaking retard because I couldn't remember where my car was. My brain must have been oxygen deprived. I wish I had remembered to breathe!