Waiter, Get Over Here - No, Not You . . . The Young One

Back on campus after 15 years.

Felt a bit cougar-ish when a couple of collegiate boys turned their heads when I passed on by. Which quickly disappeared as soon as I walked into a room full of academe girls. . . . Who looked directly at me as if I had willfully and spontaneously birthed three mutant heads out my left ear as I killed the czar and his ministers.

Mind you, I was stylishly wearing my stilettos. I mean, I do have charming toes.

Geesh.

I Pulled My Hammy Trying to Get You Out of That Hamper Last Time

A post for etk.

I was out for my run this afternoon, which considering the agony conditions of my illipsoas (ill-ee-o-so-as), my piriformis (peer-if-for-mis) and last but not least my quadratus lumborum (quad-ray-dus lum-bore-um) is in, I'm surprised I got moving at all. In other words, my entire lower back along with my bootay has twinges of aches & pains - always. It is not my favorite feeling. A bit like nails on a chalkboard. Of which, I don't enjoy that either.

You see, back in December of 2007 I injured my back by being a bonehead bicycle junkie. I rode 4.5 hours, which I know is not very strange in and of itself. But you need to comprehend (1) I hadn't ridden my bicycle in about 6 months for that long of a distance and (2) I was, unknowingly, in the wrong gear the entire time. And not the good kind either. The husband noticed this wrong gear as we were finishing our ride. It was about the time that I had hard-core bonked, so-to-speak. It was a moment of brilliance on my part. One that I had not noticed until it was too very late.

So, since that time, I've been to a few massage therapists, a doctor as well as trying my own bit of voodoo. Nothing worked. [I have since been studying "Myofascial Pain & Dysfunction: the trigger point manuals Vol. 1&2". Which is where I have discovered my calling. To do more clinical work with my massage therapy once I'm done with school. It beats working in a spa. I'm too loud and obnoxious for that. Clearly.

Anyhow, this is not the point of my post. I have never shied away from digressing, but I tell you all this to say that while time and some massage therapy along with bottles of Ibuprofen, my back is slowly getting back to semi-semi-normalcy. Not much, but a little.

Today, we had a substitute instructor for massage class. We were to study pre-natal massage, but when the instructor got to my bum all hell broke loose. It did. shoish!Idonotexaggerate! She spent 45-minutes working trigger point therapy on my a**. It was torment. I could barely get off the table when she was finished. It had to be done and I understand this. I'll explain why if anyone is interested in another post. I cannot deviate that far off the path. geeoish. [Oh. Right. I should also mention here that I am not with parasite child. No, no - nothing like that. We all were to lie on the pregnancy pillows to understand how they worked and felt while we received a massage that was to be similiar to a pre-natal massage. M'kay?]

Muscle spasms are not our friends. Neither is the zombie plague. Or barf.

I'm just sayin'.

Back to my run. . . . and the whole point of this post.

So, I still decided to take my joggie-jog today regardless of the pain in my arse. Miracle? I don't know, but while I was out and about I saw this

drive by me. It doesn't seem like much, does it? But(!) a memory from my time way down south came slowly flooding back to me:

One night, as I was single in the city, I stayed home. Shocking. I know. But every now and then a singleton needed their Friday nights in-house with a bubble bath, a good flick, some wine and maybe even a good book. So there I was alone in my apartment with the ever faithful Chobie (my dog, people. My canine.) For some reason, I decided at around 12:30 AM it was in my best interest to look outside. I really don't know why. I just did. Only to see my very, very, very, very, very inebriated upstairs neighbor get home.

Yes, he drove. Yes, he was in his Cadillac just like the one you see posted above. Yes, his carport was right. next. to. mine. ***bum-baaa-dum*** I was horrified. No, thankfully, he did not hit my cute and perfect little Subaru. I've got to tell you, opening a can of whoop-arse on a drunk-arse isn't so festivus.

Though, I did watch this crapulent sot man tumble out of his car and splat himself face first onto the pavement. He was a train wreck. You don't want to see it, but you can't take your eyes off it. He made several attempts at finding his feet on solid ground. Obviously, he was unable to do so. Instead, he crawled to his door handle, sat up on his knees and took another 5-minutes to find his key in the door lock. Once that was complete, he then decided to crawl across the parking lot and up three flights of floors to his apartment.

That was the way of things for this guy.

The next morning, I asked the front office for a garage.



The end.

Injuries May Be Forgiven, But Not Forgotten. Aesop

Forewarning:

This post may not be for those of you who are faint of heart. If you don't like blood and guts the following photo's are not for you. It's not like I am holding my actual beating heart in my own hand, but it is not like I'm holding butterflies either. Though they were taken with my camera phone and details have been blurred & they do not look as bad as the original.

This is not a result of playing real-time Frogger in 5" stilettos:

(Please note the husband has already scrubbed out my owie.
During which I kept quietly blubbering some sort of gibberish while rocking back and forth. But it's clean. For now.)

This is what happens when your husband and you, while bike riding, pseudo-shout to a woman you are coming upon to pass, "on your left" but they do not move over. Since there was less than 12" to pass on, it seems I did not make it.

My tire caught the side of the concrete path and henceforth decided I should not remain upright. My nice warm leggings were gashed just like my knee and blood began a heavy trickle down my shin. That was gross. Vile even if you were to ask me. But your not, so I won't. I also bruised my left palm. I'm sure that will help me in school.

Anyway, I popped up right away after nonchalantly exclaiming under my breath something that rhymes with "Chuck" (sorry mom). And the offending lady offered, "I'm so sorry! Are you okay? My husband and I are always listening for cyclists as were are one's ourselves. I never heard you come up on us. I'm so sorry."

Which, to me, is a kooky-mental thing to say to someone when both of your iPod earphones are plugged into each one of your ears!

Um, duh.

So, this is my knee now (again with the camera phone, I know, I know. . . .
But my Rebel XTi's battery died, so these are what you get):

I'm fine. I did not want to wash it at first. I still don't want to wash it. The husband made me. Actually, he had to clean it as I refused to do so, but I didn't like it. It bled again. And I still don't want to clean it tomorrow or even the next day or the day after that. It also doesn't help that my Boykin Spaniel, Dixie, is following my knee around trying to lick it on a consistent basis tonight. That's gross too.

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

I rode 1/2-way back home and since my tire is bent the husband ran ahead to get the truck. I have to say here that every single man that passed me on the path asked if 1) I was okay and 2) if I needed help. Chivalrous - and I am very okay with that, but I'm going to wait for my husband thankyouverymuch.

The women that passed me if they even acknowledged my existence said, "hello." Oddly, I was reminded of Madeleine Albright who once said, "there is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women."

That is all. I'm pretty sure I don't look comfy nor cute.

Gives Her a False Sense of Reality

Within the last two days, the husband and I have been experiencing some beautiful weather here in our Longhorn City. Yesterday, it was a high of 82-degrees F and right now it's 55-degrees F. I thought it was much warmer than that, especially since our thermometer at home said 71-degrees. . . . Hm? Sneaky, sneaky weather.

Either way, the husband and I decided that, today, we should go for an actual outdoor bicycle ride. Maybe I'd even get a leetol bit of a tan and not look like the walking dead. Bonus!

Little did I know it would be against blowing winds from Zeus himself, God of the heavens, brother of Demeter, Hera, Hestia and Poseidon. Coming from the west-northwest at 31-miles per hour up to 41-miles per hour. That was fun.

Good times, I've got to tell you.

Because I Said So

The husband had a day off today. Guess what I made him do on his one day off before I leave our Longhorn City?

Go to a movie. That's right. A movie. It had been so long since we've seen the inside of a movie theater, that I was like a school kid in a candy shop! So, what movie did we pick? The husbands vote: National Treasure: Book of Secrets. My vote: Cloverfield. Guess who won? That's right, me. Woot. Woot.

Off we went.

Where I made it through 40 minutes of the movie. The husband looked at me a few times, "baby, you don't look so good. Let's leave." And since I really, really wanted to see this movie, I refused to budge. Increasingly, I became clammy, sweaty and green-ish. At 40 minutes, or there about, I ran to the women's restroom. All of the stalls were full. I tasted vomit. I couldn't cool off. I wanted to lie down. A few women stared at me as if I were some kind of junkie, but no one asked if I was okay. What's wrong with society? I suppose, to their credit, I looked like a fashionably dressed junkie, but . . .

After 20 minutes being spent in a movie theaters bathroom, I returned to my seat still not quite right in the belly. The husband whispered, "honey, a movie is supposed to be fun and you look miserable; let's just go."

Putting my head down in disappointment, I finally nodded. Motion sickness is a bitch.

Don't Worry, No One Noticed

How did I manage to get supine on the couch on my very first day off from employment?

Was it from the boundless mileage on Saturday? Was it from the hours of battling wheat weevils Sunday evening? Was it from the day of yard work before that? Or was it, possibly, from the gym workout with my trainer this morning? No, no, no and no. None of these were the cause of my day of dormancy.

I managed to get myself laid out on the couch by parking my truck backwards into a parking space right before my gym appointment. You see, I turned my head to the left, which was done in order to see over my shoulder. That's when it happened. A snap and a burning of pain in my neck. A muscle spasm so tight, you could play Santana tunes on my ligaments that keep my head attached to my body. I couldn't move my head to the left or much of anywhere, actually, without extreme pain. It brought tears to my eyes.

My trainer's office mate is also a licensed massage therapist. She worked on it as much as it allowed me to complete my workout sans a few weight lifting maneuvers. She also provided me ibuprofen. I made it home. I found the heating pad and laid myself on the couch. For hours I did not move. Any slight head movement reminded me that I. hurt. myself. parking. the. truck.

It's not even a fantastic nor an elaborate story. No box lifting. No 20 miles ran. No passionate night at home. No marathon blog typing. Nothing. I injured myself parking.

Parking.




*I will mention that I did manage to run my required 4.5 miles today through the sheer gritting of my teeth. I walked .5 miles to cool down as well. My neck still feels like a Mac truck ran over it. Ibuprofen is fast becoming my best friend today. As is the couch.

**The husband noticed I was laid out on said couch. With a heating pad. Upon asking a few definitive questions he promptly brought me a couple happy pills and a glass of water asking if there was anything else I needed. These pills tried to knock me out, but I fought them hard. They also made me sick to my stomach. I again battled them relentlessly. Even on my afternoon run. I don't see how people like these things? They are absolutely dreadful.

***Though, this renewed my faith in how much the husband really is my knight in shiny, shiny armor! That alone made my day that much better! Even if it was spent on the couch.

****Another good thing, not as good as the husband, but still good was the fact that HBO played "The Holiday". A very top favorite of mine. Though drug induced, I did happen to watch the entire movie. I heart "The Holiday".



I'm going back to the couch now. That's all you get.

And I Would Walk a 1,000 Miles

I have been training to run a marathon. Okay, a half-marathon really.

There, I've said it. Put it out there. I've kept it under wraps for some time now scared that I may not succeed. Not wanting to fail. So, I kept it. Only the husband knew. Keeping it to myself means I only failed me. Putting it out there seems to make me more accountable. A bit more frightening, really.

My run will be completed on December 9, 2007.

My friend, kt, said she'd do this with me. She told me not to worry; if we have to walk, we walk. A great motivational partners she is. Keeps me responsible. We started training together this past weekend. We meet again tonight for another tussle of pavement eating. My trainer has helped immensely with this idea of mine as well. She makes sure I am safe. Doing good to my bones, joints and body.

Wish me luck. Or keep me liable. Whichever your pleasure.

Cowboy State Crashing

So, I wanted to post a few pictures and words of our Jackson Hole, Wyoming vacation. Until my computer - my brand new computer, by the way - crashed 5 times. Today. This resulted in me making several phone calls and finally taking in the tower where it was hooked up and worked fabulously without a hitch. Smooth sailing. Right? Right. Wrong! Oh, how wrong this day is or was or has been. ***grrrrrr***

Anyway, this made the Geek Squad think it might be my monitor. Um. No. The monitor also works fine. But the computer continues to crash and with it, it takes my new iPhone. All of my contact information is now gone from my phone. I have no one's address or phone number anymore. Though, thankfully, it did retain all e-mail addresses. Great. I am now asking pleading with all my readers to re-send me their digits and addresses via my e-mail. Pah-leese? With a cherry on top. My apologies as well. [P.S. Does anyone know if there is a backup to the iPhone for situations like this? 'Cos we all know how fun it is to re-enter 70+ phone numbers manually. Excitement. Excitement.]

I'm exhausted. I'm frustrated. I'm grumpy. I'm going to bed.

****I will try to post pictures and stories at a later date and time this week. I'm back to the daily grind tomorrow and none to happy about it either. I already miss the mountains, the fresh air and its wonderous wildlife. . . . ***sigh***

That's Not What You Say to the Free Sample Woman

Thursday night. Exiting our newly acquired favorite Italian dinner place in our Longhorn City, while walking to the car, we happened to come upon an Italian beauty of flawless engineering:

moi: wow! Look at that! ***eyes huge in their own bigness***
the husband: look at what?
moi: it's . . . it's beautiful! ***
the husband: what's beautiful?
moi: that Maserati!
the husband: oh! That is beau. . . .
moi: ***impertinent interruption*** look . . . . look.what.they.did. Oh, they did not! Please tell me they didn't do it! It's just wrong. ***gasping with mortification***
the husband: did what?!
moi: there's a bumper sticker. . . . On a Maserati. ***groan***
the husband: wow! Yeah, they did.

3 minutes later, still making our way to our bumper stickerless car

moi: ***groaning***
the husband: what's wrong, hon?
moi: they put a bumper sticker on a Maserati. ***sigh***
the husband: ***laughing*** yeah, I know baby.
moi: they don't deserve that car. ***hmmpf***

A tragic injustice.

The Man Sleeps Naked & Spoons the Pillow

Jen at the end of day one at jobbie-job: scrambled egg brain. Bedtime: 8:45 PM.

Jen at the end of day two at jobbie-job: deep fried scrambled egg brain. Bedtime: TBD.




Can't. . . . make. . . . heads or tails of. . . . anything.

Well, I guess I should mention that I did buy a faux rattus norvegicus at lunch today (my 2nd day) with a co-worker. It looked real enough and I thought to myself. . . . . my boss has to have that! So, I forked over the $1.80 and took Fred to the office with me where I somewhat positioned him in the boss man's office. . . . . On the keyboard. Apparently, Fred had some letters to type, invoices to fix and orders to place. Or so I thought.

Taking a break from afternoon training . . . . . Upon walking into his office, the boss man convulsed and followed up with some mention of having to go change his drawers as he quickly fled his office.

Later, my coworker ratted me out - no pun intended. ***bah*** Note to self: no coworkers can be alerted to practical jokes before or after they happen.

However, in the end, the boss man was laughing and even became endeared enough with Fred to actually call him Fred. I'm bringing the rat a pretty pink bow for his tail tomorrow. Eventually, I hope to learn to knit to make the rat some clothes. Or maybe I can kidnap him in the future, "give me a raise or the rat gets it!" notes will be sent with tuffs of rat hair attached as well with anonymous photos of blindfolded-Fred will be taken . . . . The possibilities are endless.





And that's it for tonight regarding my new jobbie-job endeavor. I have nothing else. Goodnight.

Shake 'N Bake, Baby

1 Sunday afternoon. 1 cyclist racer. 1 normal mortal. Two bikes. 94-degrees Fahrenheit. 3.5 hours. 45 miles. 30 SPF. Abundant water. No Alexander Vinokourov. No doping scandals. No team car support. No schloogus maximus'.

the husband: *pulling of to the side of the road while pointing north in the direction of a galaxy far, far away* I wish I could show you where we live from here, but the hill is blocking our view. . .
me: wow. We are that far from home? *utter astonishment*
the husband: yep. And we are heading that way *pointing south *
me: *turning my head ever so gently* BUT THAT'S A HUGE HILL! And,it'stheoppositedirectionofhome! *on the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done just as easily lying down* [Woody Allen]

the husband: *laughing* I know!
me: that's so not funny. *grrrr*

*********** 5 minutes later ***********

me: *pedaling up previously mentioned hill* my heart rate is 175 *can't. find. air.*
the husband: I'm not even going to tell you mine. . . *laughing again*
me: what? It's . . . . like . . . . 130 . . . . , isn't . . . . it? *kill. me. now.*
the husband: more like 125 *still laughing*
me: that's . . . . just . . . . wrong . . . . on . . . . so . . . . many . . . . levels . . . . of . . . . wrongness. *it's impossible to experience one's death objectively*
the husband: *laughing - he's still laughing on a hill*

The husband even put his hand on my bum, no, no not to cop a feel, but to help push me up that hill. And, while I'm pretty sure it was a category 200, as mountain categories go, it felt like it was a cat 1. Or even an HC. In the Alps.

I'm not kidding.

[I hope the tour has a good rest day off on Monday, I know I will.]

Now I Have To Go Wash That Off

I've been doing a lot of shopping lately. Mostly comparison shopping and let me tell you that you can find most things akin to Pottery Barn elsewhere and at much better pricing. Honestly, who knew that [Cost Plus] World Market has such great furniture? I purchased some leather chairs, an end table, couple lamps and a trunk. Happily, our bedroom is finally coming around thanks to World Market and Pier 1. I'd been everywhere for months now and the vision is coming to fruition. Give it a few more months and a couple coats of paint and we'll be good as new. This depends on when I can actually settle on some color schemes. I'm pretty ADHD about this and won't argue over how ADHD I am about it. I just am. One day I'm with chocolate browns. The next day it's slate with a hint of blue or green. Then, I hit my chocolate brown and blue/green phases. Sometimes I'm totally off the chart with purple or red. Lots of wall = lots of colors. Mostly I come back to brown and blues. I'm a color person and I'm not afraid to use them. Just coming to a solution is a bit tedious and most likely annoying to the husband. I have to admit that he's got the "whatever you think, honey" bit down perfectly. I get no arguments there. Awesome! How can painting your bedroom be so panic at the disco distressing? It's just paint. I need Prozac, obviously. Or is it Ritalin?

Furthermore, I have found my next dinning room table. Actually, I found 2, but the husband is being mean and saying I can only get one. What?! Only one table?! Who lives with only one table? "But we can switch them out whenever we want and we now have a dining room that also needs a table . . . and one has a bench, so sometimes we can have a bench, eat with our hands and pretend we're, like, in medieval times and then others, when we have to be more formal . . . Well, one can be my work table and one can be the food table . . . Plus we are still paying less for two tables than we would for one Pottery Barn table. It's only fair . . . I have a table fetish that needs feeding . . . No, really, I. need. two. tables." I've thought this through very thoroughly and no matter how I've done so, I don't believe I'm going to win this one. That's a bummer. As you can see, I've tried every angle.

But this isn't the point of my post. This is.

I pseudo-destroyed my Treo 680. My red Treo 680. I loved that phone. Loved it. So much so that I almost fell into a deep depression when I crushed the LCD screen in the trunk of Coco Chanel. It was an awful crunch of a sound. I looked at the top of the car to see what had actually fallen on the roof to make such a noise, because it was so undiscerning, yet disturbing. I didn't see a thing and became a bit bewildered with a tilt of my head, like dogs do when they hear something they don't understand, until I saw a light and then absolute nothingness from my what was my mobile phone sticking out of the crack between the trunk and the back window. Utter panic ensued. How to live without my cell phone? This can't be! The screen is not cracked. The screen is not cracked. The screen is not cracked, as if repeating that mantra over and over again would make it true. Nope. No amount of CPR could save it either. Lord knows I tried.

I managed to get a few calls out, but had no idea what numbers I was dialing. How in the world did we manage back in the day when it was only rotary dialing? [Yea. So? I'm aging myself a bit here. Whatever.] Anyhow, I have to see the screen to be sure I am hitting the right number keys to be sure I'm dialing the right person. So, I went through a bit of a panic attack having hit numbers without a caller ID letting me know who I was actually calling. It worked after a few miss dials. The screen is toast though, which upon further discovery lead me to an even deeper depression, because a greater thought hit my little brain. . . . how am I going to text(!), [*gasping for air; cannot breathe*] which everyone who knows me, is the life force of my existence. It's charming really. Aside from bargain shopping, my other obsession is text messaging. I'm good at both - master of none. And now the life force has been sucked out of me by the cell phone vampire. I'm empty inside.

A trip to the mobile phone store did little to ease my pain. I left only to return a day later. I outright bought the phone this past May this time around so I would not have that stoopid upgrade contract to contend with whenever my phone died. Those contracts are crap. The phone always dies before your contract is up for a new upgrade. They get you for two years and believe me when I say, I am not going to switch providers. It costs too much to quit and start over. I've been with you for over 6 years I'm not going back. I'm lazy and that is entirely too much work for me. So, even though you buy the phone outright to avoid contracts, one still ends up with one. Yep. You do. Apparently, since buying outright in May my new upgrade isn't due now until January 2008. "Huh? But I didn't sign up for. . . what do you mean that doesn't matter? This is treacherous." Long story even longer: I do not qualify for another phone. I do not have insurance on the phone, because they wouldn't sell me insurance on the phone. Why? Because, to use their words, "the phone is too expensive of a cost to us to carry insurance on it." So there. I am screwed. The words of Leo Getz rang out and echoed through my head:

"They #*@$ you at the [cellular store], okay? They #*@$ you at the [cellular store]! They know you're gonna be miles away before you find out you got #*@$ ! They know you're not gonna turn around and go back, they don't care. So who gets #*@$ ? Ol' [Godiva Jen]! . . ."

It was either buy a new phone or try to repair the screen.

I tried both options. Even trying to repair the screen went awry. It still cost more than it should and the salesman was just creepy-McCreepster. A few hours later the husband half-mentioned, "Did you notice how that A***o T*k guy just kept staring at your boobs?" Seriously? What was that all about? "I noticed, but I was hoping it was just me being overly freaked out by shameless sleazeball of a guy." And I don't even have a chest that is worth mentioning in print. "Am I wearing a revealing shirt? Oh my God! I'm wearing a shirt that makes revolting men stare at my chest!" The husband, chuckling, retorted, "You're not wearing a revealing shirt. He's just a guy." "Well, he's not getting my business that's for sure. I'm not going back there. Ewww. Gross." I said it just like that with the italics and bold in the appropriate places too. And with a hmph, I was said and done. The husband just laughed and drove me to the cellular store where once again I am pretty sure I got the short end of the stick.

I now have a Samsung BlackJack and it's nothing like my Treo. I miss my Treo. RIP Treo you're sorely missed. The husband says I'll eventually love my BlackJack just like I did my Treo, but the skeptic in me just refuses to believe.




*** If you're wondering why I didn't just buy the red Treo 680, it's because I couldn't bring myself to do it again. That's a lot of bills, people! The same phone within two months time frame? Naw. That's just not right. Besides, with the cost of that phone I could buy a second dining table! Well, I have yet to buy the first, but the point is, it is the same cost as those 2 tables and I can't eat off my phone. So, I spent less bills this time around, which most likely is why I'm still kinda hating on the BlackJack. And it's not the BlackJack's fault, really. It's mine. I can't watch out for my own preciousssss phone, then I don't deserve it. I suppose it's the whole "cut off your nose to spite your face" kind of deal. I must live with my mistake.

So there.

Happy Independence Day!!!

Listen Here, You Trendy Little Monkey

I went to my friends baby shower today. It was a nice day. It was a nice shower. It was for a nice baby on the way who will be a boy once he decides it is time to exit the mama.

Aside from my friend, I knew no one else, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. However, every single one of them knew the husband. You see, my friend works with the husband as do most of her friends, so I found myself in more than one conversation about how "Everybody Loves The Husband"! I am used to this. I also enjoy this. It's great to know that your husband is loved by friends and strangers alike. It really is a nice feeling. They also mentioned how much he talks about moi, so it gives me even more warm fuzzies to know that I am as important to him as he is to me. It should be that way. And I'm all the more lucky for it. I know this.

Anyhow, not to dismiss the love of the husband, but to get back on track, I understand that I'm at a baby shower where baby talk will commence forthwith. Immediately. I don't have a baby. I've never had a baby. Unless you count the times I've borrowed a baby from others that paid me to watch theirs. I have extensive experience in this area including paid summer trips to the great lobster state to babysit three children and their friends for over a period of 4 summers. Sometimes the count of such children & friends would reach a total of 16. Sixteen wee leetol one's running around wrecking havoc at some point or another. With a number like that, and in most states, I would have been considered a teacher of some sorts or old mother hubbard who lived in a shoe. . . . Um. . . . Okay. Whatever. I don't have a baby and can't be held accountable for not knowing nursery rhymes. Okay?

Anyway, the point is that I was mostly surrounded by those who already have babies. Some recently, some about ready to and some years ago. I love this! I love hearing baby stories sans the birthing legends. You can keep those to yourselves (this reminds me of a previous life experience, but we'll save that for another blog entry for another time). All this to say, this doesn't mean I want a baby. Just because I love baby stories, does not necessarily entice me to having a baby of my very own to share with the husband. At least not now. Trust me, I seriously comprehend that I. am. not. getting. any. younger. I mean, duh.

But the thing is (and the point to this whole post), is that I never really know what to say to a complete stranger (per say they are a stranger to me because I've just met them within the last 15 minutes of my life) who then proceeds to ask me when the husband and I are going to have a baby ourselves? And just like that, I'm silenced into my own little world of make believe where things are pretty and soft; where I gently rock myself back and forth while covering my ears; reminding myself "I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay."

You need to understand that when I am in a roomful of women who have, who had, about to have or who desperately want a baby I. am. blasphemous. for saying in the most quiet, civilized, affable and thoughtful voice I know, "I . . . I . . . . don't know if we are going to have a baby. . . ." [holy thunder from God Himself] it is at that point when a collective, "haaaauhmph!" hits you with full force upside your head. Everyone covers their mouths in horror followed by dead silence. And then 100 questions follow as to why, who will take care of you when you are old and decrepit, what makes you not want children, how on earth can you not want babies, where do you come from that you wouldn't want a baby, etc., etc., etc. . . . It is as if the Venus just fell out of alignment with the rest of the planets and is making a course right for our heavenly earth. This is the reaction I usually receive. I can count on it. Which means this type of social interaction can be a bit unnerving for me. It's like I just took a spork and stabbed myself in my left eye in front of the entire group while it continues leaking down my face pooling at my cleverly designer stilettoed feet. I become an instant leper. So, while I like, appreciate and cherish baby showers, I always get a tiny bit nervous when having to face the [group] piper.

I Used to Be Angry Every Day, Then Every Other Day, Now Only Every Third Or Fourth Day. . . Today Is The Day I Am Angry.

I'd like to start out by mentioning [once again] the husband has the uncanny ability to be right most of the time. So, for the past year, let it be known that the husband was once again uncannily correct.

The husband and I have decided to build a fence, in our Longhorn city, around the entire yard - not just the back as is our current situation. The husband has mentioned wanting to "fortress our home" to me more than once throughout the year we have lived here. He wanted a fence. He wanted to keep people out. He wanted safety. He wanted quiet. He wanted seclusion. I objected. Strongly objected, if you will. I wanted beauty. I wanted openness. I wanted a friendly place where all were welcomed. I wanted a pretty yard that everyone could enjoy including us. I have spent a lot of time in our front yard trying to make pretty this spring and summer. The husband, on occasion, has joined me in this effort. The front yard was turning around nicely, so much so, that the former owners of our house left us a note to tell us that they "love what we are doing to the yard!" Yes, with an exclamation point! Which we all know means something more than just something if you put an exclamation point at the end.

The point is that our front yard does look decent and if given a few years it will look fabulous, if I do say so myself. I've always wanted a yard with gardens and lots and lots of flowers as well as shiny pretty things. I was on my way to attaining that dream . . . .

Now want an 8-foot fence. Immediately. With crushed glass and barbed wire decorating the top ever so nicely. I want it to look nasty and in turn make our house look like a prison yard. I. Don't. Care. I want it as high and as deathly as humanely possible.

You see, some b*st*rd low-life cretin stole my hanging planters off of my double-shepherds hook not even 10-yards from our front door sometime between Monday and today. I only had them for two-weeks before they were swiped. They were beautiful with pink, red and white impatients adorning the wire English baskets. Each of the planters were worth just over $50.00. (Yeah. I paid a lot of money for those flowers & baskets, I wanted the front door to look nice.) So the thief made off pretty well. They weren't light either since they were big and weighed between 15-20 pounds each. I hope the sniveling-weenie pulled a muscle in each their fingers. Or the wet-smelly dirt spilled all over their vehicles and it won't come up. Or the plants died during transfer. Or they got worms. Karma has it's way of coming around and we all know you don't mess with karma. Just ask, Earl Hickey.

Yeah. I'm bitter. And not too pleased. I want a fence. I seriously cannot believe that someone drove up in our circle drive and stole our flowers. Who does that? And why? And, why us? Do you know how many people have yard art in their lawns, but ours was the only one hit? Why? For God's sake, they're flowers. Go grow your own. The husband is surprised that I am surprised, but I so firmly believe in "do unto others as you would have done unto you" that I think the world is a genuinely good place. Or has good intentions. But as I am becoming old and decrepit I am finding that it may be I who is warped. People aren't always good. And many only care about themselves. It's a sad state of affairs when someone steals your flowers.

Shame on you, you sniveling-snot-nosed-cold-hearted-rat-coward-ugly-jerk-face-piece-of-poo- weenie! In the end it is you who has to face the Reaper.

So, I leave you now, because I must go grab my front-yard tree hanging basket, my plant stool as well as its potted flowers from underneath my empty shepherds hook and move it to our fenced-in backyard. Come to think of it, I should pull up the shepherds hook too. . . . The low-life petty thieves could be back for more - I guess you just never know.

In the end, it'll be me with the last laugh. And a fence.

To use the words of Joy Turner, "Karma this, you dummy!"

Hey, Let's Tally That Up Shall We

A few weeks ago in a galaxy far, far away . . . . . The husband decided to be adventurous [again]. Pulling out the Godiva Liqueur, Disaronno and Grand Marnier. . .

me: you should test that first. . . *blehck*
the husband: baby . . . . *innocent until proven guilty*
me: you should. I'm not trying that until you take a sip. *I am a Taurus. Duh.*
the husband: that's just mean. *sad puppy eyes*
me: well, the last concoction you made almost killed us, if you remember
the husband: that is not true. *my wife the drama queen*
the husband: *taking a sip* mmm. that's pretty good. Try it . . . . .
me: are you lying just to see the look on my face *death by sporking*
the husband: just try it. . .
me:*taking a supremely small sip* hey! We're calling that The Thomas! I want the rights! I want the royalties! I'm writing the movie and the book!
the husband: I told you it was good.
me: do you think that chef guy that invented the Cesar salad gets royalties? *early retirement!*

You Need to Get Here Quick to Dispose of the Body

Last Thursday night I went to bed. Granted, I had prepared, in my usual routine for sleep, that which consists of wash face, take out contact lens', sterilize contact lens', moisturize face, feet and hands as well as brush teeth. I'm fanatical about this routine. It was not an un-normal night, insofar that this is what I do every single night. Except for the fact that my eyes hurt. A lot. They hurt so much they were perfectly bloodshot - the exact shade of America's stop sign. Both of them. There was something additionally a bit unusual about this as well, but I'm going to spare you the [gross] details of what was found in my right eye aside from my contact lens. The husband found it when I decided to show him my wholly and utterly red eyes. This made me want to vomit. The husband laughed and said, "these things happen." Contrary to what you might be thinking, he wasn't being mean. The husband, on occasion, thinks I'm a bit of a drama queen (What? Me? Never). Anyhow, once he got me past the I'm-gonna-puke-drama I rinsed and dried my eyes once more. Not giving too much thought to them, I managed a deep sleep without interruption until the next morning when the husband called me at 8 AM . . . .

The phone was ringing. I couldn't open my eyes. Try as I might, I could not pry them open and this finally wasn't a time that it was due to my eyeballs being tired. Through the power of touch I managed to find and pick up the phone. Feebly, I managed, "my eyes are crusty." At that, the husband deemed this was an important enough issue that he had me seek medicinal treatment. I wasn't even bleeding!

You must understand that in order for the husband to treat any of my major medical problems that I just know will lead me to certain death, I have to have a bone sticking out of my body. As most everything can be treated with Tylenol or Ibuprofen. Seriously. Even blood doesn't always get me the treatment I know I deserve.

***Take for instance, the time I found myself figuring out that I was bleeding to death by Saran-Wrap. A jagged-edge cut to the thumb. It was a big cut. One that could not be ignored. Blood was flowing down my hand and arm, to which resulted in the husband saying, "You're fine. Get over it." And he proceeded to continue to dry the dishes. I'm sorry . . . . WHAT? ! The days of my mom's, "poor baby - let me help you" flashed and then suddenly disappeared before my very own eyes. Did the husband not understand my predicament for medical care? "Um. What if I bleed to death?" "You won't bleed to death." "What if I die from loss of blood?" "You won't die from loss of blood." "What if I do?" "Baby, you won't . . . ." Interrupting, "well then, envision my death resulting in lack of medical care!" "Baby! Go sit down on the couch!" And that was the end of that. ***

My point is, is that it takes more than my blood to get the husband moving. Friday morning I found myself with a new prescription and goopy eyes that stung like a bee. I felt like Shallow Hal with conjunctivitis of the eyes. As I walk down the street children run and hide behind their mothers. People look at me and their eyes start to water. It is bad enough I have to wear my glasses with my eyes melting out of their sockets, but the added evil of no makeup. I am a mess for sure.

In the end, it is now Tuesday and I feel as a fire ant has punched me fifty-times in my left eye. It's still swollen and red. The medicine still stings both of my eyes (the husband assures me that once my eyes are cured, the stinging from the medication will stop. This is how; apparently, I will know I've been cured of this affliction) and I am still regulated to my glasses sans makeup. I've attended three public functions in this manner - meeting those of whom I've never previously met. I wonder what they think? Does she not wash? Does she not know her eyeballs are dripping down her cheeks? What is with the no makeup? Scary gal this one is. Note to self: stay away from her.

I've never had an eye infection before. Never have I had pink-eye and I do not have that now. The husband said it's most likely caused from my contacts. This is strange. I am meticulous when it comes to my contact lens's. I only wear them for one month though the eye doctor assures me I can wear them for two. I only started wearing contacts at the age of 34 - I'm a late bloomer, I know. I sterilize them every. single. night. What went wrong? And more importantly, why isn't this goop clearing up? I have to fly to South Beach Miami on Thursday - the land of the skinny beautiful people - with my face dripping off. It's bad enough I have to wear swimwear, but now I've got diseased eyes. Stick a spork in me now.

Vain? Yes. But I think it's justified. My eyeballs are melting. I have the right to be upset.


*** Apologies to the readers who have read this story in a past Christmas letter. Also, the husband is not a cold hearted beast. He does, on occasion, help me. He did bring me some paper towels with instructions to press hard and keep my arm above my heart. The bleeding did eventually stop. I knew I needed stitches; the husband said "no. you. don't." And, I didn't. ***

Shaun: "We take Pete's car, we drive over to mum's, we go in, take care of Phillip - "I'm so sorry Phillip". - then we grab mum..."

me: *last evening as I was of sound mind and calmly sitting in front of my computer*
???: rarrrrrrrrgh. *low guttural rumbling from the bedroom*
me: *panic at the disco*
???: rarrrrrrrgh. mmmmmrgh. rarrrrrrrgh. *it's continuous? huh?*
me: *???*
???: rarrrrrrrgh. mmmmmrgh. rarrrrrrrgh. rarrrrrrrgh. mmmmmrgh. rarrrrrrrgh.
me: *ohmyGod. It's ZOMBIES!*
me: *2.287779 seconds pass with heart beating fast and spork in hand. . . .*
me: *uh. oh. right. It's just the dogs playing over a bone. No zombies to see here. Move on*

Seriously. I thought there were zombies in my bedroom. I am sick. Just sick. Zombies aren't real and I thought they were in my bedroom.

Excellent! Buy Me a Monkey

A friend, a few years back, affectionately nicknamed me, Amazonian Princess. This did not offend me, because 1) a friend named me and 2) it's appropriate. I am Amazonian. I am not a princess or any sort of the monarch royalty by birth, but I can act like one of the best of 'em - just ask the husband. He'll tell you, but he is my husband and he can say these things without the threat of death by sporking lying over his cute little face. And most times, the husband will say I'm justified. So there.

At least I know it and freely admit it.

However, there are times that I do not know what to do with it, especially when it comes from someone I barely, if even, know . . . .

tri-man-athl: you must've been a swimmer previously . . . or . . . you must lift weights, because you have back muscles just like a man. . .
me: uh. No. I never swam, but - uh - I do lift weights at least twice a week. *could the earth immediately please split open and swallow me whole*
tri-man-athl: really. You have huge back muscles! *astonishment*
me: you really know what to say to a woman to make her feel just like a woman, huh. *kill me now. just kill me*

Really. Is that a compliment? Is that just plain scary? Or is that just a scary statement about me? Should I be scared? Should I have sporked his face off? I feel as if I'm in a bit of a conundrum here.

You see, deep down I want to be pretty. I want to be smart. I want to be a lady. I want to be able get off the Titanic first. I want taxi's to stop for me. I like being assessed by my shoes. I like being a slave to fashion. Finally, I like my girlie parts of me. What I do not want is to have a. well. muscled. man's. back.

Do you think chocolate will solve this problem?

Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, since it consists principally in dealing with men.
~Joseph Conrad~