Theology

Benjamin and Sarah were discussing sharks.

Sarah: Can sharks eat God?
Benjamin: No. How would sharks get to heaven?
Sarah: Well God can go anywhere so he could go deep in the water.
Benjamin: No! (scoff) God doesn't even have a swimming suit!

So there. This is why sharks cannot eat God.

Shopping Rant

I simply do NOT understand the desire to shop. I ESPECIALLY can't understand the desire to DRIVE somewhere, STAY in a hotel, and spend THREE DAYS shopping.

If I can't get it somewhere in Plymouth, Sheboygan, or somewhere I happen to be driving past -- I simply do not need it.

What exactly is the draw to these shopping adventures on which so many people embark? Is it the massive crowds shoving you around? The long lines to wait in to spend hundreds of dollars? The endless walking down the street/through the malls looking for the perfect place to save $3.00? Perhaps driving two hours just to reach your destination? Or is it coming home and realizing that you spent $1000 (or probably more) which will be coming back to haunt you in the form of a credit card bill in two weeks? In which of those does the true excitement lie? Is it really true that you "found such great deals!!!" if you have to spend $100/night to stay in a hotel and $80 in gas just to find them?

Do your kids truly know if you bought their shirt at Wal-Mart or some cute little shop in Chicago at 40% off? Do they care? If they DO care, what kind of life have you offered them up to this point? Is this sort of thing now expected?

I am simply unable to understand. I don't get it. Can someone please fill me in on how brainwashed you need to be to think that driving for hours, staying in a hotel, and doing nothing but shopping for three days is your idea of a great time?

World's Greatest Brownies

Layers of Love Chocolate Brownies

1/2 c. butter
1/2 c. sugar
1/2 c. packed brown sugar
3 lg. eggs, divided
2 t. vanilla
3/4 c. flour
3/4 c. baking cocoa
1/4 t. salt
1 c. chopped pecans
3/4 c. white chocolate chips
1/2 c. caramel topping
3/4 c. chocolate chips

Beat butter, sugars, TWO eggs, and vanilla. Gradually add flour, cocoa, and salt. Reserve 3/4 c. batter; spread rest into greased 8-in. pan. Sprinkle nuts and white chips over top. Drizzle on caramel topping. Beat remaining egg with reserved batter. Stir in chocolate chips. Spoon onto brownies, lightly spreading to cover. Bake at 350 for 30-35 minutes. Cool completely.

These taste even better after 3-4 days. YUMMY.

Freak

Today, *I* am the freak.

I am lying bed, which is where I prefer to be at 7am. I hear those little feet.

"Mommy!"
"What."
"There's something in the big room with the big TV!"
"Something?"
"Yeah! There's something in the big room with the big TV! It's a CWAB!!!"
"A crab?"
"YEAH! And I saw it moving!"

I figured I'd better get up. I thought I would prefer to know where the "cwab" was rather than lie in bed and not know later. I get into the living room and there, on the ceiling, is the world's largest centipede.

There is no way I can do this. I was figuring that since I would have to stand on something in order to deliver an effective, crushing shot, I would have to be standing on something, THAT would put my face about 12 inches away from the beast.

I call the neighbors. Not home.

I am now psyching myself up to do this, since there is apparently no one else to rescue me.

I look out the kitchen window -- another neighbor!

I run outside to catch him, noticing that his kids are waiting in the car for him to deliver them to school. I have no mercy.

"Brian! Can you come here a second??"
"Sure."
He RUNS over with wide eyes, most likely thinking that someone is dying. I meanwhile realize what I am wearing and it is NOT a pretty sight -- 7 months pregnant with a no-bra white tank top that is TOO BIG and shorts. I have to rescue him a little bit so I put on a sweatshirt. He comes to the door.

"Can you get that????" as I point to the ceiling.

Now he does not dare laugh at me since he has a wife and three daughters so I think he knows the seriousness of the situation.

And he says the words I have been dreading.

"Sure. Do you have a TISSUE or something?"

I need to take a little break here to talk about this. How on EARTH is it possible for a guy to squish a mammoth, crunchy thing with a hundred legs with a TISSUE? I can barely do it with a flyswatter (and in this case, I obviously couldn't even do that). I guess I should be surprised he wouldn't just do it with his bare hand!

I handed him a fly swatter and he takes a miss (me and Sarah scream as the things starts running around -- see its not just me!), then a hit, then swats it again on the carpeting (I guess I should probably suck up all those little vibrating legs now). He even has the decency to pick up the body and take it with him.

He calmly says, "I have to get the girls to school now" and I find myself apologizing.

I was SERIOUSLY ready to just pack up the kids and leave, but then I would come home knowing that lurking somewhere in the darkest depths of the house would be this creature, so I thought it best to deal with the issue head-on (you know, like calling the poor neighbors to do it).

Go ahead and laugh at me, but I know that somewhere out there is someone who would have done the exact same thing.

It's been a while, hasn't it?

I guess I have had other things on my mind lately.

Things that are making me crazy presently:
1. There is a lot of poop in my life right now. Poop on the floor; poop on my shirt; poop in people's undies; poop in, around, and on the toilet.
2. SOMETHING is in my stomach.
3. My husband thinks that me, him, and two kids can live in a 750 sq. ft. house.
4. I **GET** that I am not the homeschooling type, but which one of YOU would send your kids to a public school in Shevegas??
5. The house is CONSTANTLY dirty. CONSTANTLY. I can't bend down to clean anything, and Steve can't get out of the recliner the days that he IS home.
6. I am going to be losing $40,000 when I sell my house.
7. You can't fit three car seats in the backseat of a Vibe.
8. Seven miles sometimes isn't far enough.
9. I can't pig out as much as I would like because of #2.
10. There is a lot of poop in my life right now.

Things I Am Sick of Hearing

1. Mom!
2. I want you to HEEEEELP me.
3. I didn't plan on it.
4. Did you wash my clothes?
5. What's for supper?
6. I'm not hungry.
7. I forgot.
8. Can I play Webkinz World?
9. I didn't hear you.
10. What?
11. How are you feeling today?
12. When are you due again?
13. I'm ready for it to be spring.

Busy, busy!

This is what Steve has done today:

7:35 -- got out of bed
7:36 -- took a bagel and milk to the recliner
7:37 - 8:25 -- watched TV
8:26 - 8:37 -- walked Benjamin to school (because I told him to)
8:38 - present -- watched TV

I have been nauseated and dizzy and exhausted all day so I had to lay down a couple hours ago. What has Sarah been doing since? Watching TV.

Just ASK ME how I feel about this.

Update. Steve must have felt guilty for being a such a massive loser earlier today. He came home from a fire call, played DOLL HOUSE with Sarah, and is now taking the kids to see baby chickens hatching at one of the elementary schools. WHOA.

Theo's Pizza

Called Theo's Pizza today. "Home of the five dollar pizza." We were in town and decided to give it a try.

Pffftttt.

"Thank you for calling Theo's Pizza."
"Hi. Could you tell me what specials you have today?"
"WHAT."
"Specials. Do you have any specials today?"
"We have.... um...today is Wednesday. We only have the $5 pizza. And the medium for $4."
"How big is the $5 one?"
"It's 14" and the medium one is 12"."
"Ok, what does the $5 one come with for toppings, how many?"
"The medium one comes with 1-topping, and the large does too."
"The large is the 14"?"
"Yes and the medium is 12"."
"Ok. I am absolutely, in no way interested in the medium. The $5 is 14" and comes with one topping, correct?"
"Yes. The 12" does too. We just found that some people didn't like as much pizza so we thought we would offer a smaller one at the $4 price."

I hung up.

Called back a few minute later.

"Theo's Pizza."
"Hi. We need to order two $5 pizzas for about 12:15."
"Ok. Can I get your name, honey?"
"Mollie."
"Could you say that again, honey?"
"MOLLIE."
"I'm sorry sweetie, could you spell that for me?"
"M-O-L-L-I-E."
"M-O-L-L -- what was the rest?"
"I-E."
"Thank you, honey. Now what was it you wanted to order?"
"Two $5 pizzas to be picked up at 12:15."
"And what would you like on those?"
"Do they come with just one topping?" (Lol! I had to ask!!!)
"Yes, dear."

At this point I almost took a moment to inform her that I most certainly was NOT a sweetie by ANY stretch of the imagination, nor was I her "honey", or anyone else's, for that matter. I didn't.

"One with just sausage, and one with extra cheese."
"Ok, honey. One with sausage and the other with cheese and extra cheese." (So does the first one come with cheese too? See below for a rant on this topic.)
"Yes. Do you sell 2-liters there too?"
"Yes we do, sweetie. You can just pick one out when you get here."
"Ok. Thank you."
"Thank you, sweetie, and we will see you at 12:15."

So the cheese rant. I HATE IT when people have this conversation:
"What did you want on your pizza?"
"Sausage and cheese."
"You mean extra cheese?"
"No."
"Well cheese comes on the pizza."
"Oh. Ok. Then just sausage."

Have you EVER heard of pizza ANYWHERE on the PLANET being made without cheese? EVER?? Why do people in this modern, pizza-eating world still think that it is necessary to request CHEESE on PIZZA?

Two-Faced

I've decided that I am quite tired of people being two-faced. I think all this really shows is cowardliness.

Examples? Of course I have examples.

1. "I went to Costco today."
"Oh! I've never been there. I would love to see it sometime."
"Oh! I'll call you the next time we are planning on going. You can come with us to check it out."

Three weeks pass.

"I went to Costco today."
"Oh. I thought you were going to tell me so I could go along."
"Uh. Well I had to stop somewhere else, and I needed to be home at a certain time, and I had to drop something off somewhere, and I didn't know exactly what time we were leaving....."

This shows that the earlier invitation to Costco was made out of sympathy, but with no real intent to back it up. Guess what -- I have lived 34 years of my life without being in Costco. I am fairly certain that an empty invitation was not necessary in order for me to continue living not knowing about the greatness of such a place.

2. "Hey, I'd love to get together sometime; our kids would probably love playing."
"Ok. I have nothing planned for most of this week and could come over anyday, or you could come over here, or we could just meet at a park or something."

No phone calls the rest of the week. Next meeting:

"I was waiting for you to call last week. We had nothing to do and Sarah was begging to play with ."
"Oh, well had a cold one day, and then we had to go grocery shopping, and I decided to go to the outlet mall in Oshkosh and found the GREATEST deal on kids jackets! I just forgot."

For a whole week? I live 10 blocks away from you. Its not possible that you ever drove past my house and thought, "Oh that's right -- our kids wanted to get together." Well, guess what again -- if I had not been banking on your (empty) promise of getting together I would have PLANNED something else to do. But, not wanting to offend you or having to blow you off when I had previously claimed to be free all week, I waited to schedule with you before planning anything else.

3. "It would be great to get together and talk sometime. Let's do it when our husbands are home so we can be kidless."
"Sounds great. Steve works this week Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, but I think any other day should be good."
"Ok, I'll check 's schedule and let you know a good time for me."

Week passes.

"Hey I was waiting to hear from you about getting together."
"Oh I didn't know your schedule and waiting for you to call me."

Well most people have known me long enough, and well enough, to know that when Steve is working -- he is GONE for 24 hours, but is otherwise home and available to stay with the kids. My schedule is not a difficult thing to figure out in advance. In fact, I can tell you when I will have days free around Christmas because I know that Steve will be working the day before and the day after, but will have off Christmas Day. I am not the one who is unable to plan things in advance. If you do not want to get together to "talk", then don't say you want to.

Basically if you don't want to see me, then don't say you do. You are not going to break my heart. I am grown up enough to know that not everyone can be the best of friends with everyone else all the time. To me, a sign of true friendship is following through with plans or intents, and is telling someone flat-out when you don't have time or ambition to "hook up" this week.

I have grown very frustrated with people who call themselves adults yet do not have the GUTS to act like one when dealing with other people.

People who were pigs in high school are still pigs

I ran into the Home Depot garden center the other day on a mission to find some grass seed for my mother. I only had a few minutes, and not a lot of patience. I walked into the outside entrance and immediately noticed an overweight, inappropriately-dressed, loud, obnoxious, trashy-looking female with three little kids standing precisely in the middle of the walkway whining to the Home Depot employee about something.

I went around.

Looked everywhere for grass seed. This is spring (according to the calendar -- not the weather). People plant grass. Should be easy to find. It wasn't.

I came back to the entrance worker chick and said, "I need to find some cheap grass seed", somewhat indicating the not-so-cheap display of grass seed I was standing right next to ($28 for a tiny bag??) She looked up from counting money and said, "I don't know where it is. I would have to find Joe." She didn't indicate that she was actually going to be LOOKING for Joe, nor did she indicate that she cared that she didn't know where it was. (I was kind of wanting to ask for things until I found something she DID know about -- just to see if there was something.) She then went back to counting money. I stood there for about another 20 seconds wondering if the conversation was now over in her mind, or if I was supposed to be waiting for the mystical Joe to surface. I kind of looked around and saw nothing but the side-to-side sway of the very large rearend of trailer trash girl from above.

I decided that since money-counter wasn't going to find Joe I would have to do it myself. Plus I was completely out of time by this point. I wandered the aisles for a bit, eventually coming back to money-counter, planning to give her a very long, hard look-of-death until she either figured out her job, or found Joe. En route to the entrance, I nearly ran into trailer trash chick, but she took a quick right into a different aisle with the three girls following her. I noticed that the girls all had their arms linked and were pretty cute, laughing as they followed trailer trash mom around. Trailer trash mom turned around at one point and said, "Hey! Which one of you just kicked my foot?" She had a little smirky smile on her face and it appeared to me that she was going to tease the girls for following too close. The middle one (probably about age 5) said, " I did."

Now hold your hats for this one.

Trailer trash mom calmly replies to the 5-year-old, "YOU ASSHOLE!!!!!" Shoots her a dirty look and continues on her way. The three girls kind of giggle and continue walking away.

I nearly threw up right where I was standing. I was certainly stunned into being unable to move any further. In fact, I didn't even know what to do. I heard myself hugely GASPING, but was unable to even think that such an appalling, disgusting, embarassing, horrifying event had occured right in front of me. I was actually even unable to MOVE, or I would have definitely confronted trailer trash chick (not that being confrontational is in my nature or anything) -- but I sincerely could not think straight enough to move my feet.

I eventually was able to continue on my way to the money-counter's hut. She met me just in front, and (recognizing me) whipped out the walkie-talkie radio.
"Yeeeeaaahhhh, I got a customer here who needs some cheap grass seed."
"najshfshfshjkd"
"I GOT A CUSTOMER WHO NEEDS CHEAP GRASS SEED."
"snmkfjsj fnadhfio nfjdahfio kohd ksifu oeurioywe mcndrisoa fjdjuahsjbf"
And she stops and looks at me. "Did you hear that?"
I looked around because I didn't truly believe she was talking to me, but alas, she was. "No."
"He [Joe???] says that there are a bunch of different kinds in aisle 48; there's some cheap stuff there too. All different prices." She stares at me for a minute as though my question has been answered and I need to go away now. She then begins to turn back to the hut.
"Uh -- so where is aisle 48." (I see no numbers anywhere.)
"Oh. Right inside the door. That's aisle 50." She points with the radio antenna.
Well its a good thing I can count - -forward AND backward. I found aisle 48, checked out the grass seed, was appalled by their prices, and turned to leave. At the exit door I ran into the three little girls who had earlier been with trailer trash chick. The oldest is bawling her fool head off and holding the side of her face. Super-paramedic kicked in and I figured I should at least make sure she wasn't disfigured or bleeding to death. She explained to me what happened, and -- seeing that she was ok -- I turned to go. When I stood back up, here comes trailer trash chick.

And it was TAMI BUHLER from high school! For those of your privileged enough to know this disgusting waste of humanity back then, I am in the happy position of being able to inform you that NOTHING has changed for her since then. In the few seconds that elapsed before she reached the scene of the injury -- and before I JETTED out of there -- I did notice a few overwhlemingly attractive things about her.
1. Still has big hair, notably the large poofy bangs.
2. Has approximately 15 tattoos (I was thankfully not close enough to see them specifically) across her entire chest and down her arms. (yummy)
3. Was wearing a no-bra spaghetti strap tank top (yes, this is what inspired the clothing-for-your-body-type rant) in a nice picnic tablecloth, gingham, red-and-white print.
4. Was wearing shredded jean shorts.
5. Blue eyeshadow.

I turned and nearly RAN out of the store. I seriously feared that I would spit in her face, punch her as hard as I could right in the mouth, or kidnap the three beautiful little girls if I were to stay around any longer. As I am RAPIDLY departing, I hear her again B&#*@ING at the girls for screwing around, blah, blah, blah.

I was seriously nauseated by this experience, and I HIGHLY doubt that I will ever be able to go back to the Home Depot garden center without rekindling the feelings of RAGE that were initiated that day.

People are disgusting. Why should a story such as this surprise me?

whine whine whine

People have said that I whine a lot in this blog. On the other hand, people have ALSO said that I should write a book as they pee themselves each time they read a new post.

So this is going to be a an entirely positive post of things that I am truly happy about.

1. I am thankful that we are not yet bankrupt given that I am not working; that Steve's job is able to sustain us.
2. I love my car. It runs great, and it perfect for my needs.
3. My kids make me nuts, but at least they are not ugly.
4. I am not stupid. I have heard it said that stupid people do sometimes know that they are stupid, and this would be truly unbearable for me.
5. I am thankful that I am not a fashion model. I like to eat greasy pizza and teen burgers.
6. I am thankful for the handful of friends who have learned to love me for who I am -- sarcastic, realistic, and somewhat DIRECT -- and who can almost appreciate those characteristics.
7. I am thankful that I do not take much very seriously. What a drab life it would be to be panicked and worried and paranoid about everything (and this without Zoloft too!)
8. I am thankful that I know the difference between calculated risk and pure stupidity.
9. I appreciate my give of realism. Although at times frustrating to be the first one to figure out the consequences of a certain decision, I am thankful that I do not waste years of my life making wrong decisions based on idealism.
10. I love that I have learned the true healing and immune-boosting power of chiropractic. What trouble, doctor-visits, and harmful antibiotics and surgeries this has saved me and my children!
11. I love that I am able to make people laugh at themselves and their sometimes disguised stupidity. Everyone needs an occasional boost into reality! I love being able to provide it!
12. I am thankful that I do not have to pay babysitters on a regular basis. What a waste of money!
13. Also related to #12, I am very thankful that I can live a simple life without need for constant diversion outside of my house and family.
14. I am thankful that I have learned the power of destructive eating habits, from fast food to a bag of chips and dip, to eating out at any given restaurant more than once a month -- and even more thankful that I have mastered the self-control needed to avoid this form of self-destruction.

Body types

I can appreciate all body types. Really -- I can; I am no runway model myself, after all. In fact, I am approximately 20 pounds overweight -- and I can't even blame this on the baby yet. Things wiggle when I walk that are not supposed to be wiggling; Sarah once pointed out that my butt jiggles when I brush my teeth (this has long been my standard by which to judge whether I am overweight).

BUT.

I am still at a complete loss at to why people who are extremely overweight, or extremely underweight, show off too much surface area (relative to the amount of surface area they have available to them). I normally don't bother with disclaimers because I tend to feel that if you are not self-aware and cannot laugh at your shortcomings, I am certainly not going to cater to your delusional fantasies about your true reality. But for some people's sake, I will at least say -- WE NEED TO LAUGH AT OURSELVES. GOD MADE US THIS WAY, AND HAS AN OBVIOUS SENSE OF HUMOR. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the crazy ride my brain will take you on.

There are a few classes of clothing that can be used by which to assess if one has appropriately dressed for their body type.

SHORTS:
I was at Kohl's looking for summer maternity clothes. They had about two pairs of shorts, one kind of tank top, and two t-shirts which were made from something similar to cheesecloth (because my bellybutton won't be sticking out enough in 5 months?) I looked at the shorts. I have fat legs. Its a fact. They wobble, and spread out to unmeasureable widths when I sit down. If I sit on the edge of a chair, the flab hangs down about 6 inches below the chair's seat (I happened to notice this in a mirror on the back of a doctor's office door last year -- its really true). I expected that most people who are pregnant are not the stereotypical basketball-type pregnant people. Most people tend to gain a little flab all over the place. On top of my already flabby legs, this little extra flab creates a stunningly flabby effect at around 5 months of pregnancy. I bent over to look at the maternity shorts and realized that the shorts part of them was approximately 3 inches long. That means that when I would sit wearing these shorts, they would rapidly disappear into the great unknown, giving the impression that I was wearing no bottoms whatsoever. Seriously, girls. The stretchy part was actually larger than the denimy part. I could buy pantyhose and wrap those around my butt and achieve the same effect. Now, back to my point -- these shorts would be inappropriate for me to buy (as well as for someone with even a noticeable caboose when NOT pregnant). Not only would these be nauseating when NOT pregnant, but any slight weight gain would instantly render them atrocious unacceptable. Yet the racks were nearly empty. I can appreciate wanting to desperately grab onto that last remaining shred of femininity while growing larger each day, but then -- reality must also play a part in shopping ventures. These shorts would be horrendously inappropriate for someone with flabby legs. The denim part simply would not be able to withstand the pressure of all that flab needing somewhere to spread.

TANK TOPS:
There are several types of tank tops. One type is the normal, Lands' End, fit-under-the-arms-but-not fat-roll-hugging loose type. Another is the spaghetti strap type with the built-in "shelf bra" (have never known what this means; I am just certain that my boobs do not SHELVE appropriately) that hugs your fat rolls all the way down to your waist (and beyond). The last type is the trying-to-be-sexy-but-made-in-a-sweatshop type; these are cute the first day, but rapidly deteriorate following the first hot day or trip through a washer. This last type tends to sag in the armpits, allowing boob material to squish out, and stretch in the neckline, allowing aforementioned boob material to be very visible when bending over to pick up a kid (or another pail of ice cream from the freezer section at Pig).

Let's talk about tank tops. I have found maybe two tank tops in my entire life that truly suit my body type. I got them at Fashion Bug for $9.99 each. They don't stretch out, they don't suck onto my fat rolls, and they don't have a built-in SHELF. These, I would daresay, would be appropriate for most body types. But -- as all girls knows -- once you find something that works, they discontinue it. So they are no longer made (remind me to call that Indonesian sweatshop later...) My alternatives are not so hot. The tank tops I saw in the maternity department that fateful day at Kohl's were a far cry from being acceptable. First of all -- what is UP with the see-through material fad?? It's a TANK TOP -- it's going to be worn when its HOT -- I do not WANT to LAYER it with three other tank tops in order to create a suitably opaque surface! I would have to say that if you try on a tank top and you can see the stitching in the little bow on the front of your bra or the printing on the tag sticking down in back, its too thin.

Spaghetti strap tanks. Where to begin. I will eliminate the discussion of spaghetti strap tanks without the SHELF, because they don't exist anymore. So -- spaghetti strap tanks with the SHELF. Everyone knows you are not wearing a bra. Period. Its a given (see above reason). So I think it is human nature to watch for something to fall out during normal daily activities. In my case, my boobs have doubled in size in the past month and I believe that a previously worn spaghetti strap tank would definitely be hard-pressed to do its containing job. Also, these are supposed to be worn by people with small boobs and 2% body fat, so they tend to wrap snugly around each smidgen of every fat roll all the way to the bottom (including that one that lops over the waistband of the too-tight, but-I-want-to-look-sexy-in-my-lowcut-jeans). If these are coupled with the above maternity short-shorts, there is a good possiblity of looking like a huge balloon not wearing pants and ready to burst at any moment (with a big bellybutton).

PANTS:
This category is a little more forgiving because you can hide a lot-o-lovin' in a good pair of jeans. My main point in this category is the jeans that are so low-cut the zipper is about 1 1/2-inches long -- like the kind where you rip the tips of your nails up trying to grab onto the pull in order to zip them. The area just superior to the hips is where all the fat is supposed to squish in dire situation. If this area is severely minimized, where does all that flab go?? UP and OUT. Yeah -- maybe you (with the help of three friends) can get these jeans on and zipped, but what do you think happens when you stand up, or -- heaven-forbid -- bend over?? That fat has to go somewhere! And it does! I loooooooooove watching someone stiffly walk around in their tight but-aren't-I-so-sexy jeans with the 3-4 inch lop over the top of the jeans. Coupled with a spaghetti strap tank top to securely caress the same lops -- this would have to be the EPITOME of not dressing for your body type. Denial or not; comfortable-with-your-body-type or not, this outfit combo shows just a little to much to everyone else behind you.

I only wear jeans that are loose enough on top to tuck in my fat rolls, especially while sitting down. Like in church. After settling comfortably into my chair for the sermon, the first thing I do is make sure that the fat roll lopping over the front of my jeans is tucked into the waistband. This would not be possible if that waistband is 4-5 inches lower. I may have to bend over a little more to make sure it stays securely tucked, but I will take the height compromise over the fat roll display anyday.

SHOES:
People tend to think that short people wear heels to make them feel taller. Or that any given individual will wear them to feel as though their legs appear "tighter" or "slimmer". But I have noticed that there is a definite weight-class (not height class) which should be wearing heels. As a paramedic I tend to notice things that appear dangerous, or perhaps just slightly wrong for some unknown reason. One thing I have repeatedly noticed is large people wearing heels. Wider heels does not give the same impression of impending doom, but the standard skinnier heels are what I am talking about here. In order to provide an exaggerated visual of what I am talking about -- let's think about an elephant (I SAID EXAGGERATED!) standing on toothpicks. Something has got to give. Also, in proportion to its body mass, an elephant's legs do appear to be rather lean. But this still does not betray the spindliness of the toothpicks. Something is horribly off-balance and will quickly become dangerous in any one of a number of variables changes.

I do not wear heels. And this is not just because I am not nearly coordinated enough to master the walking process. I am simply aware that if I were to wear them, I would appear frighteningly close to that elephant we imagined above. It's simply not proportional. Fat legs + spindly heels = CRASH. There's me on the ground, fat legs spread out, rolls lopping over my too-low-cut short-shorts, and boob material globbing out of the SHELF. (In retrospect this outfit would make me look like an unsuccessful hooker as well........ I might as well add some blue eyeshadow to the outfit.)

OTHER SHIRTS:
This category basically includes two types of shirts: those with functional buttons and those without functional buttons. WITH: Everyone knows that about 80% of guys like boobs. BUT! That does not mean that the 98% of girls who do NOT want to see them should be exposed to them at the same. There may be a time and place for boobage, but I can think of a few places when it is NOT the time: city park playground, church, funeral, grocery store (I didn't include Wal-Mart because everyone knows that being sexy at Wal-Mart rocks). One common trick of too-much-boobage wearers, is the push-up bra. Everyone thinks that a push-up bra was intended to boost your boobs to make it look like you have some, when in reality -- it simply gathers all that flab that is now unable to smoosh out across the above SHELF, and boost it to greater heights. Boobs are boobs; flab is flab. The two should not be interchanged. This is an especially prominent problem with some of today's fashions: you wear the spaghetti strap tank under your functionally zippered/buttoned outer shirt, which is unzipped/unbuttoned just low enough to reveal some form of mushy body tissue. It can be reasonably deduced by the remainder of your body type as to whether this smooshage is actual boob material, or if it is truly displaced flab -- so who do you think you are trying to fool? Someone who weighs 52 pounds and has big boobs -- it's probably boob tissue. Someone who weighs 250 pounds and has big boobs -- wellllllll..... there is a good possibility it is a higher percentage of flab rather than pure boob.

And lastly, shirts without functional buttons. The advantage of wearing shirts like this is that the boobs generally remain where they are supposed to be. Nothing is being pushed in or out or up (at least in that region). But these shirts tend to cause some havoc with the upper arms. For instance: a common t-shirt. There was a phase of these shirts that included short elastic arms. Where to start..... I have fat arms. This is the result of no longer spending 24 hours in a row lifting huge, dead-weight people over and over and over and over again. My huge muscles have now transformed into the dreaded "grandma bat wings". I am aware of this fact. When I would wear short sleeves with elastic at the ends, this newly-tranformed fat would become necrotic due to the way-too-tight elastic. It would seem that the designers didn't appropriately judge the needed ratio of size XL in the torso, to size XL in the arms. While in the process of cutting off circulation to and making Grand Canyon-size indentations within my flabby arms, the sleeves would successfully take all that flab from under my arms (leftover boob flab) and squish it up and out the armholes. Basically in any circumstance, ill-fitted armholes have the magicaly ability to attract stray upper-body fat and draw it out the holes on to the upper arms. This process makes even UNelastic sleeves too tight, and creates an ever-so-slight bulge of flab just below the end of the short sleeve.

I think I am done ranting. I guess the basic moral of the story is: don't wear things that displace body parts, and don't wear things in order to try to fool yourself in thinking you look differently than you truly do. I can appreciate different body types. What I cannot appreciate is people who so un-self-aware that they believe they can fool themselves into feeling like something they are not with a simple piece of ill-fitted clothing. If you are fat, don't pretend that your short-shorts and spaghetti strap top will go unnoticed. It will also not make you feel any thinner; in fact, it always makes me feel slightly fatter -- being able to feel all the displaced flab in places it normally is not (and when I sit down a whole new world of flab is revealed to all around me due to the simple process of constriction). If you are not fat, this is not a free ticket to wear whatever you want. It is still possible to look flabby when wearing the XS spaghetti strap top, causing the boobage to lop over the top of the tank. It is also mush moreso possible to look scanky, and in the case that these are my two options -- I would gladly embrace my flab anyday.

Annoyed

I've determined that there are way too many things that just annoy me about people, in general. I will now find a bunker -- free of other lifeforms -- to live in for the rest of my earthly life. This blog post will be continuously updated as I find more things that annoy me, so please feel free to check back regularly.

1. Asking questions with obvious answers.
"Steve, could you please go outside and pick up that yard waste laying around?"
"Where do you want me to put it?"
"In the big cardboard box."
"Where is the big cardboard box?"

Ok -- a little background information. We have always had 1-2 large cardboard boxes in the garage that are used for purposes such as this. In case the box's location wasn't obvious enough given our past history with them, the latest cardboard box has been sitting DIRECTLY outside the garage door for about 3 months. For some reason unbeknownst to me, Steve has simply never thrown this box out on garbage day. It just sits there, right in the way of the door, getting knocked over nearly every time we enter or exit the house. So in case Steve was not already aware that we throw yard waste into cardboard boxes, he maybe should have been able to figure out that the box he has been running into for 3 months MIGHT POSSIBLY be the one I was referring to, especially given his apparent affection for the same box, having never throw it out.

2. The inability to draw conclusions.
"There is something under the couch. Could you please get it out?"
"Which couch?"
"The only couch that I can see from the kitchen."

Background on this one: we have been busily cleaning for our open house today. I was in the kitchen finishing up some last-minute counter-wiping, and Steve was standing in the middle of the kids' play area, doing whatever it is guys can do while standing perfectly still in the middle of a room. He could just about see me from where he was, as well. After the preceding conversation took place, I realized that Steve actually went into the larger living room and started pulling things out from under that couch instead, never actually putting two and two together.

"Wrong couch."
"Well why didn't you just tell me which one?" (good question, but I will not cave!)
"Because you should have been able to cognitively deduce which couch I was referring to without me holding your hand and leading you to it."

3. Answering questions stupidly.
I sat down on the floor to gather the newspapers in a bag. There is STUFF whirling about me as I sit down. I thought this was a bit strange since I am completely certain I just asked Steve to vacuum this room (and equally as certain I recently heard the vacuum cleaner running).

"Did you vacuum in here?"
"YES."

Rather than answering I went and grabbed the Swiffer and began scraping up the remanants of his "vacuuming" job. I made sure to pull the cloth thingy off right in front of him. I forgot to factor in the can't-move-things-while-vacuuming-because-I-am-male part of the equation originally, and it has now become MY fault that I did not handhold while instructing on proper vacuuming techniques. I'm telling you, when I moved the file-cabinet-on-wheels to check underneath it, things SWIRLED out with the air movement.

4. Asking question rather than thinking of the answer for yourself. (expected from kids, not husbands).
"Could you please clean the laminate in here?"
"What should I use to clean it WITH?"
"The same thing we have used to clean it with for the past 2 1/2 years we have lived here."

Steve was standing approximately five feet away from the only bottle sitting out on the kitchen counter: clearly labeled "laminate floor cleaner". I then handed him the microfiber mop required for the job. This seemed to ring a bell. (Please note that my favorite husband was the one who BOUGHT the floor cleaner and microfiber mop in the first place.)

As a little bonus to this annoyance story, I would like to point out that the proper technique needed to use this floor cleaner is to spray a small area, then wipe it off with the mop. Steve was so mad at me by this point that he sprayed nearly the entire area to be mopped, then had to walk over the wet part to get to the furthest part of the floor to mop it. Serves him right.

5. Relying on innocence as a cop-out for responsibility.
"Did you not SEE the huge smushed bug on my butt all afternoon??"
"No. I wasn't looking at your butt."

Whatever. That's all I have to say about that.

Commission vs. Non-commission

We need to buy a new videocamera. The "old" (4 years) one died and it will cost approximately $150 more than the original purchase price to repair it. Incidentally, I never did call back the Geek Squad guy to tell him that I obviously wouldn't be repairing it when I could buy a brand new, way-better one for $250 less than that same repair price for the old one.

Went to Best Buy to get a camera that we had seen advertised. We circled the camcorder island a couple times and couldn't even find ANY Panasonic camera, let alone the one we wanted. Steve actually had to go find someone to help him while I wandered elsewhere in the store. They of course don't have the camera in the store, and actually neither does any other store within 50 miles. He can get it in though. He starts talking about the warranty thing they always want to sell you, and I kinda looked at Steve and we were mentally discussing the sense behind paying for this warranty. Meanwhile the guy says the thing that all Best Buy guys say, "Hey -- I don't care if you get it; I don't work on commission." I consider this fairly refreshing. Steve and I proceeded to say we would think about it and then went to browse some appliances we can't afford. We literally looked at, opened up, discussed, and messed with every single stove, refrigerator, washer, and dryer in that store and no one EVER came up and asked if we needed help. Which was fine -- because we didn't.

Then we went to Sears to just look around at the same stuff. Within two steps of entering the appliance department, this chick walked up to us and said, "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"No. We're just looking. Thanks."
"If you need anything my name is Diane and I'll be over here."
"Ok. Thanks. We're not buying anything tonight."

Browsed a few more fridges. Diane stops back in, in case we were lying to her the first time. See -- I don't understand this. I don't even LOOK dumb!

"Is there a particular brand you are looking for?"
"No. We are just going to buy whichever one we like the most."
"Oh." (clearly not what she was expecting) "If you need any help or have any questions..."
The death look stopped her from speaking further.

Moved on to washers and dryers. Here comes "Bob"; I'll call him that since he didn't announce his name on approach.

"Is someone helping you?"
"Not really. We don't need any help. We are just looking."
"Because I can give you some great reasons for buying an LG!"
"I don't necessarily like LG. I'll buy whatever I like. I'm not a brand shopper."

A very short "oh". Apparently this brand freedom thing is perplexing to salespeople.

Then I said, in hopes of getting rid of him permanently, "We have a house to sell and another one to buy and remodel before we will be making any purchases."

It worked. He wished us "luck" (as thought he truly cares that the housing market is bad right now) and turns away.

We continue perusing. Around the next corner is Diane again. She has a stack of papers and is leaning against a nifty-looking washer and dryer. I really wanted to look at the appliance set, but will absolutely, under no life-or-death circumstances go that near to Diane. No need. She comes to us.

"If you like the Kenmore fridges they are all going to be on sale the 17th and 18th."
"Of April?"
"Yes."
"I always work at night because I work at the schools during the day [blah blah blah] so if you want to come back during those days I would be happy to show you....."
"Well we aren't going to be buying anything for at least three months. We'll be back then."

I breeze past her and her stack of papers.

I think it should be illegal for salespeople to walk around telling you when things will be "20%" as opposed to the "whatever %-off" they are right now. I mean, isn't it their job to make money for the store?

And by the way -- remember how Diane assured me she would be "just over there" when we needed her? She wasn't.

The Dishwasher

Steve and I have lived in the same house for most of our married lives.

We have also owned nearly the exact same model dishwasher for the same married lives.

I have been sick the last 10 days or so. You know -- like flat-on-my-back, not-getting-up-for-anything sick. So the kitchen has been somewhat, shall we say, "let go". (Incidentally, I hate it when people use that term in place of the word FIRED.) Steve is on the last day of his four-day today and he decided that while I was at MOPS this morning, he would clean the kitchen. He informed me of this intention before I left.

Let's take a little interlude here. I REALIZE that I should proud to have a husband who can tell when the kitchen is beyond my human help. I also realize that I should be content that he is willing to help me when things need to be done and I clearly cannot do them under my own power.

That being said: I cannot believe that after all this time, he still does not know how to load the dishwasher to its fullest potential. I do it every other time, and its always done the same way. I have put in some extensive research to figure out with the proportion of types of dishware we use regularly, how the dishwasher needs to be loaded in order to contain all the dishes from the past 24-48 hours -- thus requiring only ONE cycle instead of two.

You know those kids plates made from melamine (probably cancerous), or whatever they are? The ones that say "top rack dishwasher safe" on the bottom? Well I am extremely proud to say that after many personal demonstrations and even a quick English lesson, Steve has now mastered putting these plates on the top only. During the training period, it was necessary, however, to point out that *I* was not saying this simply to complicate his life ("But all the OTHER plates go on the bottom!!") but rather the dishes would melt and warp should they be placed too close to the heating element (I even had to point out where the heating element was with respect to the bottom and top shelves of the dishwasher -- Why? I don't know -- this is CLEARLY a male-dominated area of expertise.) That lesson securely placed in his long-term memory, I have been attempting to gently press in additional tidbits about dishwasher-loading theory.

He doesn't get it. He has apparently maxed out the dishwasher theory portion of his brain.

"But WHY can't the stoneware bowls on on the top? They fit so nicely in those slots!"
"Because we need all those nice slots to put in the kids plastic bowls that need to stay on top." (Hey -- I said he mastered the plastic PLATES, NOT the plastic bowls.) "Everything that can go on the bottom needs to go on the bottom to accommodate all the kids' stuff on top."

And the plates. Some plates lean further back (the Tupperware ones) in the plate-slots than others (the stoneware ones). As a result it would seem common sense to put the further-leaning one BEHIND the non-further-leaning ones in order to facilitate the best washing possible.

[This one required a personalized demo.]
"See how the red plate leans really far back and almost completely blocks the dirty surface of the stoneware plate?"
"Kinda."
"Well if the water is squirting from here [indicating the spinny water-shooting thing] then the water will not be able to squirt onto the stoneware plate. It needs to go in the front."
"What?"
"Do you see the difference in the angles?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand how the water squirts out?"
"Yes."
"SO WHAT IS THE CONFUSION??"

Lesson #4 is later this week.

After finishing a glass of milk, and the kids finishing two individual bowls of sliced apples, I went into the kitchen to place the items in the dishwasher. (Just as a refresher, Steve cleaned the kitchen about 10 hours previous -- loading the dishwasher with the previously dirtied dishes from the counter.) When I opened it up, the first thing I noticed is the stoneware bowl in the plastic bowl slots. I glanced into the bottom rack to make sure that there was sufficient room for the bowl down there and discovered that there was indeed room remaining. NOT ONLY THAT -- but there were already two other stoneware bowls on the bottom, in the spots where we always put them. I realized that these were the bowls that *I* had put in there yesterday, and *he* wouldn't put his bowl down there because we all know it fits nicer in the top slots. I moved the bowl. This freed up space for the two plastic bowls the kids has just finished using. An oddly placed glass (moved to the bottom) freed up room for two more plastic cups to go in the cup spots, which opened up a spot for the dishes on the counter that apparently wouldn't fit in there previously. There was so much room on the bottom that I was able to transplant several glasses from the top to the bottom to allow for more optimal water flowage between the top rack cups. I even had room on the bottom to put in a baking dish I had just rinsed out! (But no -- not enough room for a stoneware bowl!)

It then occurred to me that the dishwasher was SO FULL that it should have been started earlier in the day, before lunch and supper dishes were crammed in as well. In fact -- he could have started and unloaded the dishwasher before I even got home from my morning event and this whole blog rant would have been moot! Nonexistent!

I want you to know that I truly do understand the saying, "If you don't like how I do it, then do it yourself." But I think its equally as important to remember this phrase as well, "If you are going to do something [especially to help your ailing wife] then do it right the first time."

Why I Will Never Work In Any Other Health Profession Other Than EMS

Went to the doctor today.

The background information: talked to my MD on Saturday (still can't figure out why someone with 20 years seniority was on call for Easter weekend) and she advised me to get loaded up with some fluids if possible. She also mentioned coming in Monday (that's today) morning for additional fluids. I emailed her last night and informed her that since I did not feel better I would be coming in for this.

I called the office this morning and got yet another nurse I don't know (dime a dozen, I tell you).
"Hi. I talked to Dr. Gavin on Saturday and she told me to come in today for some fluids."
"You talked to her Saturday?" (see above, dumb-butt)
"Yes."
"Does she feel you are dehydrated?" (no -- just REEEEEALLY thirsty. I am considering calling back til I get someone I know.)
"I am extremely dizzy and she thinks it might help. I had some fluids Saturday night and it seemed to make it a little better."
"What's your name?"
"Mollie *******."
"Ok. Can you hold the line?" (I have never understood this statement.)
<>
"Mollie?"
"Yes."
"Did Dr. Gavin want to see you first?"
"I doubt it. She just said to come in and get fluids." (I know that nurses can't make a connection between patient and patient care without a doctor in the middle; that's why I said this.)
"Ok." (didn't ask me to hold this time)
"Mollie?"
"Yes."
"She just wants to talk to you a little first so if you can come in at 1:45 she will do that quick, then get you some fluids."
"I can't. I have to be somewhere at 1:30."
<>
"When can you come in then?"
"Anytime but 1:15-3."
"How about an hour?" (now why the heck didn't she mention this time slot in the first place?)
"Sure."
"Ok. Bye."
"Bye."

I am now at the clinic. Nurse calls me back. This is where the real fun begins. She did spare me by not taking a weight (which I did not think was POSSIBLE if you are a M.A.; I always thought doing a weight was at the top of every single care algorithm known to them. I soon find out differently.)

I sit down in the chair and she starts digging for a BP cuff. I took off my coat but purposely left my very thin sweatshirt on because I use this as a test for true intelligence. She failed the test.
"I'm going to need you to take your arm out of your sweatshirt." (large eye roll, but I comply smug in the fact that she has failed my test)
"I also need you to uncross your legs."
"WHY." (NOT complying)
"Because it will affect the accuracy of the blood pressure reading."
"What?? I have been a paramedic nearly 10 years and I have NEVER heard that."
The chick is getting pretty nervous. Her superior attitude has faded because she now knows she is in the presence of another health care professional and she can't talk stupid anymore and expect that I will just blindly follow her instructions.
"Well that's what I was told." (I kindly did not point out that since she is going to be so technical about this truly life-saving procedure that she should really be doing it on my LEFT arm and not my RIGHT. Guess she wasn't "told that" in school.)
I uncross my legs, confident in the fact that since I am clearly smarter than this chick I don't need to make her cry on top of that.
Pressure is 120/80. (she must work for MFD on the side)
She takes the cuff off and tosses it back in the drawer. I am ASTOUNDED.
"Don't you even KIND OF want to know what the pressure would be with my legs crossed?? The curiosity is killing me!!"
"Oh. Not really." She keeps glancing from the cuff drawer back to me.
"What?? How you can just believe something like that and not actually test it??"
Still nervously looking at me and the BP drawer. She lets it drop. I fear she is about to cry so I don't say anything else. As she packs up, the doctor is walking in.
I relate the BP story to the doctor, who starts laughing immediately.
"Yeah, that M.A. is pretty...... bland." (they must not be friends.)
The doctor told me that she vaguely recalls something about not having the patient's legs crossed when doing a BP, but she is definitely smart enough to know that its not going to really make a difference.

This whole encounter amazed me for a number of reasons:
1. Seriously -- how can you NOT wonder what the other reading would be??
2. What happens to the BP reading when the patient is hanging upside down by a seatbelt in a car? ("Um, could you please uncross your legs ma'am? I was told in school that it makes a difference.")
3. What sort of condition does she think I have that such a negligible discrepancy in BP readings would make a difference in my treatment today?
4. Doesn't she know that ANY two BP readings are going to vary enough between consecutive readings as to negate any possible effect of leg-crossing anyway??

When I got down to Urgent Care (I know these RNs from doing multiple transports out in a previous life) I told them this story and the two girls were peeing themselves laughing. So I said, "Is it even an OPTION to not check my pressure twice now?"
Well, RNs or not -- these girls knew that this HAD to be done. So we took the pressure twice (on the LEFT arm, btw). Here were the readings: 117/68, 111/70.

Enough said.

There must be SOMETHING good......

I'm sure that men have their strong points.

But putting together a timeline in order of priority is not one of them. Neither is understanding a simple sentence, come to think of it.

Everyone knows that girls can do 52 things at the same time. Everyone also knows that guys cannot. So if Steve and I are doing something in the same room, it may LOOK like I am just returning an email, but in actuality all you girls out there know that I am also thinking about the next load of laundry to be done, forming a grocery list, thinking about what homework the kids have left to complete, and planning meals for at least the next four days. Steve? Well when it looks like he is putting the dominos back in the box, he is really just putting the dominos back in the box.

Sometimes when we are in these close-but-a-world-apart situations I mention things that I need him to do. It's not until well into the little conversation that I sometimes realize he thinks I mean to do them NOW.

For example: "Steve, could you please pick up those dominos?"
He sits down to do it.
One minute later: "This window handle has GOT to be tightened. Its making me crazy."
He gets up to get the screwdriver. The dominos remain. (Keep in mind that I am still going from pot to pot, watering the plants.)
One minute later: "I forgot to dust this bay window. Shoot. When are those people coming over?"
He has the screwdriver in his hand so he puts in into his back pocket (where I will find it a week later when something is BANGING in the dryer), and goes to get the vacuum cleaner -- steps on the dominos on the way over.
One minute later: "Did you ever shut off the garage light?"
Now he is completely overwhelmed. "WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO FIRST???"
I look up and realize the position he has placed himself in. It never occured to me that he was actually performing the actions I was talking about. Most of the above were just THOUGHTS, not instructions anyway!

So tonight. It's 5:55pm. I mentioned the package of steak that needed to be grilled for supper. He knows this is his job since I do NOT operate fire-based outdoor appliances. He said he would do them. He puts on his coat and is looking for his shoes (incidentally -- they are in the closest where *I* put them so he is now unable to find them). I had just been looking through Benjamin's backpack and came upon some homework that needed to be done by tomorrow morning. I said, "I need you to go get Benjamin by about 6:30 because he has some homework to get done." Steve stops in his tracks, coat half-zipped, shoes half on. "Bu......." I give him a leveling look and wait for the tremendousness of all these tasks to sink in. "AFTER you do the steak." A look of relief. "Oh ok. Cuz I thought you just said to make the steaks."

Ok. Maybe this doesn't seem very earth-shattering, but seriously! Can't everyone else on the planet figure out that since it is 5:55 and steaks take about 10 minutes that, by the time the steaks are done, he will even have time to EAT before needing to go get Benjamin (who is 10 minutes away).

This stuff makes me nuts. I just don't think I should have to explain the order in which these events need to occur. Although in hindsight, I should have made it REALLY complicated and told him to throw the wet towels into the dryer too......

Short but pee-your-pants-funny

Walked into Sarah's room this morning to get her dressed, and noticed that all of her stuffed monkeys were laying about the floor (not entirely unusual). Sarah also has somewhat of a fascination with medications and knows exactly what each bottle or container is used for. She has a small box in her room with these items in it and likes to play with them. Well, today she had out a container of Vaseline and a small container of infant suppositories.

Not that the rest of this is hard to figure out now, but Sarah sat down next to her monkeys and began "soothing" them (as only little girls can do). She was talking to one in particular, then turned to me, lifted up the monkey's feet as though changing a diaper and said, "Mommy! Look at this monkey's hinder!"

Sure enough -- she had liberally applied Vaseline to the monkey's hinder/crotch. She very satisfactorily looked at me and said, "The monkey had an owie on his hinder."

I am sure that nonparents won't think this is very amusing, but if you know Sarah it becomes slightly more funny. I really don't know how to remove the Vaseline, if you must know.

Hell-Mart and Hinders

I went to Wal-Mart this morning. In itself, perhaps not that interesting. But this wasn't just ANY Wal-Mart trip. This was the 5-year-old, must-remodel during the recession, CAN'T FIND ANYTHING ANYWAY, Plymouth Wal-Mart. Keep in mind that this store has ALREADY been remodeled once during this 5-year run.

Now I knew they were moving stuff around and all that, but I was unprepared for what I found at Hell-Mart this morning. First of all, half the floors have been ripped up and you now get to walk on bare cement. Except at the junctions of where there USED to be a floor and there no longer IS one, is a large bump. Most of them have been ground down to facilitate carts (since people use carts at stores) but every now and then you get to hit a bump which plummets the cart handle into your gut, and throws your un-properly-restrained children across the cart (or, even better, right off the end of the cart!). So in this Hell-Mart there are large open areas of where stuff used to be, and conspicuously-missing large segments of departments. So I walk back to the shoe department, except the shoe department is now the basket department. The shoes are where the girls' clothing used to be. I find what I am looking for (no -- REALLY!) and proceed to look for windshield wipers. The computer told me my car does not exist so I grabbed one that looked good enough.

At about this time of the excursion, I realized that I was somehow getting very consistently shocked by something. Now, being the farm girl that I am, this felt a lot like the electric fences "back on the farm". This means that about every 3-4 seconds a small, sharp "spark" shot through my left hand. I thought maybe it has something to do with Sarah touching me or some other sort of electrostatic connection. But I soon discovered that anywhere I touched the cart while walking caused a shock. So I tried to keep my hands on the plastic covering thing (which Sarah had just fully sneezed on) but no matter where I held onto the cart some part of my hand had to touch the metal. Grrrr.....

Got everything? Head for the checkouts. Now there used to be about 25 checkouts lanes. But today, however, there was a large, half-constructed "hut" sitting where 5-6 of these lanes used to be. So someone was building a building inside of another building. Only half the roof was on it, and half the walls were up, but the detector-alarm panels were already in place.

Found my lane. Once I got there I became overwhelmed with relief that I had not picked up that super-jumbo-size package of scented pantyliners -- for there was a new, extremely attractive guy working in that lane. I looked for an alternative so I would not have to face him with my bedhead and kid-stained lounging clothes, but alas -- with only 7-8 aisles remaining, there were only 3 or 4 open today. I let a lady in a hurry go before me to better prepare for the unavoidably-approaching interaction. Little did I know that she was a "problem customer". (Does this happen to anyone else?)

Lady: "That Littlest Pet Shop toy was on clearance. Why is it ringing up at $10.95?"
Cute Guy: >
Lady: "It was on the clearance shelves. It should be marked down."
Rescusing Supervisor (a.k.a. "Red Vest"): "I'm sure it was just placed on the wrong shelf while everything over there was being moved this morning. It's still $10.95."
Lady: "Well that's the normal price. It should be on clearance."
Cute Guy: "When they moved those shelved they must have just set these on the wrong shelving area. I'm sure not all the temporary workers know where everything goes."
Lady: "Well I thought $10.95 was the normal price. I've bought these before and $10.95 sounds pretty typical."
Red Vest and Cute Guy exchange glances. Lady taps her foot on the floor.
Cute Guy: > "I don't know. I don't have a daughter and have never seen these before."
Red Vest: "It's still $10.95."
Lady: "Well then they shouldn't be on the clearance shelves."

Cute Guy just rang it up and shoved it in the bag while Lady continued to whine.

My turn. Throw everything onto the conveyor belt, double-checking to make sure nothing is weird or embarassing. Apple juice, applesauce, kids' winter coats (ONLY $7!!), 2-liters of soda, windshield wiper. Whew.

Everything gets packed up and I suddenly feel desperate to leave this guy with a good impression (since I was giving Lady death looks previously).

Cute Guy: "Did you find everything ok?"
Me: <<"are you kidding" look>> "You know, Wal-Mart is nightmare on an average day; who would have thought it could be even worse??"
Cute Guy: "Ha. Ha. Ha."
Me: "So push this cart around for a while and see if it shocks YOU every 3-4 seconds."
Cute Guy: "You too?? I thought I was the only one that happened to! Its doesn't happen at any other store!"

See? Now if I hadn't said anything we would not have bonded like this. I packed up and left, making sure to suck in my stomach and swing my rear just a little bit extra. (I am HOTTTTTT!)

Next was n'Joy. Sat there for about 45 minutes before deciding to drop the soda off at Denise's house for her party tonight. Got her a mocha and headed over there. Not home. Of course. So I thought Leslie could use a mocha and went there. I gave her the mocha and she asked, "What is this for?" (I hate stupid people). I said, "In all honesty it was for Denise but she wasn't home. So you can have it."

I went out to her driveway and shoveled up some slushy stuff then went back inside (sweating my butt off) to sit down and have cat dander stick to my face. After an itchy 20 minutes or so, we packed up. Sarah had to go potty AGAIN so I took her in and waited. She likes to watch herself pee so when she did this today she managed to fill her legs with pee, which then dripped into the Dora seat, and from there all over the big seat and down the front of the toilet. Her pants were soaked, as were her undies. I used wipes to clean everything up, then realized that I had a half-naked kid with no alternative clothing along. Since we were going right home, Leslie got a towel which she wrapped around Sarah's waist. After redoing in the wrapping a couple times, having Sarah freak out about the towel dragging on the ground, and literally stepping out the door, I told Sarah to just hold the towel and run to the car. I turned around to say goodbye again and Leslie was laughing. I turned around to look and there's my little girl -- towel hiked up around her waist, and a cute little baby hinder running its way over to the car. I yelled "Sarah!" She ignored me and kept running. Leslie is laughing even harder. I reached Sarah and said, "Honey you can't run around with your hinder sticking out." She replied, "But I WIKE my HINER thicking out!"

We headed for home. Now, I have to say that while I was traversing around the city I had heard things rolling around in the back of the car. Since there were four 2-liters of soda and two gallons of apple juice back there I assumed something would no longer be upright. I do, however, have a history of things flying out of the back of my car, all facilitated by an inclined driveway -- so I was slightly concerned. (Gallon of milk -- CRASH! Case of soda -- CRASH!, etc.)

Got home, got out the naked girl, who again had to show the 'hood her rear end, and proceeded to get the Hell-Mart stuff out of the back while Sarah continued inside. Opened up the back hatch and BAM! Big freaking jar of Sam's Club Unsweetened Applesauce CRASHES to the concrete driveway. Not only the driveway, but my feet and legs, the back of the car, inside the garage, and down into the little dividing crack between the garage floor and driveway. Applesauce everywhere. Glass had actually flown down the driveway, to both sides of the garage, and under the car. Very impressive. Two bucks literally down the drain. Scooped it up with (OF COURSE) my Pampered Chef scraper thing and proceeded inside, only to find a still-half-naked girl sprawled out on the living room carpeting, butt-side up, playing with her dollhouse. The other jar of applesauce was saved by the bag's handle hooking onto the latch for the back door -- hanging about 3 inches above the ground.

I'm sure this is one of those times I will look back on and laaaaauuuuugh. Right?

Birth Control

Several weeks ago I received a phone call from my cousin-in-law regarding my aunt, who had been recently hospitalized. My cousin-in-law and her husband were coming to see her and they had a favor they wanted to ask of me: can I watch their kids while they go to the hospital (as kids are not allowed in the ICU).

Let's pause for a moment. Now, this is a fairly normal, civil question to ask of a close relative. Kids are not a big deal for me. Sometimes (on rare occasions) I even like other people's kids. But I don't think you fully understand yet...

So before she even finished asking me the question, I said, "Absolutely I will watch them." She said that I would be left with the three older ones, and she would hopefully be able to take the baby with her as she was still nursing. No problem. We have plenty of toys and plenty of things to do. Then we began discussing the baby. She thought a little more about it and determined that maybe I should keep the baby as well, just to avoid ultimately arguing with the hospital people. I had earlier offered to keep the baby so this was also not a problem for me. I really had nothing to do all day and could spend some time playing with the kids for a change.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Let's first talk demographics. Paige and Mia are 3 1/2 year old twins. Cece is just 2. Lexi is 3 months old. Then I had Sarah (3) and Benjamin (6) when he got home from school. Sounds cute, right? Five adorable little girls? Well "cuteness" is just one aspect I had to keep in mind. The other ones were things like the "5 against 1 mentality", you can't be in five places at once, and 5 kids eat more (and spill more) than 1 or 2.

Michele had a few informational things for me, including disciplinary methods, what the kids would eat, and the fact that Cece was potty-trained for the most part (she didn't like to poop in the potty chair, but pee-pee was no problem). Good. Then she began the warnings. The only one that really sticks out in my head was "Cece likes to poop in her pants but she has been better the past few days". Good, again. She tossed a bag of snack food items on the table (to include mostly organic items) and left.

Let the games begin.

The girls were dropped off at 1. The intial "fear factor" was evident, but we have lots of little girl toys so they soon adapted to playing with everything. Things went rather smoothly until Lexi decided she was hungry.

OMG.

The four older girls were fine, but Lexi screamed her bloody head off from about 1:15 until Michele's reappearance at 5:30ish. Seriously -- the girl did not stop crying/whimpering/whining the entire time -- EXCEPT for when she mericifully passed out for a short time. I ate "stone soup" that the girls had made, I drank chocolate milk and root beer from play baby bottles, I put barrettes in hair, put more barrettes in hair, wiped little girl hinders, read books, and basically just supervised while walking around with Miss High Maintenance. Now keep in mind that this is naptime -- and not just for me! I figured there was no way I would get four little girls to take a nap so I settled for a little "downtime" instead. I had set the older girls up in the living room watching a movie. I sat in the recliner with Lexi and she finally dozed off. Well, so did I. I vaguely recall Benjamin coming home from school at about 4. He played with the girls for a while, then everyone got settled back on the couch in front of the movie. Benjamin eventually asked me for a snack and I told him he could have some "colored cereal" (generic Froot Loops). Back to sleep for me.

I was vaguely aware of what was going on around me, not really waking up unless there was a fight breaking out or some sort of crying-type noise. Benjamin seemed to relish the role of being the "older brother" to four girls who apparently idiolized him, so he had things pretty much under control. I heard something crinkling at some point, assumed it to be the cereal bag, and decided I should see where this bag was ending up (you know, all that cereal "dust" at the bottom of the bag? ARGH.). And this is what I saw upon opening my eyes.

There in the middle of the living room was the little Dora table with matching chairs. Some sort of animated movie was playing. The five kids were surrounding the table, blocking from my view what they had on the table. Then, one little face turned toward me and I saw it: two SIZEABLE bowls overflowing with cereal and ten little hands SHOVELING it in the five faces as FAST as they possibly could. Seriously -- I have never seen such dedicated eaters. The cereal was packed in their cheeks and falling out all over the floor. Then, in the desperate attempt to shovel MORE into their faces, they were fighting for the best grabbing position at the table and grinding the cereal into the carpeting. It was sort of like watching some movie on Africa and seeing the zebras, warthogs, lions, or whatever fighting over the waterhole. There was climbing. There was shrieking. There was violence. Eerily similar.

I jumped up from the chair (of course waking up that darn baby again) and broke it up. The kids started grabbing their last fistfuls and spread out through the house. The cereal bag was actually still in the kitchen (albeit split all the way down one side -- I HATE that) but it now contained about 1 1/2 cups of cereal, down from about 8 cups earlier in the day. I was amazed.

So, let's summarize: cereal mashed into the living room carpeting, cereal scattered throughout the house, a screaming baby, five little kids hiding in one closet, and the phone was probably ringing too. I rounded up the kids and got them all on the couch. I then proceeded to lecture Benjamin on why you don't feed four little girls mounds of sugar just before supper.

They all nodded in understanding and got back to their movie. About a half hour later the movie was over the kids were all playing together in Sarah's room. I heard a little voice say, "You smell poopy." And another, "Cece you smell like poopy." And another, "Cece, do you have a poopy butt?" Then the announcer, "MOM! CECE POOPED IN HER PANTS!" I went to scope out the situation. Five little pairs of cute baby eyes looking up at me. "Cece," I said. "Did you poop in your pants?" She shook her head "no". I turned her around and noticed a sizeable bulge near her poop-producing region. Excellent.

Off to the bathroom. Michele had told me that if Cece pooped in her pants (which she was sure she wouldn't do -- hahahahaha) I should make her clean it up herself. While this might be a great idea for long-term discouragment of the pants-pooping behavior, I really didn't want poop all over my bathroom or all over the little girl who produced the poop. But I tried to honor the poop-wiping request, thankful that it was dry poop and not wet poop. I took off her pants (only minorly poopy) and socks (potty only) and put the little girl into the bathtub. She got a little panicked and began shaking her head and saying, "Me no need bath! Me no need bath! Me no need bath!" Assuming this was somehow a traumatic thing for her, I took advantage of the fear and told her that if she didn't poop in her pants anymore then she wouldn't have to take a bath. She nodded her understanding and looked pretty close to tears. I gave her a wipe and she began wiping at the poop. I don't know how this works at Michele's house, but Cece was getting poop EVERYWHERE. The wipe merely served as a spreading tool. Poop on the bathtub. Poop on her legs. Poop on the shower curtain. Poop on the bathroom rug. Poop on her stomach. Poop on her hands. No poop on the wipe. Enough of that. I cleaner her up and we had a long discussion about why pooping in your pants is a bad thing. She nodded her thorough understanding and I got her dressed in new clothes and off with the rest of them. I joyfully scrubbed the poopy clothes and tossed them in a Pig bag.

Michele called. They were getting ready to start leaving the hospital (about 20 minutes away) and should she pick up pizza on the way here? Absolutely, that would be great. I will turn the oven on. She tentatively asked me how everything was going. I strained a little laugh and simply said, "Well, I haven't been able to put Lexi down this entire time." She turned from the phone to report that to everyone in the room (yeah, they laughed). Then I told her that Cece has blessed me with a little surprise as well. Ha ha ha. Anyway, I didn't realize that Michele, Zander, AND four other people were coming. Everyone arrived at basically the same time, and Michele walks in with ONE pizza. (I still don't understand how she thought one pizza would feed 6 adults and 6 kids.) I figured I could use the weight loss anyway so I just let it go. Pizza done, kids ate, and we began the cleaning up process.

Now I am a pretty anal picker-upper. Everything has a place and should end up in at least ROUGHLY the place it belongs. There would be none of that on this day, however. Michele and my cousin Suzie came to the rescue and just started throwing things into bins until everything was out of sight. I popped a Xanax or two and tried to remember that everything was at least picked up and could be sorted later.

The rest of the story doesn't get very exciting. Everyone packed up and left at around 7. I sat there in a daze. We had ice cream and went to bed by about 8.

I truly did not have a problem with watching the kids. Really, I didn't. It just made me realize that I didn't want five kids under the age of 4 at any one point in my life. I also told her that I would do it again at any time! What can I say? I love my cousin!

Do all dollar stores employ idiots? Oh..... wait....

So.

I was in charge of getting some movie-theater-type candy for the last MOPS meeting; we were watching a movie and wanted it to be "themed". So I figured the best place to go for candy like that would be the dollar store. Turns out I was right. I snatched up all the Milk Duds, Twizzlers, and Junior Mints I could find (which ended up being about 14 packages). The packages were the size of those movie ones -- you know the oversized boxes of Milk Duds?

We didn't use all of the candy, and I certainly don't want it sitting around my house, so I decided to just return it to the store.

O. M. G.

You know how that place is always understaffed? Well, my good friend "Mona" was manning the cash register that day. I first just told her that I had a return, and a brief frantic look passed over her face. She began fidgeting, as though she really didn't know what to do next. She then told me that I wouldn't get cash back. I saw a stack of gift cards hanging near the register and figured that would be completely fine (after all, it was only $8 worth; I'm sure I would spend $8 at the dollar store sometime in the future). She then asked what I had to return.

This is where it all goes bad. I showed her inside the bag (she had just come around the counter probably on her way to ask how to do a return) and she kind of "gasped". While shaking her head back and forth, she said, "I don't think you can return this!" She started several more sentences and stopped before actually saying anything, as though stammering for the right words, then took the bag from me and said, "I need to go talk to the other people who are unloading the truck in back." I figured I may never see my leftover candy or my green "Shop the Pig" bag ever again.

A huge line was forming during this time. I could almost HEAR them cursing me for holding up the line. (*I* figured that if all dollar store employees weren't idiots, I could have been out of there already. This was definitely Mona's fault.) This line included an old lady with one item, then two people who were apparently together right behind her. There were two more people behind these two, but they were too far away to properly examine. The most interesting thing about this line was the two people who were together. They looked quite well-to-do, in their mid-forties perhaps, and I could almost visualize them climbing into their black Cadillac Escalade out in the parking lot and sipping from their Starbucks cups. (I always find it hilariously ironic that people like that shop at the dollar store.) These people had literally overflowing ARMS-ful (I don't know how to properly write that word; its like "mothers-in-law") of household products: broom, bucket, floor cleaner, aluminum foil, plates, plastic storage containers, mop, etc., etc. It seriously looked like they were just moving into some house and decided that dollar store was the best buy for their money. It was just weird.

Anyway. Here comes Mona. She has my bag and a smug look on her face. Keep in mind that everyone is still watching me. She starts shaking her head as she approaches and says, "I was RIGHT; you can't return FOOD! It's a STATE LAW!" I didn't have time for this. I said, "No, it's NOT a state law." I took the bag from her ("took" makes it sound so nice; it wasn't a nice "take") and left the store.

Then, being me, I went home and proceeded to spend about an hour looking up state statutes regarding food returns. I mean -- how often do you buy something at the grocery store and realize that it was yucky or whatever -- they always exchange it for you. Whatever.

Shockingly enough -- **I** was right! This is what the state of Wisconsin has to say about returns/refunds in general, first:

"In Wisconsin there are no laws that specifically regulate return or refund policies."

Now here is the food part, specifically:

"...after bring served or sold and in the possession of a consumer, food that is unused or returned by the consumer may not be offered as food for human consumption.

"Except...the food, such as crackers, salt, or pepper, (etc.) is in an unopened original package and is maintained in sound condition."

In other words, don't give some bull-crap line about state laws if you having nothing to back it with!

So. Now I have to figure out how I am going to do this since I am now even MORE ticked off that Mona lied to me.

I called this morning and asked to speak with a manager. My new best friend "Kim" answered the phone and I proceeded to explain the previous story (without the side notes). I basically said, "I wanted to return something and the cashier went and talked to someone in back then came and told me state prohibited return of these food items." SHE then said, "Well I was probably one of those people who she talked to in back." HA!!!! I had been waiting for this moment! So I calmly informed her, "Well you would then be very interested in knowing that I took the liberty of looking up the state of Wisconsin food code and not only does it say it has no regulation of returns, it also says that food can be returned as long as it is in uncompromised, original packaging."

Silence.

Then she pulled out the line that was most predictable, "Well that's what I was told by our district manager when I was hired. I'm not going to get canned [very professional wording, Kim] because I returned something that I was told not to return. It's our store's policy."

She also let me know that they don't refund the purchase price, and how did I expect her to refund me if she had no way of doing it; "It's printed right on our receipts!" I said, "That's fine; you have gift cards sitting next to the cash register. Put the money on one of those." A loud GUFFAW, and then, "I can't do that! It's forbidden!"

Let's take a break here. Coffee, stretch, whatever you need.

It's forbidden??!! What?! I did get a lengthy lecture on paper trails and how everything has to be scanned and accounted for... blah, blah, blah, blah. She informed that "someone" would definitely "catch" that and it would come back to her.

I guess I still don't really understand how a gift card is different than store credit. I finally got her to explain that I could "exchange" the items for something in the store, which was also fine with me.

I informed her that, according to state regulations and food code, individual stores are certainly allowed to make their own rules about this type of return. I also said that since the receipt says all items will be exchanged, but not refunded, and that since there was no posting anywhere in the store saying that food items cannot be returned, I fully expected that she comply with my return request. I also told her that since she was the original one who casually tossed out a lie about "state laws" that don't exist I had very little trust for her and her fellow employees.

I asked if she was going to be there all day and she said she was. I said I "looked forward to meeting her" (I really can't help myself sometimes) and that I would definitely be returning the items -- er, EXCHANGING. She said, "You better bring that paperwork in with you because I am going to need at least a copy of it to send in along with the return receipt. I know that this is going to come back to me. I'll probably still get in trouble for doing it." I told her that I had already been in contact with the main office and that they are aware of the situation.

Whatever. Being that I had basically won my argument I had nothing else to prove. Because I didn't want to be banned from the Plymouth, Wisconsin Dollar Tree for the rest of my life, I sure as heck wasn't going in to return anything now! (They would probably put a surveillance camera picture of me next to the cash register now.)

So I decided that I will just donate the items to our church's Awana store for kids to buy and get sugar-blasted on.

Hee hee hee.

Parenting Styles

I've been babysitting my sister's baby for several weeks now (only one day a week thankfully) and I have been noticing that my parenting techniques may vary from theirs just slightly.

For example, Joshua has been just getting into turbo-crawling -- the kind where you walk up behind to grab him, and in a split second he is shooting across the room. Well most of the time he just wanders around the house while I am getting something accomplished. He will come visit me from time to time, and what usually happens is that he will crawl up to wherever I am and then sit in front of me. I continue to watch him out of the corner of my eye and he will then begin to "climb" whatever is near.

There are quite a few stages in this "climbing" activity and he normally only makes it to the first unassisted. He crawls up until his head touches whatever it is he wants to climb (table leg, cabinet, ottoman, wall, etc.). Then, he reaches a hand out and "holds on", then releases the other hand from the floor, and IMMEDIATELY smacks his head into whatever he was trying to climb.

So then he rolls onto his back (kinda like a dog) and lays there doing the breath-holding cry while shaking. And what do I do? Whatever I had been doing. The kid does this about 23 times a day. I am SO NOT going to run over and pick him up each time. Instead, Sarah runs over and yells, "Walk it off, Joshua! Walk it off!"

The screaming usually stuns him into silence, and he will then flip back over and begin the whole process over again.

So the parenting difference? I once emailed my sister and told her that her child would be arriving slightly damaged after work today. She emailed me back to ask what happened, and I explained to her in slightly less detail than above.

When she arrived to pick him up after work, the FIRST THING she did was to examine his head for new dings. Mostly they were just red spots that eventually went away, but two weeks ago there was apparently one that didn't. A couple days later at church, she brought him up to me and said, "See that? He got that at your house."

Well, I guess I wasn't supposed to laugh, but I did. She's still a new mommy and doesn't find it funny when kids keep doing the same dumb thing over and over. To me -- a kid releasing his hands from the floor before having something to hold onto and then head-butting something over and over again is pretty amusing.

Let's just say we don't talk about it anymore.

Uhm... that was a RHETORICAL question.

Benjamin is solidly into his "talking back" phase. He has somehow learned that his ideas need to be voiced if at all possible. He is also having a GREAT time with his "lying" phase. Kids' lies ROCK because they are stupid, and are often immediately contradicted even by evidence lying within plain sight. (For example, "Yes, I ate my apple" and its lying under a napkin in front of him.)

So the other day we were having some little argument about something (I don't even remember what it was about). Benjamin told me some obviously-untrue lie. I was standing at the counter across the kitchen from him, and as soon as he spoke, I whipped around to look at him, and said, "Benjamin, I know you are lying do you think I am stupid?"

He thought about this for a small segment of time, then calmly stated (without a trace of humor too), "Actually, yes. I do think so."

Another bad mommy moment; I started hysterically laughing. I couldn't help it.

public nudity

Sarah is finally potty-trained (for the most part). We were at Sam's Club yesterday and I had forgotten (BAD MOMMY) to take her to the bathroom because shopping. An hour later she had gone in her Pull-Up. I went back into the store (we had been eating at the snack counter tables) to buy some Pull-Ups (needed them anyway) and when I returned to the table my mother was running away towards the bathroom with Sarah in tow. They returned and I handed my mother a new Pull-Up. She gave me an eye roll of exhaustion and turned and said to Sarah, "Let's put your Pull-Up on now."

And in the BLINK OF AN EYE Sarah drops her drawers and shows everyone at Sam's Club that she has been going commando!

Good thing little girl hinders are cute.

I'm the mommy, THAT'S why!

So Benjamin still refuses to eat most things. Except he puts a new twist on this pickiness by changes what he "loves" and "hates" from day to day. One day, he can't eat enough grapes. The next? I hate grapes! So now I have three pounds of grapes that he won't eat. It seems that one constant, however, is strawberries. He loves them. LOVES them. Unfortunately we don't live in Argentina, California, Chile, or wherever the heck they grow them in mid-January. So I have been scrounging for strawberries for the past few months and paying $5.00 for a pathetic-looking carton of mushy red things.

He takes the same thing to school for lunch everyday, too. After a year of torturing him by forcing him to take hot lunch (and no thanks to my mother who insisted on saying at every possible opportunity, "Those school lunches are TERRIBLE! BLECH! I can't believe you make him eat that stuff! I don't blame him for not eating it! BLECH!" - and sticking her tongue out for emphasis), I decided that it was really too expensive anyway and he now gets cold lunch. This is what it consists of: prepackaged PB&J (this is my fault; too lazy to make one each day), halved strawberries (won't eat them if sliced further), string cheese, milk, and (this is one of the few variances) a KitKat or cookie or whatever he wants for "dessert". Every once in a while he will get REALLY crazy and ask for a half of pita bread with one slice of fake cheese in it.

Sarah, on the other hand, will eat almost anything (unless Benjamin is there to let her know its BAD). Every meat product is called chicken and she seems happy with that pretense; she loves chicken. Her favorite veggie is broccoli. And, funnily enough, she hates strawberries. At least she eats everything else (its cheaper, if nothing else!).

The other day my mother was watching the kids for the day while I ran around and cleaned or something, and when I went to pick the kids up I brought Pizza Hut pizza and breadsticks for supper. I put everything on the table and starting making up plates for the kids. Benjamin came in and declared, "I don't like that pizza." So my mother springs into action: she grabs his plate and starts slicing cheese and getting out the crackers for him. I stand there, aghast, and ask what she is doing. She said, "He doesn't like that pizza." I said, "Yes, he does. He only doesn't like it because we're at your house." She informed me that was ridiculous, and didn't slow down for a second with the cheese-cutting and cracker-grabbing. (This is the woman who keeps oil on hand to make Benjamin homemade french fries for every meal that I am not present.) I informed him that if he did not eat his pizza he did not get anything else, including a snack later that night. He took a sideways glance at grandma and then shook his stubborn head. My mother did take away some of the cheese and crackers at this point, and make a half-hearted effort to get him to eat the pizza. He didn't. I told him he couldn't have a breadstick until he ate a bite of pizza. Didn't happen. About 8 minutes later (Benjamin had moved to the living room, sans plate) my mom tried to swipe him a breadstick. I asked who it was for, and she said, "You can't just starve him!" I informed her that the human body could live up to 14 days or so without food (she wasn't impressed) and that if he didn't eat tonight he would probably be okay in the morning. She throws the breadstick down and puts her hand over her mouth as she starts to cry (I am obviously the worst daughter and mommy that ever lived) and runs out of the room. Benjamin is in the other room whining to her, "I'm HUUUUUUNGRY." She cries harder.

As we were packing to leave my mother again tried to sneak him some pizza-alternative. I caught her eye before the handoff took place, and Benjamin again went into whining mode, "I'm HUUUUUUUUNGRY." Tears flow again, and my mother turns to this 6-year-old and says, "I'm sorry but your mommy won't let you eat."

So that's just great. I said, "He made his choice and he doesn't get to eat." My mother made sure I knew that that was ridiculous and he should be given options of food he likes.

We left.

Is it me, or am I up against a team of two on this food issue??

Moving

Well, it seems we are really going to be moving.

We looked at some decent houses today, but none that really impressed me. They are either in a not-the-greatest location, or are just too small. We have become accustomed to life in this PERFECT house, and I am therefore having a huge degree of difficulty finding something comparable (or better).

A friend of ours bought the house we REALLY wanted. Great house, big enough, great area. Unfortunately, also great price.

So we are going with plan B, which is a pretty decent house (which needs a significant amount of updating) in an ok area. We are still looking.

I spent all day cleaning this house to show it to someone this evening, and she had the nerve to call me about 1 hour before the appointed time to tell me that she went home sick from work, and that she doesn't want to go out "in this cold". Whatever dude.

So here I sit in my clean house, just thinking about the day off school tomorrow and how trashed it will become.

Acupuncture

So I had acupuncture yesterday. I have come to an endpoint in my search for pain relief, and I had very high hopes that this would help me.

I had 19 pins in me, not including the four gold spikes that remain in my ears for "endorphin release". The picture shows just my left ear, which is where there were five pins, and you can see the two gold spikes remaining.

Here's how it worked: I got into the exam room and had to take off everything but my undergarments (I was sure to wear non-holey undies this time since I FORGOT for the initial visit and ended up walking around the room with a doctor and nurse watching my rearend jiggle around in frayed undies). You know how those rooms are always just a little bit FRIGID? Well this was no exception. So I kept my socks on so I wouldn't freeze quite as fast. First thing the nurse did was take my socks off. I laid down and had a gown on, and a sheet covering me from my shoulders (not my arms) down to my knees. I WAS FREEZING. Then, just to make sure I would die of hypothermia, she took a little alcohol wipe and starting swabbing down random parts of my body: ears (inside and out), lateral knees, posterior knees, medial ankles, lateral forearms, and proximal thumbs. Oh yeah -- let's not forget my clavicles as well.

Then she left. Now might be a good time to draw a visual picture of this nurse. She is called Katie, although her nametag says Katherine. She is about 5'4" and 300 pounds. She has a distinct southern accent, and acts as though we are best friends. She also only does palp BPs (maybe because they don't have a cuff for her size so she's not used to real BPs?). She calls me "hun". She also speaks in fragments because she has to huff and puff at a significant elevated rate.

A moment later I hear a little whispering outside my door, and then the doctor comes in with his little torture cart. He has been amused by me since visit #1, so he is already kind of smirking when he says hello. I told him that stores aren't carrying bamboo plants right now, so he would have to wait until spring or summer to get one. I also told him that those pointed Chinese hats are hard to find, even on ebay. Hey -- he told me this was "eastern medicine" and I thought it would be more convincing if my pure white, late-50s, sweater-and-slacks doctor had some of the props to go with it.

Without further ado, I feel another alcohol wipe swabbing down the same areas as above. (Just in case?) Then, without really explaining anything, I feel him groping around on my ear, then a quick poke. He starts twisting the pin, and suddenly my left arm spasmodically flies off the table. He says, "There." One more time; same sequence. THEN he explains this to me. "You see, we put the pin in, then twist it until you either feel a dull ache or shooting pain from the site." (Something I learned in school about explaining a procedure BEFORE you do it.....?) He does a few more, which REALLY FREAKING HURT, then tells me he is going to put the spikes in. He had casually mentioned this in the past and I really didn't know anything about it, even after the explanation. No explanation today! A quick THUNK, and my ear was pierced! Then another one! He explains that those stay in and will fall out on their own. (He had also checked my eardrums to make sure they were intact for when the spikes fall out and into my ear.) He repeated this entire process on the other ear, then told me to flip over onto my stomach.

I obey.

Next thing I know he is swabbing my knee pits again and two more pins go in those! He TAPES them down, then tells me to flip back. I refer to myself as having "Mickey Mouse ears" because it feels like I have huge things shooting out all over my ears. (When my head is on the pillow, I can't turn my head because the pins are sticking out in all different directions.) He places the remaing pins in my legs, arms, ankles, and thumbs -- each time waiting for a reflex jerk to tell him when its "in". He seemed to be packing up, so I asked how long I had to lay there. He told me 20 minutes, and that I needed to lay completely still, without moving at all. I asked why I couldn't move at all, and he smirked again and said, "Well sometimes the pin goes through a tendon..... Well, you'll see." I figured he assumed I would probably move anyway, just to find out. I asked if there was any "bamboo" music and he said he'd have some the NEXT time I came (Ha!).

Suddenly he is gone, and Katie is back. She dims the lights and tells me she will be coming back in a couple times to twist the pins some more, stating that it "reenergizes" the nerves. She leaves and I am laying there -- compleely stuck (no pun intended). I can't move, I can't sleep, and I can stop thinking about how EVERYTHING itches. Eventually I drift off a bit, just as Katie comes back in to reenergize my nerves. In all honestly this didn't hurt at all, although I can't figure out why not. I drifted off to sleep again, then the doctor was back in. He flicks on the lights, and starts yanking pins out of me. I hear them clinking into the metal tray wondering exactly how many were stuck in me.

Then he is gone again, and Katie is back again. She tells me to get up slowly and "stretch" a little, then to get dressed.

When she comes back she has "instructions" for me. Its a long list of things I have to do with the spikes in my ears. I have to clean them with alcohol, "energize" them with magnets a total of 1 minute or more each day, and tape cotton balls over them when sleeping or showering.

If you thought I was sexy before, you should have seen me with cotton balls taped to my head. HOT! Its a little weird sleeping on a cotton ball, and even weirder trying to shower and wash your hair with cotton balls taped to your ears. And they HURT. A LOT! There are big bruises, bloody streaks, and remaining holes all over them. My kids look at me as though I am an alien, and if I wear something black I feel just a little goth.

That's the end of the story. The best part is that my insurance has decided they don't want to pay for it after all so I get to spend $76 on this torture.

To make this very long story short, DON'T DO IT! I will say that while the pins were in, my left SI and left shoulder pain did resolve. But the second they were yanked out the pain returned. The pins hurt EXTREMELY much going in and being "adjusted" and hurt coming out too. He wants me to come back once more this week (yeah, right) and twice next week (yeah, right).

I'm not going back. I can spend my $76 on massage therapy, which keeps me WARM and seems to work without significant pain.

The End.