Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

I’ve cracked. Just like an egg, my shell is completely shattered and I’m completely scrambled. And I don’t know if anyone can put me back together again.

What has broken me? Well, my kids, of course. What else?

Last week, pre-blizzard, my husband had to go away for a week for a training session for work. He left on a Friday night and did not return until the following Thursday night. My kids were home for 3 full days because of MLK day, and I thought I was going to go a bit crazy.

Pfft, I had no idea what crazy was at that point.

The blizzard hit us Friday afternoon. My kids were supposed to have a half day, returning home early from school, but because of the pending snow storm, they closed schools for the whole day. The snow started 2 hours after they would have gotten home.

We got a ton of snow. Over 2.5 feet in my area. We were completely snowed in the entire weekend. However, the snow stopped late Saturday night and the plows were out early Sunday morning.

IMG_8318 IMG_8310

I wasn’t surprised when my kids’ school was closed on Monday. There was still a huge amount of snow on the ground and on the roads. Snow plows were still out plowing and salting, but it was going to take a while to beat back the extreme amount of winter weather that had been dumped on us. The kids were happily playing outside in the snow, having snowball fights, sledding, etc. It was all good.


On Monday afternoon, we were told that schools would be closed again on Tuesday. At this point, the roads were pretty clear, but we figured the school system was just being overly cautious. My husband was working from home, so I at least had a bit of help. The kids were outside again, this time building a snowman, and even went over to a neighbor kid’s house to go sledding for a while. Things were fine.

And then they closed the schools on Wednesday as well. At this point, everyone was pretty much ready for the kids to go back to school, including the kids. And we thought that another day off was a bit much.  My boys were tired of the snow and didn’t really want to go outside to play any more. Instead, they opted to stay in and play video games pretty much the entire day. And my husband was away again for a couple of days for work.  This was getting ridiculous.

But the ridiculousness was not to end yet.  Oh no, because schools were closed yet again on Thursday!  The snow had melted at this point down to maybe around six inches, and you could even see grassy patches in some places. The roads were completely clear and safe to drive on. It had been 4 full days since the snow had stopped. We really couldn’t understand why the kids weren’t going to school at this point. And everyone was going stir crazy.

At this point, I had to drag the kids away from the video games, lest their brains begin to atrophy and turn to mush. I demanded reading of books and other non-screen activities. Eventually, I let them watch a movie. And after that, they drifted back to their games. The sheer amount of video games played in my house over the past week cannot be quantified by modern technology.

Can you guess what happened on Friday? Yep, no school. Again. By the time they go back to school on Monday (dear baby jeebus, let them have school on Monday!) they will have been home 13 out of the past 16 days.


I love my kids. I really do. And I love spending time with them. But my current job is taking care of a very active baby and trying to get all the chores done over the course of the day, while chasing him around, saying, “No. No. Stop. Come back here. Don’t touch that. Etc.” I also need to go grocery shopping occasionally, and dragging 3 kids around the store is not a joy, let me tell you. I need my kids to go to school.

I really need my kids to go to school.

Because their mom isn’t just scrambled.  She’s completely fried.

Something I Didn’t Know I Wanted

The following is the first in a series of posts that I will be writing in the next few weeks.  They are neither funny nor snarky.  Together, they will form the story of what has been happening with me over the past year and a half.  I have not been ready to write about it until now.  The posts are serious, and can be a bit dark, just so you are forewarned.  However, by the end of the story, all is right with my world, so just hang in there and take the journey with me to reach the end. 



When I first found out that I was pregnant, I experienced many overlapping emotions.  Shock.  Disbelief.  Confusion.  Horror.

This was not a planned pregnancy, obviously.  I wasn’t expecting, nor did I desire, to have a third child.  My boys were 4 and 7 at the time.  If and when anyone had asked me over the years if I was going to have another baby, I usually responded that I was done.  And I meant it.  I started my relationship with my husband by declaring to him that I neither wanted marriage nor children.  I felt that our two kids were a good compromise between zero and the huge brood he had originally wanted.  Our family was complete.  We were content, comfortable and settled.  This new development threw us for a major loop.

When I informed my husband of the news, he was happy, but I could also see the trepidation in his eyes.  He could see that I was upset, so he tried his best to comfort and calm me.  Then he left for a business trip for a week.

During that week, I went through all of the stages of grief.

– Denial:  That test couldn’t possibly be right!  No way was I pregnant.  Not even possible.  This stage lasted as long as it took to take another test, with identical results.

– Anger:  Yeah, I was angry, dammit!  How could this happen to me?  I didn’t want to be pregnant or have another baby!  Pregnancy sucks.  Giving birth sucks!  Sleepless nights suck!  I hated this pregnancy and the baby.

– Bargaining:  I don’t believe in god, so there weren’t any deals with some imaginary guy in the sky, but there were definitely some proposals of action to the universe that I thought might be a better outcome than having another baby.  And yes, losing the baby was one of them, I’m ashamed to say.

– Depression:  And then the sadness came.  I kept thinking of all the things I would have to give up for this unwanted child.  Drinking, sushi, my body, sleep.  Every time I thought of another thing that this pregnancy would take away from my life, I sank deeper into the abyss.

– Acceptance:  A funny thing about acceptance . . . it sneaks up on you.  One minute, I was thinking about how difficult my life was going to be because of this accident, and then I turned around and found myself thinking about how sweet a baby is, and how my boys were growing up and were way past that baby stage, and how I missed that.  After just a few days, I realized that I had come to terms with this formerly perceived tragedy, and I was starting to look at it as an incredible gift.  Not planned for or initially wanted, but wonderful all the same.

And then, just as I started settling into the idea of it and began making mental plans, I started to bleed.  And just like that . . . it was over.  Gone.

That’s when the guilt started.  Everyone will tell you that it’s not your fault.  That you didn’t do anything to make it happen.  That it just wasn’t meant to be.  And while logically, I knew that was probably true, I also remembered.  I remembered all those glasses of wine I had before I knew I was pregnant.  The sushi dinner I had 2 weeks prior.  And the time I wished for this very thing to happen before I got over the shock of it.  I thought of those things, and I wasn’t certain that I didn’t somehow have a hand in this.

And then the darkness set in.

The Perils of Travel

This past weekend, I took a trip up to New Jersey to see my good bloggy friends Val, and then Jules.  Opting not to drive, I booked a ticket on Amtrak, so that I wouldn’t have to deal with traffic and could just sit back, read a book, and arrive in about two and a half hours.  Easy peasy, lemon squeezey!

Yeah, or so I thought.  See, here’s the thing about me . . . I am a disaster when it comes to traveling by myself.  Traveling with my hubs and kids?  Cake.  Me on my own . . . tragic.  Lest you think I’m being melodramatic, let’s review . . .

Trip to Ocean City, MD, last year to meet my hubs and kids, who were already down there:

I left work a bit early to try to miss some traffic.  However, it is raining and a Friday evening . . . so, before I go 2 miles, I hit a ton of traffic.  Uh oh.  Then, once I start to move a bit, and obviously get overconfident that I might make up a bit of time . . . dead stopped cars.  I discover that there is a huge accident on the upcoming bridge, halting all movement for about 15 miles.  15 miles!  Of completely stopped traffic, just sitting in the rain.  So, yeah . . .all by myself, sitting in the car, inching along little by little, for hours.  Not a great trip. It took me almost 5 hours to make a 2 and a half hour trip.

Trip to NYC for Blogger, summer of 2012:

Flight to NYC, due to arrive at around 10:00 pm, stopover in Philly.  I blogged about this here, but short story is that there was a massive storm, halting all flights out of Philly, so I was stranded there for hours, until I wrangled my way onto a flight at around midnight.  Then, when I finally arrived in NYC around 1:30 in the morning, I find that the room I had booked many months ago, and confirmed the week prior, was not available.  And on the return trip . . . the flight out of NYC was delayed, causing me to miss my flight out of (you guessed it) Philly, and have an extra hour and a half to wait for the next available flight.

Which brings us to this past weekend . . . and a train ride:


Here it comes . . .

I made sure I was plenty early for my 10:47 am train.  In fact, I arrived so early, I sat in my car for 20 minutes before I ventured down to the tracks.  As I stood on the platform, waiting for the train that was due to arrive in about 5 minutes, an announcement informed me that the train was running about 10 minutes late.  It was cold and windy on that platform.  But I stood there.  And waited.

The train finally arrived, and I moved to get on.  As the door opened, I realized that there was quite a gap between the platform and the train, probably a good foot and a half, and I was mentally trying to figure out how my rolling bag would make it over such a gap.  Then, I stepped onto the train, and my foot hit wet metal and started sliding.  You know how they say your life is supposed to flash before your eyes when something happens?  Well, what was flashing in front of my eyes was the huge crevice below me as my ass started falling towards the tracks.  I will attest to that whole slow motion thing, though.  As I reached out to attempt to grab onto something, anything, to stop my rapid decent, I found that there was nothing in arms reach to gain purchase upon, and I continued falling down, down, down.  Somehow, I landed in such a way that most of me stayed on the train landing.  When my fall finally came to a stop, I was lucky to only be looking down at the tracks, and not broken and bent, down below the train, as I had feared and imagined while falling.  But, I was fine.  A bit bruised from crashing to the metal landing, and having my shin hit the edge of the train, apparently, but fine.  Although, my heart was beating a bit more rapidly than a few minutes prior, that’s for sure.


Sweet bruise.

As the journey began, I settled into my seat and tried to forget about the near death experience I had just encountered.  Everything was going smoothly . . . until we arrived in Philly.  As passengers got onto the train, a lady sat across the aisle from me and began unwrapping the most fragrant and delicious smelling cheese steak I’d ever encountered.  Having yet to eat that day, it was intoxicating.  Then, just as a little bit of drool started pooling atop the book I was reading . . . it all went dark.  Total power failure and we were underneath large concrete overpasses, so it was very dark.  So, we sat there.  In the dark.  With no idea what was happening.


This is when the zombies would attack . . .

It was the longest time until I finally figured out what was happening.  Luckily, cheese steak lady was an Amtrak employee, so a guy came onto the train and started chatting with her about what was going on.  Otherwise, I would have been cluelessly left sitting in the dark.  Apparently, they had to change engines.  Oh that.  Sure, of course.  Uh huh.  Wait . . . what???  Yes, they were changing the engine.  I guess it was lucky that our engine died while we were stopped at a station, at least.  Crazy.  Oh, did I mention this was in my old friend, Philly?  Yeah, I’ve never actually been to Philly, but strangely, I’ve spent quite a bit of time in transportation stops in that place.  That’s how Philly and I roll.

So, eventually they got the new engine and the lights and power were once again functioning.  And we were off . . . merely an hour late.

Let there be light!

Let there be light!

Eventually, I made it to my destination.  And was met with Val and beer!  You know, because she knows me.  She was my chauffeur for the day, so she drove us to the hotel I was staying in that evening.  When I arrived, everything in the lobby was roped off with yellow tape and there were signs asking us to “Excuse our dust” as they were renovating.  Ok, no problem.  I wasn’t planning to camp out in the lobby anyway.  After I was given my room key, we went over to the elevators and were greeting by a gaping maw, all covered up with cardboard and hanging movers’ rugs.  Hmmm, that’s strange.


Then, we arrive at my room.  And just before I open the door, I hear this very loud humming sound.  Once I opened the door, I was greeted by one of those huge rug drying machines on full blast, sitting in the middle of the floor, along with the window AC blasting air on high.  Nope, no thank you.  New room, please.  So, we trudge all the way back downstairs, assuming that the elevator and room were both part of some murder spree and clean up effort that recently occurred. The front desk guy tried to cover up by saying it was a “broken pipe on the 5th floor,” but Val and I knew better.  The next room was right across the hall, and while there was no blood stains or drying machine, it did have a funky smell.  Then, as we were in there a few minutes, we started to hear these banging sounds that sounded like they were coming from the bathroom.  There was nobody in the bathroom, so we figured that it was probably ghosts.  Upon further inspection, though, I did find this in the bathroom on the soap ledge in the shower:


Such a classy joint.  Luckily, we had beer and a fun night out planned to distract us from the murder/pube hotel.  Which I will tell you all about in an upcoming post.  So, stay tuned for tales of the Jersey shenanigans that ensued later that day.  Cheers!


You Win Some, You Lose Some


In case you are wondering, the loser in this situation, at least based on recent occurences and evidentiary support, is me.  We’ll get to the winner in a moment.  But, as to that whole losing thing, it seems that my good buddy and pal, LIFE, has decided to be a cold, hard, manipulative bitch lately.  Maybe it’s that time of the month, huh Lifey ole friend?  And lest you think I might be over-exaggerating my present loser status (But Misty!  You just had a super rad weekend with Val!  Full of fun and shenanigans.  Surely, it can’t be all that bad, right?), let me present to you Exhibits A through D.

Exhibit A:

Last Friday I was hit with a massive chest cold which knocked me on my ass and out of work.  But, since my job sucks (still), I couldn’t just lay in bed in misery on that cold and rainy day.  Oh no, I need a note from a doctor to take a sick day.  Yes, that is correct.  My employer treats us like toddlers that cannot determine when we are able to make it into work and when one of our sick days needs to be taken.  So, despite the fact that my throat hurt like hell and anytime I spoke to someone, I sounded like an 80-year-old asthmatic with a pack-a-day habit (mmmm, sexy), I hauled my ass into the shower and out to the clinic to wait 2 hours just for a note.  That’s it.  No meds.  Nothing.  Just needed a note, thank you very much. 

Exhibit B:

So, remember that whole broken washer saga thing?  And remember how I commented to everyone that it was fixed and I had a functional washer once again?  Yeah, so scratch that.  The working washer only worked for a couple of weeks before it broke again.  And this time, we were told that we needed TWELVE parts to fix it.  So, we had to order the parts, wait for them to be delivered and then schedule another appointment for all of those many parts to be installed.  In the meantime, I’ve had to trek downstairs to my Father in Law’s place to use his washer, which is a huge annoyance.  And although I am very happy that at least I don’t have to go to a laundromat, I want my damn washer to work again!  Especially, when you go downstairs and put in your delicates, leaving another load of delicates in a basket pending washing, and you get busy with trying to decorate the tree and forget to go down again for 2 hours, and your Father in Law, who is just trying to be helpful, puts your wash in the dryer and washes your undies on hot with Tide.  Oy.  I love him for trying, but oy.  I really need my washer back.

Exhibit C:

photo 5

That.  Yep, that would be a mouse, peeking out from the dishwasher in my kitchen.  Now I know where all those little black pellets I found in my pantry have been coming from.

Exhibit D:


The Fucking Tree.  That Goddamn Fucking Christmas Tree!!  This might be a familiar tale, if you have been reading this blog for a while, because it seems that I go through this same Groundhog Day extravaganza every single year.  You see, I’m married to an elf.  He is the most holly jolly of all Christmas elves, while I tend to skew more towards a Grinch-like countenance.  However, over the years, he has definitely pulled me over to the dark candy cane side of holiday spirit.  Which is all well and good, until it comes to the tree.  I am the one who has to decorate the thing.  Meaning lights, bows, ornaments.  The kids help with the ornaments, but up until that point, it’s all me.  Oh, did I mention I’m allergic to pine?  Yeah, that’s another little added bonus to the decorating hell I seem to find myself in every year. 


This is what my arms look like after a few hours wrestling lights onto the tree.

And look, I’m not trying to be a martyr about this whole thing.  I’m not forced to do the tree, I do it willingly, even knowing what will happen to my arms.  It hurts and itches for a few hours, then is all gone by the next day, so I can deal.  Plus, the hubs just doesn’t have time to do everything, and he does all the outside lights.  So, it’s totally fair.  What isn’t fair is when you spend hours wrapping the lights all around this big majestic beast of a tree in your living room, getting it to look just perfect, and making sure every single strand is working and lighting up before plugging each one into the next . . . only to have the entire thing go dark the next day.  Then, you realize it is the bottom strand that is dead, and are happy your husband picked up an extra strand at Home Depot the previous weekend, and wrestle with the tree to remove that bottom strand and then replace it with the brand new, just out of the box one . . . only to have the whole damn tree go out again the next weekend after you’ve already put the bows on it (in case you’re wondering, I left it dark for a while before replacing that first bottom strand)!  Not believing it could possibly be the brand new strand you put on just a couple of days prior, you test out all sorts of things, before you come to terms with the fact that the new strand is indeed the culprit.  So, you pull that whole thing off, discover one extra strand in one of the Xmas boxes and put that on . . . and a half hour later, everything but that strand goes out.  You are now super pissed, out of lights, and possibly having a mini-breakdown, as you throw a tantrum, complete with whining, stomping, and threats to get a fake tree next year. 

So, in case you lost count, that would be FOUR times the lights went out on the tree, THREE restringing of the lights, ONE temper tantrum and ONE threat to get a fake tree.  All with the kids asking a million times if it’s time now to put the ornaments on.  And that’s just THIS year.  The same damn thing happened last year.  I think I may be cursed.


So, still doubtful that I’m a big, fat loser in all of this?  Yeah, I didn’t think so.  The Defense rests!!

Now, on to the winner in this scenario . . . the winner of my most recent giveaway.  Yay!!


In case you forgot . . .

And, as always, I left the pickings to my spawn.  More specifically, my oldest and first born son, 8.


And the winner is . . . . . .



Congrats Emma5150.  Send me all of your info (mistyslaws at gmail dot com) and I will get this prize package out to you presently.  I might just be able to swing it so as to arrive before Xmas!!

And, for all of you big losers out there (don’t worry, you’re in good company . . . with ME), stay tuned for yet another giveaway coming next week!  How did you get so lucky as to get TWO chances to win Misty Laws awesomeness in one month?  Well, partly because of a shipping snafu that sent me extra stuff that I’m going to pass along to you, but mostly just because I’m awesome.  I will even try to post, pick and send in time to arrive before Xmas as well.  No promises, but I’ll try.

Dirty Laundry

Be forewarned . . . this is a super ranty post.  Much bad language within.  Proceed with caution . . .

Last Friday, our washing machine broke.  We realized this when it started making crazy buzzing noises and then would not drain a load of my au pair’s clothes.  My husband called to make an appointment to get it fixed, as we have a service contract we signed up for many years ago which covers service calls and repairs.  The earliest appointment they offered was for Monday, between noon and 5:00.  This would be problematic for a few reasons.  Number one:  it is a front loading washer and would not drain, hence the clothes and water would have to stay in there for 3 days and could not be removed or dried without an extreme soaking of the entire laundry room.  Number two: I always do all of my laundry on Sundays, so I would be unable to wash my sheets, towels or clothing until possibly Monday night.  Nevertheless, it was the best they had, so we had no choice but to accept it.  We arranged with the au pair for her to be around from noon to 5:00 on Monday, as my hubs would be out of town and I would be at work all day, and she was fine with this as she had no other plans.

So, Monday afternoon rolls around and I text the au pair, “has anyone shown up yet?” “No” is the answer I receive.  Hmmmm, ok.  Well, I guess they are going to be closer to 5:00 than noon. 

I arrive home around 5:30 and ask if they ever appeared.  I get the same response as before.  Well . . . crap.  So, I call my husband and inform him of the situation.  He immediately gets on the phone to the company and inquires as to what the fuck is going on.  He reports back with the information he received from the very “helpful” Filipino customer service representative . . . the tech is running late, but will arrive between 7:30 and 8:00.  Well, that is annoying, but I was going to be home, so I figured it would be ok.  The tech was just going to get to experience me in all of my pajama’d glory is all.  So, I fed the kids and settle in to wait for a pending arrival.  The au pair similarly waits, since she was going to get her clothes out (finally) and be able to dry them. 

As I’m waiting, I realize that he’s going to have to open the washer and that there are sopping wet clothes just floating around in a big puddle, and that they will need to be removed so that he can get in there and do his thing.  Figuring I have about a half hour before he will arrive, I decide to go to it.  So, I open the washer door . . . and encounter a gushing waterfall escaping from its confinement like a prisoner on release day.  So I close the door again, quickly.  I go into the garage to find some type of containment device, and happen upon one of my kid’s sand buckets from our ocean city trip.  Not finding any other appropriate receptacle, I figure that will have to do.  So, I go back in and open the door again, placing the bucket beneath the onslaught of water, and catch approximately half of it. 

Unfortunately, simultaneously with the spewing forth of liquid, I come to a horrible realization . . . water sitting in an enclosed space for three full days turns into the vilest smelling swampy liquid known to man.  It was horrendous!  So, I hand the bucket of sludgy brown water to the au pair, telling her to dump that mess outside, I grab some old towels to mop up the small lake that has formed on the laundry room floor, and proceed to breathe through my mouth as I collect the sopping towels and dripping swampy clothes, and put them all in a basket that I then take outside. 

Deserted island of swampy clothes.

Deserted island of swampy clothes.

I cannot stress enough the nasal attack that occurred when I was dealing with the innards of that machine.  It was like a shit and toxic waste filled swamp baking in the August heat of the Louisiana sun, rolled up in a baby’s poopy diaper, with a sprinkling of a peep show jizz bucket thrown in for a little extra flavor, and housed inside a gym bag filled with sweaty socks and cleats that have been sitting in a car trunk for a week straight.  Seriously vile, people. 

Do NOT inhale!

Do NOT inhale!

I opened the window, burned some candles, closed the door to the room, hung a car air freshener on the outside of the door, and prayed to anything that might be listening that the smell would stay inside (it didn’t).  I did not envy the encounter that service tech would have when he appeared soon after.

Except . . . he didn’t appear soon after.  Eight o’clock came and went.  And no tech.  So, I contacted my husband again, who called the service center and was greeted by another Filipino customer service agent who did not speak English very well, but continued to assure my husband that the tech was on his way.  He stayed on the phone with them pretty much non-stop, requesting managers, yelling, and getting hung up on numerous times.  Still . . . no tech.  By 9:45, the au pair and I decided to call it a night, knowing full well that nobody was coming and that it had all been a big, fat lie.  My husband assured me that he would get someone there the next morning, despite the fact that they were telling him the next available appointment was for Thursday.  My husband had obtained the CEO’s info at this point, along with the names and contact information for the entire board of directors.  He does this shit for a living, people.  They would rue the day, by the time he was finished with them.

In the meantime, I still couldnt’ wash my clothes.  Crap.

So, the next day comes, I go to work, hubs is still out of town, and the au pair is on call to wait yet again for the tech.  Many messages are sent back and forth from the hubs and au pair all day.  Bottom line . . . once again, nobody appears at our house.  The hubs and I are livid.  We are breathing fire at this point.  What. The.  Fuck?  This is a business, yes?  That wants to make money?  Je ne comprends pas!  How is this even possible?

The hubs once again goes on phone assault, but after another couple of hours of pointlessness, gives it up for the night, as he has to get on a plane to come home that evening, and also to escape the very real possibility of having a heart attack from his severely raised blood pressure resulting from the customoron service representatives.  He vows to continue his quest in the morning to get someone to our house to look at this damn broken machine. 

The next day comes, and we are both very busy at work.  By the time we touch base in the afternoon, he tells me that despite his best efforts, they are still saying Thursday, which is tomorrow at this point.  By now, we are both just beaten down by the absurdity and frustration of the entire process.  He tells me that he did actually contact the CEO, and good news . . . we are now Blue Ribbon Customers!  Well then, at least there’s that.

Here are some of the messages I received from the hubs during this process:

Can’t believe your husband went away this week.  He must be an A-hole.

Me:  (At 9:00 Monday night)  I’ll be in bed before they come!!  It’s utter bullshit that ANYONE is on their way!  Him:  I know, I have smoke all up my ass.  I am still on hold.  Now they keep hanging up on me!

Just told them I will fly to their headquarters if I need to and I fucking will.

Feel like tippin shit over.

I am an expert at this shit and they are making it hard for ME.  Can you imagine what normal customers go through with them?

(He’s not normally quite so profane, but BOTH of us were losing our fool minds at this point, and the F bombs were flying around like stink bugs!).

As of press time, we have still not seen an actual person appear at our home to fix this machine.  The really discouraging news is that once they do appear (IF they ever do), they most likely will look at it, tell us X is broken and that they will have to order that part, and that they will return in a week to install it once it is delivered.  This ain’t our first rodeo.  We know how this shit works.  And despite my demands to my husband that the tech better have every single part that could possibly be broken or installed into our machine with him, or he will have to go to the nearest Home Depot to get the part that day, I know that this will never happen.  Or as my husband would say, “you’re so cute.”  Hell, I’ll be shocked if anyone ever even shows up at this point!

I swear, we are going to OWN this company by the time we are through with them.  Lying, unreliable bastards.

Walk This Way

I’ve been working on losing weight lately.  And by working on, I mean cutting back on as many carbs as possible, taking a Zumba class once a week, and going for the occasional walk around my neighborhood.  In the past 4 months or so, I have lost 10 pounds.  Nothing drastic, and I still have a good 30-40 to go in order to be a “healthy weight” (i.e. pre-first baby), but it’s better than the direction it had been going previously, which was up.  No bueno.

Last week I had a doctor’s appointment.  A yearly checkup for my girly bits that, honestly, I had not had in over 3 years.  And yes, I know, I know.  But I got busy and it just never seemed that important.  But, finally I bit the bullet and called for an appointment.  Unfortunately, my normal doctor (who I had not seen in years but had gone to every year prior for about 10) would not be available for many months.  Knowing that I needed to get in there, I told them I would take anyone available.  A midwife was available.  They assured me that she could do everything the doctor could do for this type of appointment, so I said fine.

One of my least favorite parts of a physical is all of the preliminary info they need to gather before the doctor sees you.  Blood pressure, height and, most significantly, weight.  I do not like stepping on that scale, and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in that feeling.  But, it is required, so you do what you must.  Obviously, I had to take off my big clunky shoes before stepping on the scale, as they weigh a good 5 pounds themselves.  The doctor’s office scale showed me to be about 3 pounds more than my home scale.  But then again, I was fully clothed and it was in the afternoon, after I had eaten a small, but still significant, lunch (at least, that’s what I’m telling myself).

Once situated in the exam room, covered by that oh so fancy paper blanket, the midwife entered and introduced herself.  After the preliminary introductions, one of the first things she asked me is what my fitness routine was and whether I ate healthily.  I told her what type of activities I do, and said that I was indeed trying to eat healthily, mostly eating fruits, veggies, salad and fish.  Although, the occasional chicken nugget and tater tot may sneak in when I’m making dinner for the kids.  She then told me that I should really try to keep as active as possible and stay away from the tater tots if possible, because . . .

You want to be careful to avoid diabetes, heart disease and other complications from being overweight.

I was momentarily taken aback.  For a minute, I thought she was punking me.  Either that, or I was on some sort of new Biggest Loser Candid Camera reality show, and that Jillian Michaels was going to jump out from behind the curtain and tell me to give her 20! 

Because, while I am admittedly overweight, I am nowhere near obese.  Those are the words you use for someone who is dangerously close to having health issues because of their weight.  Not to someone who just has some extra pounds to lose, and is actively attempting to do so.  I was shocked.  And then I was angry.

Towards the end of the exam, she once again brought up weight loss, and “helpfully” suggested that I might try weight watchers, as she had “heard that works for a lot of (her) patients.”  This, coming from someone who weighs 98 pounds and who’s waist I could encompass with one hand! 

Yes, oh scrawny one, I am familiar with Weight Watchers.  I lost 30 pounds prior to my wedding on that program.  When I calculate what I’ve eaten in a day, my mind still goes back to the “points” that are contained in the foods I consumed.  You could say that Weight Watchers and I are intimately acquainted, thanks. 

At this point, I informed her that I had lost 10 pounds in the past few months, to which she seemed surprised.  Yes, twiggy, because I’m a big fat ass that is obviously scarfing down Big Macs and fries from Mickey D’s while sitting my massive derriere on a hoveround, tooling through the aisles of Walmart, throwing party sized Funyuns and 2 liter sodas in my cart. 

Fuck you.

Once I had a day or two to let this whole experience settle, and was able to ruminate on this “medical professional’s” advice, I decided that she was right.  Oh no, not about the Diabetes or Heart Disease, because seriously.  But, she was right that I could be doing more to be active and lose the excess weight.

So, I decided to take a page from my friend Andrea’s playbook.  She had recently started wearing a pedometer and walking every single day.  At the end of each day, she would tally her steps and post them on Facebook.  And not only was she walking and counting her steps, she had taken it a step further.  She created an entire walking outfit . . . complete with cape and chest symbol!  She was like a Walking Superman.  A Walkman!!


Dun-da-da!! Super Andrea!!

Seeing her progress, I decided to become more proactive with my walking as well, and took a very brisk walk around the neighborhood twice last week.  Twice!!  As opposed to the previous week’s tally of . . . zero.  Yeah.

Maybe it will go better if I also get myself a cape.  Not sure I’m ready for the lycra walking suit quite yet, though.

Picture 11339

And we’re walking, we’re walking, we’re walking . . .

A Comedy of Tragedies

As I have fully elucidated previously, I am going through a bit of a rough time.  I’m a strong bitch, though, so I’m weathering it.  It hasn’t broken me quite yet, so here I am, blogging away for your amusement.  You lucky peeps.

However, when it rains it pours, and apparently my life is caught in a monsoon right now.  And while the additional water damage has resulted mostly from quick and inconsequential showers, it nevertheless is an annoyance and calls for an umbrella. 

For example, while my kids were away for a week with their grandparents a few weeks ago, I decided that would give me a perfect opportunity to do some cleaning and organizing that had been waiting for my attention for way too long.  So, I set my focus upon the cabinet under the sink in my bathroom.  When I first moved into my house around six years ago, this under the sink cabinet was organized with baskets and the well thought out placement of toiletry necessities.  Since then, it has become a hodge podge of precariously towering items that have landed there after my careless tossing of said item into the cabinets, and then swiftly closing the doors so as not to witness the toppling of said piles of junk.  So, basically what I am saying is that this area has not had a good cleaning and/or organizing in many years and it was way overdue. 

As I began to pull out the massive amounts of accumulated stuff from the cabinet, I finally unearthed the original baskets that were buried under all of this product.  It was when I had finally removed the baskets and everything else from under the sink that I realized I had a big problem.  This:

Picture 10400

I realized that I had apparently had a leak at some point in the past however many years, and because there was so much junk, I never realized it.  And during all those sweet days of ignorance, the water had been creating little mildew babies who had grown into huge adult sized spores of unhealthy disgustingness.  So, I immediately sent my hubs to the store for massive bleach type cleaning products and some paint, thinking I could scrub it down and then hopefully paint over it.  But alas, that was not to be.  It was relatively thin plywood, and it was soaked in.  There would be no scrubbing it off.  Additionally, the damage was on the back wall as well, so there was nothing much to be done.  We were going to need to call our home improvement guy (yes, we have a guy), to come over and see if he could replace the plywood.

And, I imagine that you can guess what the answer to that was, based on my current record of receiving good news.  Yeah, the answer was no.  They were going to have to replace the entire thing.  Which was going to cost beaucoup cash.  Cash which we did not have.  So, I got used to having all of the stuff under my cabinet in the middle of the floor in my bedroom.  But it was a pain in the ass.  Finally, after many weeks of this, I told my husband that he needed to call the guy, because it was getting on my damn nerves and just needed to be fixed.  We’d figure out a way to pay.  So, the next day, I came home to this:

Picture 10819

Hmmm, I feel like something’s missing here . . .

Yes, they took the WHOLE SINK.  I was not prepared for that.  So, now I am not only without a cabinet to use, but I have no sink.  And I’m told it was sent to “la la land” (quoth the hubs), to get it custom redesigned to fit in the space.  Who knew a sink was so much trouble?  Well, now you do.

And, along with this wonderful annoyance, there came another very itchy one . . . this:

Picture 10814

My hand and wrist broke out in some sort of mystery rash.  It only went from my thumb down to where my watch was when whatever I touched came into contact with my hand.  I have no idea what I am allergic to that caused this, as my well known allergen of pine (Christmas tree decorating is a joy!), was nowhere to be seen on these summer days.  I wasn’t too concerned until about 2 days later when it started itching like crazy and then a few days after that, it looks like this:

Picture 10899

Yep, over a week and there are still angry little red dots.  At this point it has stopped itching, but I’m fearful it will scar.  I look like I have leprosy.  Fun times.

Oh, but I’m not done yet.  The most annoying event to occur was this past Monday.  Apparently, when I went to bed on Sunday night, I didn’t feel the need to change the time on my alarm to a work appropriate wake up time.  Nope, it was still set to weekend time.  That would be 7:45, by the way.  So, on Monday morning, instead of the alarm waking me at the ungodly hour of 5:00 (and then smacking the bejesus out of that sucker about 12 times before I got up), to give me enough time to get ready for work and then drive the hour it takes to get there . . . yeah, you see where this is going.

So, here’s a little math problem for you.  Solve for X:  If attorney has to be in court by 9:00, has an hour-long drive from point A (home) to point B (work), and awakens from an apparently very restful sleep at 7:45 . . . X = which normal preparatory activities did attorney not have time to do before leaving her house.

Here’s a visual clue:

Picture 10902

I assure you, I AM making a duckface.

Now, for you male readers out there that are like, “what?  I don’t get it.  What’s the big deal?”  Lemme ‘splain . . . that is my hair pulled back in a quick and messy ponytail bun.  Which I wore . . . to court.  I do not wear ponytail buns to court.  It is not pretty, nor is it professional.  In fact, I don’t wear my hair back at all, like this or any other way, to work ever.  Once again, I find it unprofessional.  For someone else, they might think it’s no big deal, but I do not feel that way.  To give you a point of reference, every single person that I saw today asked me if I was ok or if there was something wrong.  So, this is very out of the norm for me.  It was not one of my better days.

I’m thinking . . . things can only go up from here, right?  Right?  HELLO??  (Knocks furiously on any wood surface available!).

C is for . . .

C is for . . .

Caring.  There could not be a more loving and doting grandfather than my kids’ Pop.  Always there with a hug or a silly joke, he has been there for them their entire lives.

C is for . . .

Cohabitation.  Staying in our in-law suite in the basement, he’s lived with us for many years.  He is there any time we need any extra help with the kids or the house.  He is a constant presence in our lives.

C is for . . .

Candy.  His great grandkids don’t call him “M&M Pop” for nothing.

C is for . . .

Carrying on.  He still signs every birthday and Christmas card with “Love, Pop & Mom-Mom” even though his wife passed almost 2 years ago.  He loves and misses her every day.

C is for . . .

Coughing.  He just can’t seem to shake this nagging cough.  And he can’t sleep through the night.

C is for . . .

Checking in.  He goes to the hospital to finally get it looked at.  They admit him and run some tests.  The x-ray finds a nodule on his lungs.  We wait for further testing as to its nature.

C is for . . .

Certainty.  The doctor tells him the results.  He says he’s 100 percent sure of what it is.

C is for . . .

Calling.  I find out in the grocery store when my husband calls to inform me of the news about his father.

C is for . . .

Crying.  I hold back the tears until after I hang up with my husband.  It is my job to stay strong for him.  I am very good at my job.

C is for . . .

Concern.  How will we tell the boys?  What will their reaction be?  How will they deal with yet another difficult time, in their short lives already so full of tragic moments?

C is for . . .

Coming home.  Released from the hospital today, he will return home while waiting for more test results.  He and the doctors will have to decide what they want to do depending on what those tests say.  He is 80 years old.  This must be taken into account.

C is for . . .

Crap.  This is really hard.  And I can’t seem to stop random tears from falling.

C is for . . .

Can’t.  I can’t believe it.  I can’t talk about it.  I can’t be funny.  I just can’t even say the word.  That big, scary, deadly word.

C is for . . . . . . . . . . . .



Invasion of the Fruit Snatchers

One rogue onion was my undoing. 

A rotten onion that rebelled at the bottom of a bowl full of its otherwise healthy friends, this black sheep traitor decided to be a beacon to every fruit fly in the immediate area, and possibly the entire state of Maryland. 

When scrubbing down my kitchen counters last week, I discovered this putrid veggie, and when I removed it from the bowl, a cloud of black swarming bugs was released on my unwitting kitchen.  Fruit flies dispersed throughout the room, landing on my fruit bowl, in the trashcan and over by the garbage disposal.  Once they were all spread out, it wasn’t as obvious that they were even there.  But that was their devious plan.  To make you think they were just a few little bugs just hanging out not hurting anybody.  But they were plotting.  And worse than that, they were fucking.  It was a fruit fly orgy going on in my kitchen, and just a few dispersed flies became A BAJILLIONTY MILLIONTY FLIES.  Within a few days, they were every-fucking-where.

After a few days of their multiplying and generally annoying the bejeesus out of me, I figured that I would have to call in the professionals.  A call placed to Terminix revealed that the first appointment they had available was a full week and a half away.  Apparently, summer is a big time for bugs.  Who knew?

Knowing that I would not be able to withstand the onslaught for that long, I looked into some alternate solutions while I was waiting for the bug men to come to my rescue.  A friend suggested a home remedy that consisted of Cider Vinegar and dishsoap, which was presumably supposed to attract the little buggers and then drown them.  It worked . . .

Picture 9334

A bowl of death. Beautiful, beautiful death.

. . . at first.  But, just as I began to fall into a soft blanket of false hope, it appeared that they regrouped and came back even stronger!  Even with THREE bowls in the kitchen, you still couldn’t open the trashcan lid without getting a face full of swarming black menace.  My kids refused to throw anything away.  I had to reexamine my options, so back to consult the great and powerful Oz of information I went . . . Mr. Google.

Based on a comment on one website about homemade fruit fly traps, I decided to get proactive.  I got out the vacuum cleaner.  Now, usually when my family sees me with the vacuum cleaner, they can only assume that we are having guests for our twice yearly social gatherings.  But this time, I planted that sucker in the kitchen, set up the long pole-like attachment thingy, and basically just started sucking those things right out of the air and into their deaths. 

I may have looked like a crazy woman, waving a wand of suckage around the kitchen, banging on the trashcan lid to release my enemies, and jabbing and poking at counters and bowls.  But rather than insane, I like to think of myself as more of a warrior.  And with my trusty weapon, I was eradicating this invasion of pests that were plaguing my home.  I would not be bested by a beast the size of half a grain of uncooked rice!  I was bigger, I was stronger, and I had modern technology on my side.  Sure, I was outnumbered.  But that would not deter me.  I would prevail.  Victory would be mine! 

And if not, I still have my appointment with Terminix on Saturday.



A Whole Grained Problem

I tend to avoid posting anything that involves divisive topics such as politics or religion.  But it has recently come to my attention that Cheerios has a new ad on TV, and this ad is apparently causing some people to vocally take issue with the message being conveyed within.  Being of a curious nature, I decided that I needed to see what all the hubbub was about.  If you have not seen it, please take a moment to do so at this time, so you can be as well informed as I now am:

Picture 9186

It seems that there are many people out there that are appalled that Cheerios would show a family consisting of a white mother, a black father, and a mixed race child.  The ad has been called out by religious organizations and conservatives for sending the wrong message.  And you know what . . . I have to agree.

This ad is not just advertising its heart healthy cereal, which you can find in the recesses of every minivan seat in the nation, but it is promoting a mingling of different races, as evidenced by this beautiful cafe au lait child.  And really, I find that appalling.  How could anyone believe that a white woman and a black man could possibly find each other attractive enough to not only marry, but produce offspring!!  I feel that this is a slippery slope, my friends, and that action must be taken immediately!

We’ve already seen the sullying of perfectly good white milk when poured atop chocolatey cereals, turning the previously pure liquid into a mocha nightmare!  Surely, if something drastic is not done, cereal companies all over will follow Cheerios’ example of promoting the mingling of people of different skin tones, and then what will happen?  Anarchy, that’s what.  We must protect our Wheaties and Frosted Flakes at all costs, people!!  I mean, what’s next . . . a Hispanic Snap, Jewish Crackle & Hindu Pop?  Preposterous!!

Cheerios has gone too far this time.  And really, we should have seen this coming, as their prior actions have shown a progression to this point all along, and we just never realized it before.  It started with a mix of Honey and Nuts.  Sure, this seems logical and harmless, but it was the first stop on a runaway train of intermingling of ingredients that has now led us to this crisis.  They followed this seemingly innocuous pairing with further indications of their hippy liberal ways . . . Multi-Grain Cheerios.  Multi-Grain.  All of those multiple grains, just living in peace and harmony together, instead of just the one true grain, as nature intended?  Red flag, people.  Right there.  Why did nobody stop this then?

Following along this path, the next creation they presented to the masses was Frosted Cheerios, which is a white sugary coating blanketing the original Cheerios.  Hmm, you know what?  That one is fine.  Let’s move on.

Next on the list of abominations was the Fruity Cheerios.  You see what’s happening here, don’t you?  Fruity.  Fruity.  Yeah, when they came out with this one, the world should have taken note of how far Cheerios was off the beaten path of mainstream, wholesome cereals, and how they were clearly dabbling in witchcraft and sorcery.

So really, it was no surprise when they next released their most horrid abomination of breakfast foods . . . Chocolate Cheerios.  That’s right, a dark cocoa cereal that was to co-mingle with wholesome white milk, all in one bowl, to create a horrifying mix of flavors and colors.  And instead of getting out the pitchforks and torches at that point and charging the castle of the Cheerios corporation, what happened?  Well, I’ll tell you . . . parents and children rejoiced in a healthy and nutritious cereal that also tasted of chocolatey goodness.  How could they not see?  It was right there in front of their faces!  It was obvious that these things were of the devil, because only demonic forces could create a scrumptious mocha delight that was both good for you and low in fat and calories.  But no, they were blinded by this seemingly innocent and ridiculously delicious new creation.  And so the world continued to allow Cheerios to go on promoting their heart healthy campaign through their multi-hued and various flavors of cereals . . . as if our entire society wasn’t being irrevocably and disastrously altered!


Unholy abomination!

And now, it has gone too far.  Not content to subtly permeate the world with their misguided notions of acceptance and harmony through cereal foods, they have blatantly presented this controversial commercial to the unsuspecting and trusting public.  There is nothing to do now but wait for the collapse of civilization as we know it.  If blacks and whites can live harmoniously together, soon we will have pigs and cows shacking up together and creating cowpigs.  Horses mating with sheep, and giving birth to fluffy long-nosed creatures.  This is the path we are travelling down, people!  If we don’t stop them, the madness will never end.

Somebody must take a stand.  And that standing somebody is none other than yours truly.  I stand up for plain and regular Cheerios!  I stand up for whole grains that are not mixed with other grains!  I stand up for white milk being poured over tan cereal and creating a slightly creme colored liquid!  I stand for truth, justice and non-flavored cereals!  I stand up . . . for the children!!

Who will stand with me?

Previous Older Entries