Tuesday, March 30, 2010

I don’t blame you… and I blame everybody.


Somebody somewhere has written a book defining the rules and etiquette of blogging.  Or maybe they blogged about it.  Either way, I didn’t read that shit, so join me for a little uncomfortable information sharing.

I’d like to start off by saying that yes, I know I said I would be busy exercising or pretending to exercise or whatever, but blueberry face is taking a marathon nap today and what else am I going to do?  Watch Mtv’s True Life: I want the perfect body and then two episodes of Angel back to back??  That was a rhetorical question.  Everyone knows David Boreanaz is an eyeball magnet.

I ate lunch sitting down for once and pretended to care about how many calories were in a green olive for the entire time it took to chew and swallow it.  And then I drank water and was like…. full yet? No.  Water is wet emptiness.  So I made a sandwich and ate it.  And read blogs.

And deleted some from my blogroll.  Because I’ve decided I’m not doing anybody any favors by having a blogroll anyway.  If I like to read you’re blog, I know where to find you.  If you’re suddenly not as interesting/artistic/or foul-mouthed as you once were because you found God/got married/ had children…. I’ll check back with ya later.

Also, where did number 52 go?  Does anyone else get pissed off when a number drops from the followers block? I’m not pissed off.  I just can’t figure out who it is.  Maybe I’d like to send them an email apologizing and begging them to come back because I really was getting used to 52.  It was my number for like…a whole day, so we were gettin kinda tight.

Dear 52,

I really hope I didn’t say something that offended you on my blog.  I value all of my followers (except the weird ones) and even most of the lurkers who really should follow, but can’t because of commitment issues.  It concerns me that you suddenly feel like you don’t need me anymore.  Especially since I really need you.   I mean, I’m obviously pretty desperate.  I’m following my own blog.  Mostly because I wanted 16 to be 17  and I only have one blog of my own or else it would’ve been 17 AND 18.  Now here you are.  Where are you?  The very first of my followers to ditch me.  Kick me to the curb.  Find a more fulfilling blog to creep on that possibly doesn’t have as many photos of babies eating tiny fruits or bitch sessions about absent fathers.  Are you turned off by labor and delivery stories that glorify parcopresis and giggle at the expense of gynecology utensils? Possibly have a weird thing about Duff from Ace of Cakes?  Did your great-great granny have a bike named Bill Murray??


What did I dooooo? I don’t need you.  I don’t even know who you are.  Yes I do, 52.  I didn’t mean any of that.  Whatever it is… I can change.  I want to be a better blogger.  For you.  Don’t give up on me.  I’ll do anything.  Tell me what font you want.  Tell me to stop saying wonky all the time.  I’ll do it.  I don’t care how much it hurts.

Truly-madly- deeply yours,



Okay. I just had to duck-tape a cabinet closed because Bluberry Butt is awake and wants to break some Pyrex and JG only put cabinet locks on the ones with poison, choking hazards, or booze.  And then we ran out.

Side note- blueberry begets blueberry.

don’t click here if you hate babies or blueberries

Bear with me a while as I try not to die from exercising too frequently.  After this 5k weekend, my body will be on a resting period.  I could, quite possibly, require a Hoveround after this is all over.

In the meantime… have a blueberry or a hundred.  Good for the colon.

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Saturday, March 27, 2010

Mr and Mrs Meme

I swiped this meme from Molly and then decided I’d like to know how JG would answer about me.  He took it seriously, as he does most things, and spent twice as long to fill it out as I did.  He carefully researched and shooed me out of the bedroom whenever I peeped in to make him hurry the eff up put some laundry away.  Here’s how the whole thing worked out.  I needed two tissues to get through his whole list… it’s honest and heartbreakingly sweet .   Much better than my silly answers.


if i were a month i’d be June

if she were a month she’d be part of summer break

if i were a day i’d be Labor Day

if she were a day she’d be Friday

if i were a time of day i’d be happy hour

if she were a time of day she’d be dusk

if i were a font i’d be courier

if she were a font she’d be a soft one in italics

if i were a sea animal i’d be a coral reef

if she were a sea animal she’d be a sea horse

if i were a direction i’d be east

if she were a direction she’d be wherever home is

if i were a piece of furniture i’d be a tufted ottoman

if she were a piece of furniture she’d be a hand made adirondack

if i were a liquid i’d be crystal pepsi

if she were a liquid she’d be really super cold milk

if i were a gemstone i’d be a black tahitian pearl

if she were a gemstone she’d be a black pearl

if i were a tree i’d be a willow tree

if she were a tree she’d be a bradford pear

if i were a tool i’d be a monkey wrench

if she were a tool she’d be a Leatherman 

if i were a flower i’d be always in bloom

if she were a flower she’d be a tulip

if i were an element of weather i’d be a sunshower

if she were an element of weather she’d be a warm front in january

if i were a musical instrument i’d be a ukulele

if she were a musical instrument she’d be an oboe

if i were a colour i’d be  aquamarine

if i were a colour she’d be green

if i were an emotion i’d be awe

if she were an emotion she’d empathy

if i were a fruit i’d be a keylime

if she were a fruit she’d be a pomegranate

if i were a sound i’d be boingggg

if she were a sound she’d be summertime in a park

if i were an element i’d be oxygen

if she were an element she'd be Germanium

if i were a car i’d be fuel efficient

if she were a car she’d be the Tesla Roadster

if i were a food i’d be decadent

if she were a food she’d be pepper jack and wheat thins

if i were a place i’d be a green valley

if she were a place she’d be Lake Como

if i were material i’d be linen

if she were material she’d be Silicone coated Nylon

if i were a taste i’d be savory

if she were a taste she’d be strawberries, feta cheese and balsamic vinegar

if i were a scent i’d be sandalwood

if she were a scent she’d be coffee

if i were a body part i’d be the funny bone

if she were a body part she'd be a breast

if i were a song i’d be Written and Sung by Willie Nelson

if she were a song she’d be one of those church hymns that make me question my dislike of organized religion cause they make you feel so good to sing

if i were a bird i’d be molting

if she were a bird she’d be a cute little blue finch                                                                   

if i were a gift i’d be “just because”

if she were a gift she’d be a box of chocolates

if i were a city i’d be bustling

if she were a city she’d be Barcelona

if i were a door i’d have a mail slot

if she were a door she’d be the door to a clubhouse... members only

if i were a pair of shoes i’d be strappy

if she were a pair of shoes she’d be sexy red heels

if i were a poem i’d be The Sleepers by Sylvia Plath

if she were a poem she’d be Remind Me Not, Remind Me Not by Byron


Hope everyone’s having a stellar weekend.  I'm so glad he’s home for a while.  Nothing can ruin it for me.  Not even room-temp milk. 




Friday, March 26, 2010

How ‘bout face punch?

Welcome to my first ever kind of tipsy blog post.  Sometimes I drink three glasses of “anniversary wine” and watch Twilight: New Moon while JG snores with his hand on Boone’s butt.  This is where I would try to post a photo of the actual hand on the dog butt, but I have a new manual focus lens and taking photos with the flash is bleh, so… imagine giant man hand on wussy dog butt.


Okay, so remember when you read Twilight and loved the part where Bella said Jacob was “beautiful”?  Yeah. Me, toooo.  We’re the sammeee.  Mostly.  Except maybe you don’t read Alice in Wonderland or Through the Looking Glass just for the part where the baby turns into a pig and there’s too much pepper in the shack. See? Oh lord.

If you know what’s good for you (and maybe don’t bring this up tomorrow when I’m hungover…)

Now that I am seriously not thinking about vampires and milky white skin and now there’s a wolf…shhh.  Ooh. More wolves. I spelled wolves right. Wow.  They ate the bad vampire and Kristen Stewart is being a kind of good actress. I mean. Since teenagers are so weird and fake anyway…. and all.  Okay. In the book, Jacob is naked more.  Like at least once.


( I love radiohead. This movie has great music.)


How do these wolves look so reallll? “Don’t do this, Bella.”

I have to go. This is embarrassing. And I can’t concentrate.


My uber-bossy sister in law is making me run a 5k during the first weekend of spring break. She’s so pushy and mean sometimes.  Like when she said, {I’m doing a fun run, want to do it with me?}   Don’t bully me, bitch!   
And “fun run”?  Yeah.  Fool me once… like the last time I ordered the JUMBO shrimp at Red Friggin Lobster.  Not gonna happen.
Okay. So it is gonna happen. I said yes.  Partly because she’s so scary and mean and also because three miles sounded a lot shorter than 5k.  I never have been good at conversions or the metric system.  Did I mention sneaky? She’s a cunning one, that Jenny.  With a voice like Snow White.  I think I said no the first time and then she twisted my arm or said, {everyone is doing it} and I have to do what everyone else does because I want people to like me.
Since I am so insecure about my decision and completely nervous about the whole thing, I thought I’d put down some of my fears in writing.  You know, so I can face them one by one and murdalize them.  Like Chuck Norris would do if he wasn’t so fast he could run around the world and punch himself in the back of the head.
The {Why am I so scared of running a 5k race called “The Bunny Hop” benefiting the American Cancer Society}….list.
1. I am going to fall down. {a lot} This is something that happens when I’m walking, so it’s not something I need to swallow with a grain of salt or sugar or whatever makes the big pills go down.
2. I will look red and sweaty after approximately six minutes.  Why six? Because I’ve timed these things.  I like to know the exact moment I go from “hottie” to “nottie”.
3. I’ll poop. This is just a fear I have in general.  It’s never ever happened to me in public before, but big occasions like these are a prime opportunity for fecal embarrassment.
4. There will be nothing fun about it, nor will bunnies be participating.
5. I won’t finish.  I know this one should be my biggest fear, but poop holds precedence always.
6. There will still be no cure for cancer if I do it.  But if I don’t do it, it will be like I don’t care about finding a cure for cancer.  And what if MY registration fee is just the funding boost those cancer researchers need to find THE ACTUAL CURE???
I’m nervous.  I can barely run for a whole minute without feeling like dying.  But I want to do it.  So I can say I did it.  And maybe I won’t have to tell anybody I barfed in the middle of mile one. Or that my thong chafed my crack so bad I had to apply diaper rash ointment for the rest of spring break.  Or that my sister and father in law were hanging out at the finish line for me in lawn chairs with their feet propped up smoking cigars and talking about the time they left me in their dust.  Maybe when I tell the story of how I ran a 5k,  I will conveniently leave out the part where I walked most the time, but really really fast.  I need to make a new list.
On a side note: When they do find a cure for cancer… do all the people who have ever run races or donated to cancer research projects get to say they helped?  Because I’m gonna.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Your car: Just like your bed…but leathery and with a parking break.

I’m officially counting down the hours until JG returns from this week’s work trip. I flipped the switch to survival mode late last night when I turned down the baby monitor and watched the lights for ten minutes praying to the flying spaghetti monster that Ladybug wouldn’t be disturbed by the whiny-mamamamaing and pitiful cries of my now NINE month old son.

I’m not going to complain today because I think I might’ve overdone it in a text message at 2am to JG. Something about not making it to the summer this way and maybe I mentioned a new addiction to zoloft…. it’s all a little hazy.

The good thing that’s come out of this whole shitty I-work-in-DC-and-live-in-Florida thing my husband has started doing is that I’ve really pushed myself to limits I never knew I had in me. Quite frankly, I’m more resourceful than you are. Read and learn. Jot down some notes. I don’t mind. It’s me, but helpier.

I have been sleeping in my car. Out of necessity, of course and not leisure. It started Wednesday after I barely made it to the school to drop off Ladybug. I sat at stop lights with my eyes all squinty and tried to sing show tunes to keep myself awake. Nobody does “All That Jazz” like I do at eight am. When she was safely in class I peeked in the rear-view mirror to see my green-snot-sick baby sleeping like…well like a green-snot-sick baby. You know, encrusted in chartreuse, pouty lipped, and making little whimpers here and there to punctuate the whole mess. And I thought maybe I would wake the little snot-ball up to give him a taste of his own medicine, but changed my mind when I realized I could drive to the nearest Starbucks in peace if I let him sleep. I’m a kind and selfless mother.

In the parking lot of said coffee place, I had an argument with myself.

Me: go for three shots today. we’ve never gone that far, but I think we’re ready. do it.

Me: um. but then i’ll have the jitters.

Me: who the eff cares? it’s either that or nap at every red light from here to home.

Me: Those weren’t NAPS. They were long blinks.

Me: yeah. whatever. let’s go.

Me: but he’s sleeping so hard he’s snoring. and he won’t go back to sleep if i wake him up now.

Me: damn. we need this coffee. you know it. i know it. just be quiet and careful when you get him out of the seat.

Me: like that ever works. why don’t we just take a nap here.

Me: here? like in Starbucks? people will stare. we have too much pride to be mistaken for a hobo and someone will call the cops if you leave the snotball in the car.

Me: no. I mean HERE. *starts cranking the seat back

Me: oh. HERE. haha. you’re stupid funny.

Me: I’m so serious right now. *yawn

Me: don’t even. people will park next to us and think….

Me: what? think what? that poor woman and her baby are so tired….

Me: I don’t know. It feels desperate. *yawn

Me: we are desperate. just go with it.

Me: but where’s your pride? only drunk people and degenerates sleep in their cars in random parking lots.

Me: this isn’t random, it’s Starbucks. they have wi-fi. there’s an app for this.

Me: Fine, but as soon as he stirs, we’re up and in drinking a latte. *yawn

Me: juz a foom la noonoo *drool

Me: *drool

Us: *droooooollllll.

One hour. That’s how long we slept in the car waiting to get a coffee. Today was an hour fifteen, but I came straight home and did it in the driveway with the windows down because, hey…it’s a beautiful morning. Then I woke up and he was still asleep, so I started up the old wagon and headed to the drive-thru for some “wakeup feelin” (that’s what my mom called oj when i was a kid, but it works with coffee so go with it).

Now look at me. It’s almost two o’clock and I haven’t thrown a shoe at the dogs or smacked myself in the face ONCE. It’s like I have this whole up all night thing in the bag. Like I’m kicking its ass and taking its name. Like I can just stay up all night and sleep in random parking lots or driveways when I get tired and my eyes get nappy at traffic lights.

Yeah. Like that.

Thursday, March 18, 2010


This is getting harder. I thought, for a while, it was getting easier. Maybe it still is, but today I’m blinded by the crying and the sleep deprivation.  Tomorrow I might be able to drive the car to school in the morning without chanting “don’t close your eyes” while sitting at red traffic lights.

Really I couldn’t close my eyes.  Not even to blink. I squinted enough to keep them from getting all dry and crackly.  And he won’t sleep at home. Except now.  So I guess I’m exaggerating.  He hasn’t slept.  Not like this.  Since I’ve been back from the big city

He’s like a koala bear.  Little paws digging into my chest wadding bits of my shirt in his tiny man-hands.  His hands are like Jed’s.  Wide.  And they move like Jed’s.  He held me so tight last night while I rocked him.  Both times.  Like the mattress in his crib was hot lava.  And it wasn’t.  (I checked.) He wanted to lay on me.  His head on my collar bone.  His legs around my waist.  When did he get so big?  His daddy’s hands gripping my yogurt and snot covered sleeves. 

He sucked my life away yesterday.  And last night.  And early this morning. His body against mine at all hours.  Our skins are semi-permeable membranes.  My fuel filling him up.  His body sleeping and regenerating.  Becoming well again. Slowly.

I feel empty.  But I can’t put him down, so I close my eyes and cover us up with a quilt.  And he makes this beautiful sound.  A sigh.  A long breath.  The way “full” sounds. 

The sound charges me.  Just a little.  And I can make it through the night.




Wednesday, March 17, 2010

lazy city snippet post

I am too tired for a real post about my weekend in NYC.




DSC_0157new stuff

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The Stoic

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I really love me sum Jens.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Welcome to your in-flight freakout.


It starts in my eyeballs.  At about the time she stretches the band out and pretends to put it on her head. Secure your own oxygen mask before helping other passengers. Her arms have skin that swings when she indicates the four exits.  I pay close attention (to the exits, not the arm fat).  I locate the exits and assess the capabilities of the passengers responsible for opening the emergency doors.  Not because I’m judgy.  Or because I think I can do it better.

      Because this is the way I am going to die.

The twitching is first.  Closely followed by the burning and prickles.  And then the leaking.  I am not crying. My eyes are. Without my permission.
My heart becomes a moth in my chest.  Fluttering and batting against my lungs…who, in turn, freak the eff out.  Sucking in shoving out.  Everyone’s out air. Ew.   All semblance of a rhythm has vanished and I am suddenly {the girl in 12D}.
I reach for my book and spread it open to a page in the middle- ignoring my bookmark completely.  The flappity-armed attendant spots me.
{Everything’s fine here. See? Reading. Just fine.}
I look down and the letters on the page make funny words. Oyu rae kudfce.   Lights flicker on and off. *dong.  
A message about a minor mechanical issue.  Waiting for “paperwork“.  Paperwork?  I envision a fax machine situated next to the panic button in the dash of the cockpit.  All aircrafts have panic buttons. I know this because I know everything  read about it in a Reader’s Digest once at my Grandma’s.

My book is slick in my damp palms, but I keep pretending to read.  Molars attack a wad of gum.  System’s all go. Mechanical problem resolved.  I’m too hyperventilatey to be incredulous.
Time for the fast part.
I’m breathing weird.  Like I am in labor. Hee hee hooo. Hee hee hoo. Rhythm!  This is good, no?   My shaking hands dig a tissue from my pocket to dab at my eyes.  For fuck’s sake, eyeballs.  No.  This is bad.
Everyone is quiet.  Or the engine is loud.  Someone’s getting a tooth drilled? I can barely see through the wet.
We’re sitting. We’re quiet. I’m leaning forward and reading and crying and dying…
The curtain sways out into the aisle.  A plastic bag, crumpled, rolls from under the seat in front of me into my foot space.  There’s gum squished inside it.
Up up up.  Air in. Air out.  The headline writes itself in my head.

 Mother of Two Dies Mysteriously During Takeoff:  Suspected Wonky Heart-failure

And then we are at 10,000 feet and mobile devices are permitted.  The faucet behind my eyes tightens.  Under my hand, the book is remembered.  Letters form words that make sense and I am reading now.  It’s over.

We eat pretzels and drink tiny amounts of water from tiny plastic bottles.  I organize my air-space.  Book, bookmark, water, pen, notebook, barfbag.
(just in case)
  Pages turn as I burn through chapters.  The girl behind me is talking about college to her mother.  So-and-so is so stupid even the “prof” can’t believe he passed the SAT.  I use the lavatory mirror to wipe away a drip of wet mascara with a complimentary tissue.  Look at you, you’re fine.   Not dead at all.
But the seatbelt is always on when I’m sitting.  Even when the light is off.  I am baggidy-armed attendant’s favorite.
Two hours.  Six chapters. Two tiny bags of tiny pretzels. And then the light goes on again. *bong.
And that’s when it starts.  
    In my eyeballs.

Monday, March 8, 2010





He’s going to ride this one day.  I’m going to take a picture of that, too. But for now, he’s completely content just sittin’ next to it.



Soopr doopr oasum.

I’m mourning the passing of another weekend.  R.I.P pirated movie watching Sunday morning.  Offweinerzane Saturday afternoon spins on the snazzy swings of fair fame.  Peace-out, Friday “drooling on pillow by nine-thirty” night. It was great while it lasted.  *imaginary fist bump                                                                                                                                         

Last night, I even got stellar marks on the homework Ladybug pretended I turned in for grading after she did her OMGit’sundaydoyouhavehomework-homework.  













I seriously have good Gs.


Anyway.  Husband’s off to DC again and I’m starting last week all over.  Sam is doing that thing where he whines just to make bubbles, but it’s still just as annoying as whining to whine and the dogs are waiting for the garbage truck.  Nobody waits for the garbage truck like my dogs.  The big old one sits in her spot and rests her chin on the window sill.  The little brown one just watches the big old one for his cue to start yapping and drizzling pee.  Oh, and I just found a weird shmear of cat litter on the window by the front door.  Pretty sure I know how it happened.





So I’m thinking the week is off to it’s usual-yet-weird self when suddenly {okay not suddenly…i totally do this every morning} I clicked on my favorite early-bird blogger Just Jules and got a pee-in-pants surprise*.  Sometimes it feels good when someone else toots your horn. 


Come and get me, week.  I’m soopr doopr ready.


*I  hope she doesn’t have one of those serious spy blog tracking things because I have clicked on her blog like twelvebajillion times already this morning with good excuses each time {one being that it’s like being famous when someone else links your blog for GOOD reasons}.  And if she doesn’t have a tracker thingie, maybe it was just four times. But probably closer to twelvebajillion now that I had to go grab her link for this post and I’ve probably sound like an idiot already.  so. Yah.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

take a picture, it'll last longer

the jumpin star (of doom)

I had a unicorn painted on the side of my face at a festival in Tampa when I was eight years old.  That's the one memory that bubbles up when I hear that the local fair is in town.  So when we arrived at the Central Florida Fairgrounds yesterday afternoon I was reminded of all the souvenirs lined up BEHIND the unicorn face paint that are less....spectacular.

Like portable toilets and long lines for incredibly short and shoddy fair rides.  Like little kids being screamed at by their sorry excuse for a parent.  Navigating a stroller through crowds of people wearing cutoff tee shirts and high heels.  {really? at a fair?}

So I took my camera to capture the oddities and the fun we were going to have {cross our heart and hope to die}, but it turns out  ghetto-fab babes wearing leopard print spandex want you to look at them, but don't you DARE take their picture.  

And my lens doesn't zoom in enough to catch the detail of every hillbilly hickey that tripped by wearing camo and a big johnson tee shirt. 

i love him in blue
you must be taller than Samson to ride
So I pointed the camera up. And zoomed in on the faces that were familiar and less....scary. We had more teeth than most folks sucking on corn cobs and corn dogs and playing corn hole. This is what came out of our afternoon.

flip-flop fair feet

token ferris wheel shot

fair skies

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Keeping it real-ly complicated. Doo-doo head style.

I'd like to start this post by saying that I really need to invest in one of those digital recorders to stick in my cup holder for the drives to and from school.  It really isn't safe for me to be making notes on the back of a bank statement from the glove box as these important discoveries take place in the backseat of my station wagon sports car.  Safety first. Incredibly humorous blog posts directly following. (say it!)

T- Can you marry your cousin?
Me- Uh....(remembering he's not technically MY child) No. You can't marry someone in your family.
LB- Which cousin do you want to marry?
T- Alex
LB- Is that a boy? Or a girl?
T- It's a girl. Duh. Boys can't marry boys.
(long pause)
Me-(remember the innocence!)  in some states they can. 
T- COOOOOL. That means I can marry Forrest!
Me- (backpedal backpedal backpedal) You'd have to move to another state...like Vermont.
T- Oh. 
LB- Well. If you and Forrest were brothers you couldn't. 
(This much is true.)
T- But we're not.
Me- Why don't you and Ladybug get married, T? I mean, you are like BFF right? (OMG,LOL,IDK MYBFFJILL)
LB- Yeah.
T- (enthusiastically) Okay! Why didn't I think of that?
LB- What If I move to Virginia?
T- We'll have to fly in a plane.
LB- Will you come live with me in Virginia?
T- Yes. Or you can come live with me in Idaho. 
(WTF? Idaho?)
LB- Okay. Where's Idaho?
T- South.

And like that, it was over and we were onto less serious business like whether doo-doo head was a bad word.  

(which it's totally NOT)

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

i get paid in trinkets

One of the many hats I wear as a parent is that of butler. Opening doors for our short-statured entourage, holding straws out for sipping when hands are occupied by nuggets or sticky with ketchup, carrying backpacks crammed with stuff like dolls and bedazzled cardboard paper towel rolls. . . even Benson wouldn't be caught dead crafting a force-field out of toilet paper at the food court bathroom.

Wiping noses and butts is far from being the highlight of my day as a mom, and the rewards aren't always the obvious "thanks" and pats on the back I sometimes find myself starved for at the end of a hard day. Learning to do without the outward appreciation is easier than it may seem. A tantrum caused by a catalyst pair of socks is squeezed out of mind by a hug for "no good reason".

And my reward for doing endless piles of dirty laundry is a cheerful and whimsical collection of tiny treasures.

pocket things

ps- Yesterday Sam hit his head on a bench, the floor, and a book. Thankfully, he lives to tell the tale.


Happy Humpday.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

dear husband.

miss you.
Posted by Picasa

Monday, March 1, 2010

my wii fit mii is NORMAL. why can't I be???

I'm not pro-bulemia or anything. I just think that having a twelve-hour stomach virus is a great way to kick-off a new weight-loss plan. Especially if you're committed to losing twenty pounds in the next sixteen weeks. If you go here and see how stupid I am, you'll understand how important it is for me to get on the ball this time. I mean, I love my sister in law to pieces, but she is NOT going to get a dollar from me. Thanks to the barfing, pooping, "ugghhhhh"-ing nightmare that was my life on Friday.

Of course, these sorts of bugs leave more than a couple of pounds in their wake. Three in my case...I KNOW...can you believe it??? JG went through it last night and I tried to be as kind and attentive to him during the spewing and heaving as he was to me. Of course, I have that you-puke-i-puke thing going on and I really couldn't offer much more than a pat on the back and a cold washcloth. And that was with my tee-shirt over my nose and mouth and my eyes closed. Oh. And there was gagging. Because anyone else's barf but my own is just icky.

As of this morning JG's gone "on business" until Thursday, so if you don't want to see a bunch of photos of my kids doing incredibly cute things- just stay away until he returns. I promised I'd post photos and good stuff for him to check up on while he's in DC/VA trying to decide if it's good enough for us to move to this summer.

Oh yeah. I think we're moving, but I can't tell you more because then I'd have to kill you.

Time to Jazzercise.