Sugar and Spice - Not Very Nice

We were on our way to a weekend jaunt at the Greenbrier seeing as how this was our last holiday season as a couple - instead of a triple. :) And with the discounted rate it was only fitting that we stay for three days. I was ecstatic. My plans included eating too much candy, gambling at the "casino" and sleeping in between eating and gambling away the $20 I stashed in my purse. I was nothing if not a high roller.

We had just passed Charleston, WV when my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number.

"Hi Holly, this is Laura, I heard you have Gestational Diabetes and I need for you to come in immediately."

I was shocked. I knew I'd failed the test - the first one - with flying colors - and that my Heroin Chic look of days gone by didn't fare me so well either - but "come in immediately"? Undoubtedly I couldn't be that bad!

"Well, I'm on my way out of town but will be back on Monday..." I started when she interrupted - something I'd find out she was apt to do on more than one occassion.

"Okay - well we need to get you in. Your sugar was way too high - glad you didn't do the three hour test!" she said.

"I did do it."

"You did the one hour - not the three hour."

"No," I paused as she contemplated the meaning of that word. "I did both. Last Friday I did the one hour test and then Wednesday I went back for the three hour test."

"OH MY! THAT COULD'VE KILLED YOU DRINKING ALL THAT SUGAR!" she bellowed in my ear.

"Um - Kay," What does one say to a person who just told you your death sentence almost came shaped in a tiny bottle that tasted like un-frozen popsicle?

"Well, come in Monday and we'll get you set up."

So I did. She explained, in hyper-fast detail about Gestational Diabetes, about insulin, about big babies and pancreases (pancrei?) and then slapped a needle on the table full of saline.

"ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?" I wanted to shout at her as I instinctively moved away - and into the chest of a puffed-up Harry.

"She can't do that," he said. "She can't stand the sight of it, even."

"Well," Laura said, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms. "You can't leave here until you do it."

So I did it.

I grabbed the stupid needle. Swabbed my stupid belly fat and stupidly jammed the tiny thing into my waiting middle.

"Now hold it there for at least four seconds..." she said.

"ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?!" I wanted to yell again but, thinking of the developing ears of my child, I decided to just do it.

So I did.

And almost passed out.

Harry scooched up behind me as I held my tummy and wanted to cry. It was all too much. We were told to watch a video where a girl, obviously chosen due to her frizzy hair bun and monotone voice, explained how to eat in painful details that made no sense.

Before we could finish I was ushered into another room where Baby Harry was measured - and pronounced - "too big." At close to 3 pounds and me at 26 weeks- his belly - nothing else - just his belly - was in the 95th percentile. He hid his face in shame. Finally he allowed his profile, and penis, to be photographed, but that was it. We were given pictures and shown back to our video.

"Oops, no you're going to need to take this over to Denise and have her do a stress test on you," Laura had already left for the day so Bonnie, her co-worker, showed us where to go and urged us to attend the nutrition class the next day.

I didn't want to go.

To either.

But the days of worrying about my level of comfort were far in the past, I guess, so I marched down the icy stairs and across the street to where Denise, who couldn't spell my name even though she was looking at my chart, strapped electrodes to my sides and neck (hair).

"Hmm - your heart is too fast. You ever feel it race?" she asked.

I nodded mutely but wanted to tell her that if you'd just been told that you could potentiall kill your unborn child or give birth to Baby the Hut, you'd be a little taxed too.

"Don't worry! I can fix you!" She made some phone calls and sent me on my way saying that I'd be retested after my bloodwork (MORE!!!! UGH!) came back to see if meds were an option.

Ten minutes later I was peeing in a cup and being handed a large orange jug in which to bottle my pee for the 24 hours before I came back to the Lab at Cabell Huntington Hospital.

I was less than thrilled.

I went home - shellshocked - not even knowing it was going to get worse the next day. After the nutrition class we waited for the Doctor - who looked at my chart and then bounced around like a bunny on crack. Apparently my chart was "Worst Case Scenario" number one and they now think that I have GD and Type II Diabetes.

Joy.

"How much do you weigh?" she asked me. I remained silent. I love Harry - but he really doesn't need to to know the exact spatial occupation of my chubby ass. And he respects that. "Oh - I see. " She stuck her nose in my chart and then looked at Laura. "I would've never thought she weighed that much," she said and then faced me. "You wear it well - but you're too fat."

Gee. Thanks. Wanna smell my pits too and rate those? I was done at this point. Stick a fork in me. And oh how we shouldn't say things we don't mean...

"And you, " she turned to Harry. "You could lose weight too. Wouldn't hurt you to do this with her."

"I am!" he got on his defenses but it was too late - the doctor briskly walked out of the room but not before telling Laura: "Keep a close watch on this one - she'll slip through the cracks if you don't..."

I wasn't sure what she meant, but was too tired to care.

I perked up soon after. Laura explained to me that I was to inject myself FIVE TIMES a day with a short-acting and long-acting insulin. I was to take two Glucophage pills a day along with four pills of extra folic acid. I was expect to record, and email, my blood sugar "score sheet" every Wednesday and to check it five times a day - or more.

And then we were allowed to leave.

I would like to say that I did fine. That I was able to poke myself and count my carbs and check my sugar like an old, Diabetic, pro. But this wasn't, and isn't, the case. I still cry when a new day dawns as the silver lining on the clouds of this mess is still three months away. The only thing that makes me do it is knowing that I'm not in this alone. Harry helps me. And Baby Harry will thank me. I do it for them.

So as I sit at the Kitchen table and stare at the hateful green pen-like needle - I try to focus on the most important thing in my life right now--- me.

It's a weird feeling - to be allowed to be selfish and to be allowed to think only of myself and my expanding tummy.

But as a famous Doctor once said, "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," and in this case, I am going to have to agree.

Heroin Chic

I was standing in the candy aisle of the Dollar General Store when I got the call from my doctor's office.
"Hi! Your Gestinational Diabetes test came back - and it's too high-"
"Nah," I cut her off, "I'm sure I'm good. Kay? Bye!"
The nurse laughed politely - and put me in my place: "No, you need to come in for the three hour test-"
"Naaaaaaaah! I'm fine. Byeeeee!"
But she was relentless, and I was defeated.
Two days later, my weary-traveled hubs and I arrived for the Three Hour Test. I hadn't eaten since 8:30 the night before when some freak in mom jeans walks in carrying a gift tower of goodies. Harry held me back from eating through her hands to get at the sparkly cookies and fluffy baked goods.
"Holly?" it was my turn and as the woman in Cookie Monster scrubs sat me down and tied one of my chubby arms with a blue elastic she said : "No offense, but I hoped to never see you again. You're a hard stick!". I looked her in the eye. "No offense but I hoped to never see you, either!"
And off we went, she wedged a trash can between my Doc Martens and poked me, and released me back to the waiting area while telling me to "Drink this."
The bottle was tiny and menacing. I had five minutes to chug it and then wait an hour to be re-stuck. It was horrible stuff. Line someone left a Popsicle out, it melted, and now I had to drink it.
But I held it together- and chugged the foul orange goo - complaining all the while much to the merriment of the poor souls waiting in the area with us.
Four more pricks later and I was done.
I had survived and didn't have to know the results until at least Friday. I was good to go.
Well, at least I thought so.
While showering this morning I noticed large purple bruises covering the track marks up my arms.
But perhaps the biggest problem was my lack of ability to concentrate. Or to be discrete. I walked into work this morning, a place designated to help the mentally ill and the recovering addicts and squealed: "Look! I'M A JUNKIE!!"
:)

The Young, the Old and the Relentless

My grandmother is from Branchland, WV. Go ahead and Google it. I'll wait. Tiny, huh? People from that area know two things - family and church. These are your social outlets. These two things shape your existence, your thinking, your attitudes and beliefs. Nurture and Nature come together to perform the perfect balance of backwoods brew-ha-ha.

So when my dear granny, Nan-nan, called me out of the blue the week before Thanksgiving, I knew something was up. At first I thought she was going to request more rolls. Or that I bring "that one dish - that Craig likes" but instead she started on a different topic.

"Now, Holly," she began, her voice taking on the twang that I've known since I was a child. "Are you going to save the blood from the cord? The cord blood? Are you going to have them save that?"

I didn't know how to answer.

The surrounding dispute over stem cell research made me think I should tell her "no, nope - not gonna do that - sinful, it is!"

"'cause you should talk to your doctor about it. They'll save it for you. You pay a fee and then if the baby gets sick - you have it."

I didn't know how to respond. This woman once took a stack of my favorite L.J. Smith books about a secret coven of witches - and burned them. Ahem. BURNED them! Out in her backyard, my books that I spent my hard-earned pre-teen money on - were accused, tried, found guilty and sentenced to a slow, torturous death in the trash pile.

"Okay," I said. I didn't want to be next in line for the trash heap.

Later in the week Summer motioned to me with one of her tiny, shoestring-fry-like fingers. It was Thanksgiving day and we were all at my house eating buttery potatoes, turkey and a Paula Deen ham. "Nan-nan told me you had to get rid of the Harry Potter books in your house," she said in quick succession. (I inserted the spaces for ease of reading). "She said, 'those books - they'll bewitch the baby!"

I almost peed myself laughing.

Dental Damns

Ever since my Novocain-less root canal of 1999 I have been a stickler about getting my teeth cleaned regularly. For the record, though, my root canal was not due to dental denial but more due to a piece of pavement hell bent on meeting my face head on and the accompanying 40 pound backpack that ensured this happening.

But I digress.

So I get to the dentist's office and immediately tell the girl, "I'm fine but a little more pregnant than the last time so - no xrays or needles or - um - anything pokey." We talked for a bit about her prego friends and whether or not mint polish would make me gag (we were safe) and then she started the cleaning.

My eyes were closed when I felt the tugging on my scalp. Curious, I opened my eyes and she giggled. "Sorry," she said, "I got the polisher caught in your hair! That's never happened! I mean, I poked my husband in the eye the other day during his cleaning - but at least I didn't pull his hair!"

I tried to swallow. "Well, glad to be an example!"

A few minutes later she added: "You have a tiny mouth,"frowning behind her blue mask she pulled a spitty polisher from my mouth. "And wet."

That's right.

The professional tooth lady told me I had a tiny, wet mouth.

I tried to giggle but choked on my own spit.

So call your dentist now, because you never know if you'll get the normal compliment of "your gums look nice!" or "no cavities!" or, the classic, "you have a tiny, wet mouth!"

ahahahahha :)

Baby Bumpers

The warm goo was spreading across my poofy midsection as my husband and mother watched from their respective chairs.

It was awkward.

I'm not one to flaunt my Michelin-style mid-section so to have three separate people watch as it is bared and then gooed - is NOT my idea of a good time.

The Ultrasound Tech started smooshing my lower abdomen with the scanner (it looks like the UPC scanner at most retail outlets I worked at) and there was the baby - mooning us. His tiny head was turned away from us with his butt pushed upwards.

Sleeping like his dad already who likes to use his ass as a not-so-secret weapon while snoring away.

"Hmm, I'm just going to take some measurements," I could tell that she wasn't too happy about my kid's position. She then rattled off and talked about head size, showed us the baby's feet, both legs, arms and watched as the tiny person mouthed non-words and rested their little head on one hand. Moving around, the baby stared at us and continued to open and close their mouth as the Tech continued to manipulate my tummy fat.

"Well, I don't think we'll be able to tell - well - that right there looks like a penis! Oh yeah - sometimes you can't tell, but, well, he's got a pretty prominent penis!'

Harry cheered. Mom cried. I contemplated the fact that there was a penis growing inside of me now.

:) Harry Shivel IV is still set to be due on April 1st, 2010.

Until then - I repeat - THERE IS A PENIS GROWING INSIDE ME.

Leggo My Preggo Eggo

So obviously I've not posted a blog in sometime and for that I apologize. But I have a good excuse! I'm pregnant!

17 weeks along - and the first 12 were AWFUL! I was sick all the time and then I caught a horrendous cold that made me sound like a barking, mentally deranged seal which would make me gag and THEN I'd toss my cookies (sometimes literally as I love me some Cookie Crisp cereal) and THEN, as if THAT wasn't bad enough - this happened:

I was lying in bed, enjoying the last of the 15 minute naps that my coughing fits would allow when the alarm went off. I reached up to turn off the annoying buzzer - and coughed. My back popped. I screamed. Harry hopped up like he'd been shot and ran around turning on lights in his underwear. I had thrown out my back - coughing. I was in such immense pain. And I was so scared. I'd been so good about taking better care of this fetus than the last one that decided not to stick around so the idea of taking medicine scared me. But seeing as how Harry had to lower me on to the toilet and sit me up every three hours - I had no choice. By the end of the weekend I was almost able to sit up, roll over and use the bathroom again on my own. I was as accomplished as most 18 month olds - and thanks to the drugs my doc insisted I take - I slept just as much, too.

My due date is April 1st, fittingly enough, on April Fool's Day. And - since I'm the queen of "TMI" - I must tell you of the conception date as I know exactly when this little "surprise" was sprung.

It was a late night a few months ago and Harry was waiting for our friend Tom to come over to play a rather vulgar game of "Tony Hawk" for old times' sake. While we were waiting for him to arrive - a make out session commenced. Ten minutes later Tom arrived. We - had not. So Harry scooted him down the stairs and told him to set up the Xbox. A respectable amount of time later, Harry joined him and I laid in bed, unawares that my netherregions were being invaded. So to speak.

So, that's why I like to say that it took every Tom, Dick and Harry to get me pregnant. :)

There's a lot going on right now and I'm going to try to make sure to keep this blog updated as the baby days start to pile up and end on that fateful day - when the stork will arrive with a baby. And a vlasic pickle.

Don't burst my bubble. :)

You Smell Like Old

I'm one blue-haired beehive away from officially being an old lady.

For two weeks now I have been sneezing, blubbering, snotting and hacking up my lung matter - the latter of which keeps me up at night. I've tried cough syrup with codeine and gargling salt water and sprite with crackers. Nothing helped with the cough. I would HORNK and sputter and gag and - unfortunately - toss my tummy contents with such force it would leave me with a smattering of bloody freckles to match my light brown ones.

And then - it happened.

It started innocently enough. I plugged in my humidifier and inserted one small mentholated pad to circulate in the air. The relief wasn't instantaneous but it was still calming. My throat still tingled and my head still hurt - but the smell - the soothing vapors - was nice. So nice.

And then - I got some Vick's Vapor Rub. The gooey mentholated syrup mocked me from its blue jar with striking green wrapper. I knew that if I smeared even one finger-full of the stuff - I'd be a goner. I'd be addicted.

Like a fat kid at an all-you-can-eat salad bar (trust me - I was a FAT kid - and I LOVED me some salad!!!) I was up to my elbows in Vick's best within minutes. The burn and the vapors lulled me into a sleep-induced haze that not even the foul-tasting codeine-laced medicine could do.

I tried to hide my new shame from Harry. Tried to not let him see my nightly ritual of mentholated humidifier coupled with a thin sheen of Vapor Rub on my chesty regions. But I was too tired Sunday night - and I slipped.

Actually when he came back from fetching me my fourth bottle of water for the day I was in bed, covers pulled up to my navel, topless. For one moment he seemed happy - like Christmas came early - and with a twin - but that eye twinkle quickly faded when I held out one chubby hand - clutching the Vick's.

"Help me?" I said, coughing pathetically for emphasis.

"Sure." He had the good grace to pretend to be amused by my antics.

"Avoid the girly bits," I said and laid back with my eyes shut. I waited for the cool tingle of the eucalyptus and menthol vapors to reach my assaulted sinuses.

"Hey - this stuff looks like my-"

"Shut up," I interrupted. "Don't make this perverted. Ahhhh yes. Avoid the nipples. Ahhhhh." I sighed again and laid back, chest glistening, nose red and spittle still hanging from my chin from my last coughing fit.

"Wanna do it?" I asked. Mostly to see what he'd say.

He slowly capped the heaven-sent scented rub and added it to the collection of hard candy, cough drips, tums and water bottles that litter my bedside table.

"Not even a little," he said.

"Oh thank God..." I muttered and rolled over to have sweet, sweet mentholated tinted dreams.

Don't be a Dick

We just got back home from a week spent at Myrtle Beach, SC. One morning we even went to the beach. I ventured out to my ankles - squealed - and then ran back to the safety of my thirty dollar rented blue lounge chairs and umbrella. Harry was braver. He stayed in and jumped into the high, hurricane-like waves and even body surfed a few into the seashell-strewn shore. Unfortunately, while in the water - he got attacked by a sea creature.

No, not a jellyfish.

Or a shark.

Or even a curious fish--with teeth.

Later, when in the shower, it turned out that quite a few of the tiny sharp shells from the shore made it into the "safety net" of his swimtrunks. Once there, they decided to attack whatever tender flesh they came in contact with. I stared in horror as he got in the glass-walled shower, removed his trunks - and half a pound of shells fell out.

I went to lay on the bed while he worked at getting all the misplaced sea bits into one corner.

"I think I'm injured," he said a few minutes later when he emerged, wrinkly and red from the steam.

"What? Oh no - where?" I was concerned - we still had two days of hardcore shopping to do at the surrounding Tanger Outlets.

"On my penis."

"Oh no - lemmie look." Now, when one is married, or even just in a committed relationship - these requests seem less odd. I do not recommend trying this on a first through fifth date.

But he obliged and laid down on the bed. I carefully examined the specimen to look for anything unusual and, sure enough, a small scratch was at the very top.

"Okay," I said, getting a good look at the cut to make sure no shell remained. "I think it's fine it's just a little pri-" I stopped as I realized what I was going to say was not what I meant to say nor should any woman say while holding a man's pride in her hand.

"It's fine," I tried to cover.

"No, what were you going to say?" Concern filled his voice and I got the giggles. Again, not something one should do when looking at their mate's manparts.

"Holly!"

"Fine," I said carefully covering him with the white towel. "I was going to say that it just looks like a little prick - and that's all. But I knew you'd take it wrong."

He stared at me, face turning red, trying not to laugh.

"A little prick, huh?" he said. "THAT'S what you're going to say to me?" He was pretending to be affronted so I sat back on the bed, crossed my arms and huffed.

"Yes. And don't take that the wrong way," I said.

"Noooooooo," he said sarcastically. "I would NEVER take that the wrong way."

And he hasn't. Not even when he repeats it - all the time - at random times - especially on the way home.

"Should we turn here?" he'd ask.

"Sure - I trust you," I'd say, not looking up from my magazine.

"Are you sure - cuz apparently I have a little prick..."

Luckily his cut has healed nicely on his member. Though if he doesn't quit reminding me of my misspoken concern - he may have far worse injuries to be concerned about...

Let That Settle In...

Harry and I were walking out of the darkened theater on Tuesday night having just seen "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" for the second time.

"I liked it - I really did," I said as I tossed my Cherry Icee cup into the trash, "but don't you think it was a bit long at times?"

"Yeah," Harry said absently as he hitched up his britches for the millionth time making me want to find him a belt - and strangle him with it. "So - what should I do? About the car? Do I go ahead and trade it for that SUV? What do you think?"

We'd been over this topic before.

Repeatedly.

A lot.

My patience?

Gone.

My opinion?

Filled with four-letter words and spittle.

"I don't know," I sighed, regaining my composure by staring at a poster with Bradley Cooper's face smiling from its center. "Well, don't settle. That's when you're always really unhappy. When you settle for what you don't really want."

"But I'm happy with you!"

I stopped. My head swung toward him and I smiled a sweet smile. "I'm so sorry, dear, that you had to settle for me. Since I was all you could get. So you settled. For me. So sorry. Call your granny. Tell her your moving back in. Now. And to come pick you up at the theater cuz you so ain't ridin' home with me!" I get country when I get irate.

But then I giggled. So I knew my cover was blown.

"I meant that you made me happy so I never have to settle," he tried and pawed at my arm/sideboob.

"Diggin' a hole."

"You know I love you! And you know that's not what I meant."

I stopped in the middle of the lobby and mimed digging a hole.

"I didn't settle! Wait, stop! Come here!" he dragged me by the arm so that we were hugging under the poster of an upcoming Disney feature. Rubbing his scrufflies on my face he kissed me gently and squeezed me in such a way I feared my Icee would revisit. "I didn't settle." he said.

"Fine," I said and accidently smiled. I tried to cover it with my hand as I was attempting to score a guilt-filled foot massage out of the deal - but he saw it.

We walked hand-in-hand to the elevator and as the doors closed he said, "So really - what do you think I should do about my car?"

And his body was never seen again....

:)

Still there?

I used to love blogging.

Every instance in my life was judged on whether or not it could be blogged and turned to the nets for the enjoyment of others. And I guess I still judge life that way - but the idea of logging in to blogger, fighting with the limited controls and trying to move and crop pictures, well, it's just too much!

When Twitter is instantaneous - and Facebook is so easily accessed on my phone - the idea of blogging, cropping, editing and sticking pics in various places is sooo not appealing anymore!

So - is blogging a dying art?

Was it snatched up by the media and by the publishing and movie biz, glamorized, sensationalized and expelled back out - like gum that's lost its flavor?

Maybe I'm just disenchanted.

Hmm...

Slight of (Wrinkly) Hand

Sliding into the 50's style green pleather seats of "Jim's Steak and Spaghetti House" always brings back memories of my youth. The smell of the meat sauce and the waitresses' crisp white uniforms and dark orange support hose instantly makes me feel at home ---and ravenous.

So when our nice server piled Captain Wafer crackers in a small white bowl on our table, Summer, Aunt Gwen and I lunged for them. My grandmother, a little older and a little slower, stretched one arm slowly across the table and plucked a pack of the buttery crackers. While the three of us ate the bits like rabid dogs, my grandmother examined each side of the package before deliberately and meticulously extracting a single cracker. Her precision was difficult to watch as I worried about her health. She didn't look tired. In fact, her cheeks were rosy, her lips were rouged and her skin glowed.

She looked better than me.

"I took her to Estee Lauder and made them give her a makeover," Gwen said proudly while reaching for another cracker bundle.

"Shelooksgreat!" Summer concurred without pausing and then launched into another topic involving IUD's or breastfeeding or something equally as uncomfortable. I decided to eat another cracker until the topic switched to something else - anything else - but they were gone. The waitress had just left a handful of them on the table as she saw how we attacked any morsel of food - but they were nowhere. Only five wrappers were scattered around the top of the table. But lest I seem like a piggy - I just crossed my arms and chose not to say anything.

I saw Summer reach for the bowl - notice the lone package sitting in it and pull her thin, bony hand back to her lap.

Soon after our spaghettis arrived and we ate heartily.

Afterwards, Gwen insisted on paying and as she reached into her wallet she said, "Well Mom, I swear if you haven't loaded my purse up with crackers!"

My grandmother smiled and pawed at the purse while Summer and I cracked up.

"I didn't even see her do it! None of us did!" I whispered to Sis as my grandmother slowly pushed to a standing position and shuffled down the aisle and we decided that she was the most masterful magician in the world.

She'll distract you and make you think she is old and slow and BAM! She'll have robbed you blind--- of crackers.

And Houdini didnn

Rub a Dub Suds

The washing machine was mocking me.

"21" read the dial. Two glowing green numbers glaring at me from its "advanced" blackened face next to a label touting the wonders of the "Calypso" washing system. An immortal sea nymph you are not, my dear large appliance.

I could hear the basin struggle to fill, then drain, then fill, then drain in a torturous holding pattern of cleanliness. The white cow bayed and mooed as it stared at me with its lowing "2" and "1" seemingly begging me to free it from its burden, to lighten its load.

So I sighed and lifted the lid.

A full load of towels were in the bottom, sopping wet and covered in white sudsy foam.

"Really?" I yelled at the gaping mouth of the machine, "REALLY?"

I reached into the murky depths and removed a single turquoise wash cloth. Holding it under the running water of the sink I rinsed free the layer of suds, wrenched the wetness from it and flung it in the dryer.

Next, a kitchen towel. I continued this foolish game of "Holly the Washing Machine" for another hour while I waited for Harry to return from one of his many weekend errands. He always needs to run somewhere - as if staying home with me for more than three hours at a time would cause his curly head to explode, showering us all with toy stats, chocolate sprinkles and binary code.

The light flickered above me from a dying florescent as I continued to wring the neck of a sand colored Ralph Lauren bath sheet. The light hurt my eyes, the rinsing and wringing was painful and the daunting pile of unwashed clothes at my feet made my brain hurt.

At that moment, all of the frustrations of the past month, weeks, years, minutes and hours were poured into the act of un-sudsing my towels.

With each triumph fling into the waiting dryer I felt my sanity slowly returning - if not my work light.

Finally - I had one towel left.

A large white monstrosity "accidentally" lifted from one of Harry's many hotel visits.

I attacked it like a woman possessed, sloshing suds and water down the front of my not-suitable-for-public-wear Thumper shirt. I kneaded it like a dough ball and watched as the water grew opaque with foam. Blasting it with the spray hose I felt satiated. Done.

I tossed in a Snuggle dryer sheet and hobble-walked over to the couch in the other room feeling pains in my back and legs that my sedentary lifestyle doesn't usually offer.

My phone tinkled with the sounds of "Tainted Love."

"Hello?"

"Hey - did the washer start again?" Harry asked.

"No, it's dead. Let's buy new ones. Red ones."

"We'll see. Hey - don't try to get those towels out yourself - you could get hurt."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I lied.

Later - when he got home with dinner and found me passed out on the couch with a streak of detergent down my front and between my toes, I would explain the need to fix what is broken, but for now, I bask in the glory of an accomplishment.

Until I run out of clean underwear.

Rain of Destruction

As I picked Summer up from work, I glanced to the sky and noticed the darkening sky. The clouds were angry, dark blue and ready to rumble as the spread out over the greater tri-state area. Which was perfect - as it matched my mood. I had been up since 5:30am- wide-awake sitting in my bed, alone, and watching WSAZ-TV as a girl with too much make-up swept her arms across a fake screen of animated cold fronts and stormclouds.

My appointment for (MORE!) bloodwork was a 10am and since Summer was often the stand in for my husband who was, as usual, out of town on work.

She hopped in my white SUV and made a face at the black sky. "Whyisitonlyoverus? Isitmadatus?" she asked in her normal non-pausing ways.

"Yes," I said, as I pulled away from the curb. "Yes it is."

Ten minutes later we're sitting in the parking lot of the doctor's office and watching the rain fall in cloudy parallel sheets. Talking is impossible as the rain pounding on the roof makes any conversation less than shouting a challenge.

I dig two umbrellas out of the back of my car and we run and squeal to the double glass doors.

"Stay to the left!" I shout as I spot a huge puddle. Turning slightly I paw at my key fob and see the lights flash on my car.

"Whew! We made it." The wind continues to howl for twenty minutes as we're ushered from one window to the next. I settle in and pull out my Iphone to check my Facebook and Twitter updates when I hear it:

"Does someone have a White GMC? 'Cause your back is open."

"Aaaagh!" I tossed my phone and purse at Sis and ran, wet pant legs slapping against my ankles all the way. I stood at the doors and punched the hatch button repeatedly until I saw the door slowly close.

"Well, my day couldn't get much worse," I thought as I turned and walked back into the waiting area.

I was wrong. As I was sucking the water out of my car later - I almost sucked up my necklace twice.

What a horrible way to die. :)

Bumpit and Grind

"Here's what you look like - " Harry turned his Iphone to me where Google had kindly found a picture of a Conehead for him.

"I do not - it's supposed to give me a bump - it's a 'Bumpit'" I squealed and smacked away the phone.

"But your hair doesn't look like that. And you can see the 'Bumpit'..." he looked at me doubtfully while readjusting his towel and flashing me with most of his man-bits which were, unfortunately, at my eye level.

"Ack! No - I'll get it to work.... Maybe if I use the small 'Bumpit'?... Nope. It fell out. What the hell?!" I was getting frustrated. I flopped back against the cabinets in the bathroom and crossed my legs under me. Sitting in the bathroom floor I studied the directions again.

"Can I try it?" Harry asked me.

"No. I hate it. I'll try it later when you're not staring at me like this:" I let my eyes glaze over and opened my mouth and looked at him.

"No. Let me try. I can do it." My husband - he does not lack in confidence.

"So, you take this section of hair - oops - sorry! And then, no - you want it farther back, so you - sorry! Okay, whoops! And then you stick it in and - um - pull the hair over it and - ohh - bet that hurt - and then it - hmm..." he sat back and looked at me. "Maybe you aren't meant to wear a 'Bumpit' and anyway, it looks good just like it is.

I looked in the mirror. One side of my hair was poofy and teased while the other side was hanging loosely - with a small "Bumpit" comb hanging from the depths.

"Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanks!" I said sarcastically.

He got down on his hands and knees in front of me. "Don't blog about this okay?" he said his big clear blue eyes gazing into my green ones.

"Shut up and bring me a Tylenol."

So, my advice, on this lovely Saturday, is to NOT buy anything that "As Seen on TV" AND if you do make that choice - don't let your husband near it. Now - what was the name of that hairspray color that covered bald patches? I seem to have a recent need for it...

:)

I Can Admit When I'm Wrong...

Last week the Shivel-clan and I went to Blackhawk Grille in Barboursville. It's a swanky little joint with that old smell to it and - hell - we had a coupon and we're just un-classy enough to use it.

And let me just put this out there - I love salads. That's right - my plushy and plentiful posterior is not from lack of nutrition. I LOVE SALADS - so when I saw a new one on the simplistic menu - I nearly swooned and I ordered it. Within a few minutes and a conversation revolving around all things automobile-ic - I was happily presented with a large mountain of veggies. I started picking at it. And eating the bits of beans in it. And the bits of sprouts. And the tiny grape tomatoes. But, even though the name of the salad I had ordered was called "Roma Tomatoes with Sweet Onions" I found nary a Roma nor onion.

"Excuse me, miss?" I asked our tiny blonde server. "I've nudged all the lettuce, beans and bits aside and still can't find a Roma Tomato or an Onion in it at all!"

She grabbed my plate - and ran.

I just sat there - stunned.

"Have you seen the new Coach bags?" Meme asked from the other side of the table, distracting me.

"Uh - yeah - Poppy is it?" I answered.

"Oh yes! I saw it on the computer. I think they're nice."

"And they seem to come in good sizes..." I said looking around to see if the waitress had decided to try to sneak out the door rather than admit there was a mistake with my food. I was still hungry!

"Yes. They have 12 inches and they have 10 inches too. I can't handle the 12 inches," she smiled and stroked her handbag which was on the table. "but I like the 10 inches just fine!"

I tried not to smile. I tried not to let my perverted thoughts get the best of me and I tried like hell not to make eye contact with Harry who was obliviously destroying a piece of dinner bread.

"I agree completely. Sometimes they're just too big," I said.

Which was a wrong thing to say. And I'm still giggling over it!

SPAMalot.

Yesterday I asked Harry to go downstairs and print off a coupon so that I may pick up the new Mary Kay Andrews book "Fixer Upper." No sooner had he descended than he called me from the depths below.

"Why are you getting emails about Singles events?" he asked.

"Why you be snoopin' in my bid-ness?" I retorted.

"No, really. Why do you have emails about dating?" his concern was touching. And annoying.

"Just print out the damn coupon, already."

"And something from medical billing? What is this?"

"I was SPAMMED okay? I put in my email address thinking it was a legit survey and I WAS SPAMMED! Trust me, I have no interest in being a 'Swinging Single' OR a 'Sultry Senior'! I - WAS- SPAMMED!"

"Okay - so just this 25% coupon then?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you, too," I said and hung up. "Ass."

Trees, Dust and Nuts! Oh My!

After my run-in with a Brazil nut trying to do me in - I decided to schedule an appointment with an Allergist. Unfortunately the one I chose was attached to a Pediatricians office.   

Summer and I arrived bright and early (What?!  I'm 30 and still need my Sissy, what of it?!) walked up to the toddler and kid-filled waiting area and Summer said "You did tell 'em you were an adult, right?"   

I warily went up to the window with the conspicuously low-placed talky-hole and said, "I'm here for my appointment with Dr. Shaw... Ya'all serve old people here, too, right?"   

The woman laughed and said yes, that Dr. Shaw sees many ages.   

I looked around the toy-strewn room in doubt and when completing my paperwork had to keep marking through "Child's" and writing "Adult's" in every question so I was nary the bit convinced.

Thirty minutes later, Sis and I were in a plain room with a tiny table and I was sitting there in an "OM" pose - both of my arms spread wide, palms up, as red whelps grew on each arm.   Summer aided me by pushing up my sleeves and by reading an old "People" - sometimes out loud to me, and sometimes, forgetting I was there and helpless to turn pages, reading the articles only to herself. 

Dr. Shaw came back to save me from trying to figure out how to kill my loving Sister by not using my arms about ten minutes later and stared down at my red spots.  

"Well," said the tiny doc guy as he looked at my arm, "you're definitely not allergic to dogs or cats."

"I'll be sure to tell my husband," I said.   

"But it seems like you have a pretty severe allergy to tree pollen-"

"I KNEW IT!  I KNEW I was allergic to nature!!!"

" -and dust mites."

"What about this crazy big one over here?"  I stiffly pointed to a rather large bump on my right forearm.  

"Oh - that's just the control-"

"YOU MADE ME ITCHY ON PURPOSE?!" I yelled at him. 

"I had to," he said, doing a very poor job at not laughing at my obvious distress.  "If that one didn't react we couldn't rely on the others to be accurate."

"Oh," his logic was infuriating, but since he was the doc, I was willing to concede.  "I guess that's okay then."

"I'm going to give you a prescription for Nasonex and an Epipen because since your nut allergy didn't show anything I'm not sure what is going on.  We'll have to have a blood test done to get more information."

I blanched and paled at the word "blood" and I could feel Sis next to me shaking with giggles as she fought for composure as my pain is, apparently, damn funny. 

"Now, when you use this," he uncapped the pen and showed me how it worked.  "You make sure you shove it hard into your leg.  So hard it bruises.  It has to get to the muscle and with - er - meatier thighs it can be a bit hard." 

It wasn't bad enough that the scale was off in his office by a good - 50 or so - pounds but now he was insinuating that my svelte posterior was being held up on meaty thighs?

Even I couldn't feign offense as I used both hands to poke at the outside of my thighs to illustrate I was well aware of his less-than-subtle direction for Epipen use on those of us with Junks in our Trunks and Elsewhere. 

"Any questions?" he asked.  

No. I had no questions.  I was allergic to nature.  I had a need for a serious change in my diet and was worried that my Epi would not make it past my "meat" should another Brazil nut attack me from a can of Mixed Nuts.  

No.  No questions at all.   

Vehicular Manslaughter?

I watched, helplessly, as my husband's grandmother traipsed through a patch of grass, narrowly missing a pile of fresh dog crap and then began shimmying across her heat pump.  

"I'll  just break the glass in the door!" she called over her tiny shoulder at me. 

"No you won't! "  I had spent the last hour arguing with the small woman.   She'd locked her keys in her trunk (easy to do) and instead of letting the locksmith come and pop her trunk she decided, instead, to show up at my work to get the spare keys Harry keeps. 

Only they were inside her locked house in his old bathroom.  

A house we couldn't get in. 

Because the key we needed was on another key ring.  

In Harry's pocket. 

In North Carolina. 

"Just have them break the window," was my hubby's suggestion. 

"Why do you two keep coming up with the suggestions that involve breaking glass?!" I screamed into my phone.

Three hours later, one trip back to Barboursville, two tow trucks and tow expert Locksmiths later - and the trunk to granny's little red car was popped and the keys were retrieved.   

Now, I wasn't perturbed by the keys in the trunk, nor was I upset at having to drive Little Miss Daisy all the way back to a house she didn't have a key to but what did irk me was that I had mentioned to my better half on more than one occasion the need for spare keys to be left with me - the less mobile part of our Trio. 

They'll learn to listen to me someday.  But until then, I'll just let them shimmy over heat pumps together - I'll wait in the car.

gRAPES of Wrath...

"Wanna do it?"  Harry proposed as I laid in bed, a sweaty, greasy, house-worked, over-worked lump of mass; however, I did contemplate his proposition momentarily.

"Uh, no," I said and went back to reading my book, ironically titled, "Holly's Inbox."

"C'mon.  Let's do it."

"No," I repeated.  I was skanky.  I had just spent the majority of the day cleaning and then had to iron his shirts for the upcoming week.   After twenty minutes of sweating over a steaming iron I finally had Harry check the air conditioning unit.   It was determined through a series of investigations - that the heat was still on.   He was lucky to even be alive to postulate copulation much less retain the use of those prized parts after that incident. 

"I'm skanky.  Go away." I rolled on to my side away from him.  

"Fine," he said.  "Rapin' the wife, rapin' the wife, I'm rapin' the wife," he sang under his breath as he tugged on my star-bedazzled panties.  

"Stop that!"  I said, trying not to laugh.  

"Hold still!"  He smacked the cheek nearest to him. 

"Harry!" I rolled over on to my stomach and put my face in the pillow - my lame attempts to hide.  

"Now you've done it.  That's it.   Now you're gonna make me have to-" SLIIIIIIIIIIIIP!  "Aghhh!" CRASH. 

I popped my head up. "Hey! Where'd you go?"  

"Ouuuuuuuuuuuuch..."  Harry said from the floor. Apparently, in his attempts to collect upon his husbandly "rights" he ventured too close to the edge of the bed and his knee slipped on the 1,000 thread count sheets and ended up, face-down and spread eagle in the bedroom floor. 

"You okay?" I asked in between loud fits of laughter. 

"Uh huh.  Owww."

"You done trying to rape me?"

"Uh huh.   Don't blog about this."

"I wouldn't dare."

Hmmmppphahahahahah!

Testy, testy, testy!

I won't beat around the bush - HARRY PASSED HIS TEST!  He got an 86% - which is phenomenal considering how freaking hard this test was. 

I couldn't even help him study. I'd read one side of a note card, flip it over, he'd answer and I'd look at him, look at the card, look at him, look at the card and then hold it up in front of his face: "Is this what you just said?  If so - you're right!"

Needless to say calling me useless would've been a nicety.  

But thank you for all the well-wishes and happy thoughts that were flung toward our lil' WVian 'burb - it totally worked!

:)

Painting Pinky Pies

Yesterday I pulled on a pair of sparkly yoga pants, a purple t-shirt stained with various meals of days gone by and headed over to my parents' house in good ol' B'ville.  It's the house I grew up in and it holds many fond memories of my youth - like learning to strip off layers of wallpaper; painting a room with no central air; the joys of fabric-wrapped wiring; and, my favorite, how to paint a wood floor and NOT end up trapped in a far corner. 

Saturday was no exception as I arrived to find that neither mom nor Summer in their planning wisdom decided to gather the painting supplies--- or the paint.   To make matters more complicated they had moved the under-the-bed dresser into the hall so that it blocked the doorway to the room in which we were to be working.   The window air conditioner unit would only work on fan-mode unless you had the remote, which was in another room, in a box - somewhere - so we made do with a moderate breeze.   A ladder was propped in the doorway as well and since it did belong to my father, asleep in the next room after his midnight shift, I knew I was in for a treat as I slid it down the side of the wall and then stopped and pushed the metal shelf off of my head, slid it some more, stopped and removed the shelf from my head again, until finally, after three tries it was in the floor of the other room. 

"I swear I'm gonna come to your house at 3am and move ladders..."  Dad said from his face-down cocoon in the bed.  

Mom, Summer and I just giggled and went back to the other room.   Mom had found a color in the reject bin at Walmart which can only be described as Dusty Rose Day Glo Puce-y Pink.  

An hour later and Sis and I were sitting in the floor, dropcloths all around, painting Gillian's hand-me-down furniture a shocking shade of pink.  I've just about finished the footboard I was working on when Summer stopped me. 

"WellHOLLY!" she said.  "Ithoughtyoucouldpaint!  Lookatthat!"  And she took her brush and swiped over the various drips and leaks I'd made with my .99 cent foamie brush.  

"I can paint!" I defended and started smacking the brush around the piece of furniture.

"Andlookatthis!"  she pointed out another globby mess that I'd apparently done. 

"Gillian did it?" I said questioningly. 

"Holly!"

"Breaktime!" I said and ran downstairs to have my arthritic mother make me a sandwich.  

Summer was still shaking her head at me when Mom happened to mention that she was still feeling good from the other day. 

"What happened?"  I asked. 

"Your father tried to kill me," she said. 

"Oh," I asked nonplussed. "How this time?"

"He couldn't tell which medicine was my Glucophage so instead he just gave me a Tylenol 3 plus Codeine along with my 600 Ibuprofen.   I couldn't figure out why I felt so good but soooo tired!"

  

After painting a bookshelf (badly) a foot board (two coats - badly) and the dresser (not-so-badly) I decided to head back to see if Harry was thoroughly freaked out about his test on Monday. I try to help him but I don't even remotely understand the information to even know if he's telling me the correct answer.  I usually just have to turn the note card around and say, "Is this what you just said - if so - it's right!!!"    

"Come give me kisses! I'm leaving!" I yelled to my niece who was sitting on the bathroom sink in her panties. 

"But - AUNT Holly - I don't want you to go!"  She wrapped her skinny arms and legs around me and laid her tiny head on my chest, snuggling in to my cleavage.   

So - I stayed.   And was rewarded with her snuggling next to me while we watched "The World's Biggest Tea Party! LIVE!", a My Little Pony Special, and endured twenty minutes of Gillian Raspberries and spittle before I finally left my parents'  home - soggy, flocked in pink paint, and with the knowledge that Dad may be trying to kill Mom and that I am not a good painter. 

The latter of which disturbs me more...

Harry's taking his test tomorrow - send happy  "Get a 94%" vibes our way - k?   

THANKS!

Not-so-Hidden Talents and Letting them Eat Cake

I've, somehow, become the go-to-gal for quick and effortless (on their part) speeches, wedding toasts, love poems, resumes, cover letters, letters of recommendations and delicately phrased emails of woe.  

I'm not sure where one develops the talent to lament on the merits of an 18 year old they've never met but who is SURELY deserving of that scholarship (mom-ordered), or to talk about the miracles of childbirth, the lactation process and weening (sister-ordered), or even to write the loving speech of a father to his only/favorite daughter (mom-ordered - again), but that's where I am.  

I don't mind doing it.  With just a few short phrases from the, uh, donor, I can make one sound like the (insert chosen emotion here) person they really are (or mean to be).   But is this a talent. And if so - can I charge?

But I digress.  We had a demo today (via "Go to My Meeting") which was the end all of boringness.   I'm sure the men who were clicking and pointing on the other end of the net were relishing in their timekeeping system and as much as I knew that this was really a good thing - that timekeeping has to be a priority - it still didn't keep my eyes from crossing nor did it keep me from wandering into my own little imagination.   I realized, at one point, that something funny was said so I laughed and snorted with the rest of my crew.  I still don't know what was so funny.  Perhaps it was me.   I will never know. 

Harry takes his "Big Freakin' Test" on Monday.   Maybe by then things will have straightened out - for the both of us.   Maybe I'll have even found a way to charge for my somewhat-meaningful prose and pad my measly W-2 by next year!  

So - wish us luck - we're gonna need it.  

Especially him as he just stole my perfectly portioned-off piece of cake, ran into the living room and held me at bay with one size 13 foot planted right across my chest.   I screamed, I cajoled, I poured out real tears but nothing would make him release my sweet prisoner from his smiling, crumb-covered lips.   He eventually gave me the battered piece of cake back.  Sat it down on the table , scooted it toward me -  and then --- went and opened my last bottle of coveted Coca-cola.  

The bastard.   

I will get even.   

He has to go to sleep sometime... and I still have icing!!!  hahahaha!  

Wait - did that sound pervy?   

Ugh.  I suck at revenge.  

Wait - did that sound pervy, too?  :)

I'm not one of these sappy people who look upon the past with a kind eye and wish for the "days when."  As soon as my chubby fingers find a photo of myself, be it five years ago or ten, I cringe and begin the critique of my then-self.  "What WAS I thinking?  Bangs?  Bangs?" or "Keep dreaming, Hollykins, but white jeans and your butt was a combo that should've never been tested."

It's worse when it comes to my writings.  I'll reread an old work of fiction, or a story I started with such glaring enthusiasm, but find I can't get past the seeming stupidity of the thing. Even though I loved the idea when it was first crafted, when I then see it by the light of day I positively obliterate it like a fat kid and cake (I have a picture of me doing that too - recently).  

So what I wonder is - are we all our own worst critics? What give us the right to destroy our own delicate egos by forcing the "no, you're just stupid" line of garbage down the throat of our creative genius?   Is this something we learn as children?  Are the famed boys raised by wolves plagued with this same level of self-editing?  Or do they learn early not to bite at the hand that feeds them?

This fear of post-editing is the singular reason for any bouts I've had with Writer's Block - both present and future.  I'm not so much afraid of what the public would think of my word-stringing - but I do fear what me, my own worst enemy, would do to it later while armed with an arsenal of Word-weapons courtesy of Microsoft. 

And, as if on cue, I just knocked over a half-full glass of Coca-Cola and covered my table, power cord, chair and floor with the sticky beverage.   I instantly berated myself for the sheer stupidity of the act and then laughed at the irony of this blog and grabbed a towel to mop up the mess.  

I used to get really upset over my clumsiness until one day, when I was about thirteen, I was in the kitchen at home and was loading up a large plate of spaghetti and meat sauce on to my paper plate (we're hillbillies - we don't like "doin' the dishes").  My dad wished to fill up a plate of cole slaw on the other counter - so - instead of turning slightly to let him pass - I lifted my plate up - and plastered it across my budding chest. 

I looked down at my brand-new white sweatshirt, now with a large red stain on it - and then looked at the sea of familial faces.  Their eyes were wide - awaiting my tantrum. 

And I burst out laughing.  

I couldn't get mad at myself - it was too funny - and stupid.  But in a good/bad way. 

I've learned, over time, to be more forgiving of my accident-prone self.  Perhaps if I treated my writing the same way, I'd learn not to beat myself up over every mistaken "it's" for "its."

Even now, I've reread this post four times and am not sure if it's "blogworthy." But since I've already sacrificed a half-bottle of coke to the cause -I'm hitting "PUBLISH POST," and pray that when I reread these words tomorrow morning, I will remember the spaghetti-sauced girl of days gone by...

Deepthroat and Mobile Porn

Yes, that's the title of my blog, and no, it's not what you think - ish. 

Harry met me for lunch today and we ordered a pizza - we ended up having an impormptu devil's three way with the pizza delivery boy until sauce got into "no-no" parts which led to a halt on the naughty action at hand as well as "fun with garlic sauce."

I do enjoy men that smell of expensive cologne and garlic... :)

Back to reality - Harry met me for lunch today since he is still studying like a madman for his upcoming "MUST-PASS-OR-ELSE" test.  After a quick meal at Wendy's he walked me to the car and opened my door, waited for my rolls to pass the threshold and then gently slammed the door shut.

"I want ice cream," I said before his jean-clad ass could even hit the suede insert on his Audi seats.   

"Okay - from where?"  I have no clue how I got to be so plentiful.

"McDonald's" I said and off we went to sit in a line for twenty-five minutes for me to get my sweet tooth on. 

"Here," Harry said, handing me the ginormous white mound of frozen dairy treat.  

I took it - and frowned.  And pouted. And thrust it back at him.  "Too much ice cream.  Eat it." I said, practically shoving it into his ever-lengthening and oddly-ruddy goatee. 

"Fine." With two big bites he had eaten the majority of the ice cream away.  Handing it back to me, he kept one eye on me and one eye on the road.  "Now what's wrong?"

I was sitting in my seat, face screwed up and staring at the still-too-big ice cream cone.  Without saying a word I thrust it back at him and crossed my arms. 

"Are you kidding me?" He put the entire ice cream cone in his mouth and pulled out a nubbin of dairy sitting atop the cone (which was really all I wanted).

"Wow," I said, wide-eyed.  "You should've been a porn star. "  

His face turned red,  he guffawed and I watched as he did a quick calculation of how much it would cost to clean cheap ice cream off the upholstery of his car versus how much pleasure he get out of killing his wife on the side of Route 60.  

"You bitch!" he swore as he managed not to spew the contents of his mouth on to the steering wheel, window, windshield...  "You called me a porn star! And a gay one at that!"

I couldn't breathe.  I was laughing hysterically and sputtering and trying NOT to drop the remainder of the cone in his car.   

We pulled up outside my work and I got out after carefully, slowly and deliberately, eating the rest of the cone.   

"You better not blog about this," Harry warned me.  "My throat still hurts!"  he said - which only made me laugh harder and run up the concrete stairs.   

Moral of the story?  If you're gonna call your husband a porn star - make sure to get it right -- or sit far enough away that he can't retaliate!  :)

Spark of Insanity - in WV

Last night Harry and I headed to the Big Sandy Arena to see Jeff 

Dunham, the comedian.  After circling the Arena we finally found a parking space in three feet of standing water in front of the Courthouse.  Whee - and stuff.   Good thing I wasn't trying to be all cute-like and stuff. 

Finally we make it to the Arena and find our seats which were in the front row of the side section. No sooner had we sat down then a family straight out of a Rob Zombie movie filled in the row behind us.  

"I am the TICKETMASTER! Didn't I do good - huh? Didn't I?" the young woman behind me yelled to the person sitting next to her and then immediately started hacking. I feared her phlegm would curl the back of my hair worse than the rain and puddles I just braved to get to my seats. 

"You did good, baby," her one-legged boyfriend sat down behind me and apparently his one good leg was not working that well either as he seemed incapable of not kicking the back of my grey plastic chair.  

For thirty minutes I endured being jostled and spittled on and somehow managed not to turn around and throw my pizza at them when they began, simultaneously, reading all the jokes from the jumbotron and making up their own punchlines.  The one-legged boyfriend began regaling his redneck future bride on stories of "when I'm a famous comedian."

Then I heard the sweetest sound ever.   

"I'm sorry - but you're in our seats," I turned slightly to see a young couple talking to Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum.  

"The tickets say 'Row Zero'," the one-legged man tried to explain to the couple trying to take his seats.  

"This is Row K."

"But my tickets say Row Zero."

"Well, I believe that that is Row O.  Not zero."

"Where's 'at at?"

"This is Row K," I could hear the man trying to explain it as simply as possible, "so Row O will be a few more rows up."

I tried not to laugh but the new couple sat down and said "Where's Row Zero?" and I just lost it.   

Here is a grainy photo of Jeff and his massive t-shirt shooting gun (it actually lit up) taken from my Iphone:

Roof Goofs

Harry and I are having a new roof put on the ol' casa - which - I know sounds absolutely thrilling but I can assure you  - it's not.  It's freakin' expensive.  So with that you'd think certain things would be a given like "Proper roof safety will be maintained and we'll not play with the nail guns," or "Will not pretend we can fly - at any point," and "We'll not leave a ladder leaned against your house so that anyone off the busy street which you live can climb on your roof and tap dance whilst you lie in bed all a quiver."

Well - two out of three aint bad:

 

RAISE THE ROOF!  hahaha - Sorry - had to be said!

Quit Needling Me

I work in HR, for those of you who don't know.  I am in charge of the economic future of quite a few peeps and take my job very serious on the occasion when I am required to do so.  However, due to the fact that my occupation begs certain trainings to be completed I found myself being peer pressured into doing something I was uncomfortable with and feared losing street cred with my co-workers. 

I was to be TB tested. 

Now, I know some of you are rolling your eyes and snarfing into your cookie-ensconced hand but I ask you to see it from MY point of view:  THERE'S A FRICKIN' NEEDLE INVOLVED!

"It's no big deal, they just inject you with some stuff and then you turn into an insect like that Gregor guy or become the guy from the Jurassic Park movie and it's no big deal!" I can't verify that this is what was exactly said as the room started spinning after my co-worker said the word "inject."

My child-hood was a horrendous mass of lab coats and needles so my fear of being poked is deep-rooted and very much real.  However, this means little to the nurse in my building. Nor did it mean much to her friend who was sitting, cross-legged - with one leg - in the chair in front of her desk.  

"I don't like needles," I said as I pulled up a chair.   "I don't like needles." I repeated as she smiled and waved the thing in front of me like it was a baton with streamers. 

"That's nothing!" The man in the chair spoke up as he watched her unwrap the instruments of torture. "I've had more needles in me than you can imagine!"  He leaned back in his chair and put a hand on his metal leg for emphasis. 

"I. AM. SQUEAMISH!" I repeated, loudly. I picked up a paper and fanned myself as I felt a pinch on the inside of my arm.  "SQUEAMISH!"  He cackled and my co-worker appeared in the doorway looking quite the anxious little one. 

"Do I need to carry you back to the office?" She asked - half-kidding. 

"No," I said, sniffing and holding my alcohol pad on my arm.  "I'll be fine..."

So far my little dot is red, bruised-looking and kinda bubbly. 

I think I may have the TB!

hee hee Just kidding!  I'm fine and dandy! Really!  No more tests need to be performed on me today. Fine!  I'M FINE!!!  :)

How to Lie - Badly

Actual conversation between my parents- as told to me by my sister, Summer:

Mominator:  "Hey - you were gone a long time last night. Where'd you go?"

Dadfus: "Well, I went to see Steve in the hospital-"

M: "It doesn't take no two hours to go to the hospital and back! Where else did you go?" (Sidenote - mom gets allllll kinds of Redneck when she is mad.  Her roots start sproutin' like a weed in a cornfield)

D:  "I went TO THE HOSPITAL!  I talked to Rocky and Steve and - I WAS AT THE HOSPITAL!"

M: "You were gone for TWO HOURS!"

D: "WHERE would I go? I don't go anywhere! I have no money - I go nowhere!  WHERE WOULD I GO???"  

With that he heaved himself up and went out on the back porch. A few slamming doors and twenty minutes later and Dad walks back into the living room.

Dadfus: "So when I was at Walmart last night-" he slapped his hands over his mouth.  In the timeframe it took him to walk outside, close the doors to his outbuilding and come back in he forgot he was in the middle of a fight.

I wish I'd had been there to see it.   I love my dad - I do - but his attention span and short term memory rival that of the goldfish he sentences to a cold fate in his pond. 

:)

Not-so-Grand-parents

Yesterday my mother called to tell me that my grandmother, we call her "Nan-nan," was admitted to the hospital for pneumonia.   Mom rushed from the house, hair still damp from the shower and clad only in old for-the-house-only sweat pants and sans any make-up.  When she arrived at the ER she found my grandmother a bit under the weather but decked out like her Talbot's photo shoot would be taken after the blood was drawn. 

"You and Summer can come see her tomorrow," she warned us. 

So today after a long and kinda boring Job Fair where we got stuck in Road Construction work on I-64 which turned out NOT to be Road Work but to, instead, be Road Closed Due to Body Found in Trash Can (EWWWW) I waited for Sis to come over. 

"Wegogetcontrabandfirst?" she said in her normal non-pausing speech which still makes my head spin in a mini-circle. 

"Yes," I said. "We can go to Wal Mart and go get her some contraband."  

Two hours later (ugh.) we end up in a double suite at one of the local hospitals.  

"They ask you stupid questions," Nan-nan said, explaining her love of medical doctors. 

Summer nodded.  "Like your sexual history?"  I tried to kick her but she moved.  

"Well, they asked me if I had ears and I said yes, two of 'em and went like this for some reason," Nan-nan grabbed her chest a bit and bounced. 

"Why would you do that?  Couldn't you just say, 'I have two ears'?"  I wasn't sure why they were testing her sanity but I feared that she would do worse if they asked her to count a body part of only one. 

"Holly," Summer said slowly.  "They didn't ask her about her ears, they asked her about her piercings and she gestured to her boobs."  

"Wha-huh? Nooo - did you?  NAN-NAN why did you tell them you had pierced nipples?!?!?"

She giggled and went back to pulling her pants legs up over her bare legs and flailing them about.  And then she hid her candy from the doctors.  Or us.  

So - needless to say - my grandmother is doing fine and dandy with enough spunk left in her to amuse all of the orderlies on staff. 

Or scare the crap out of 'em. 

Either way.  

I'm Drawing a Blank

 Two years ago I hung those blank canvases on either side of my french doors.  Two years ago I decided I was going to paint something brilliant on them.  Or simple.  Or colorful.  Something to compliment the mounds of Blenko glass that are placed above the door, around the fireplace and on virtually every other surface around my house.  

Lemmie just preface this by saying - I'm a color whore.  I LOVE color.  My kitchen's green with bright red accents, my living room, though painted a muted almond color, is decorated in bold punches wherever the addled eye should wander.   So when I decided to paint my own art instead of buying it already framed from Walmart as many as my WVian neighbors do (if I see ONE more framed poster of Water Lillies...) I thought, "Easy peasy.  I'll splash a bit of orange here, a twirl of green and a punch of red and - done!"  But I couldn't bring myself to do it. 

I'm - uninspired. 

Those blank canvases mock me from the large walls upon which they hang crookedly.  Their white-eyed stares follow me from room to room like the paintings of the Masters whose subjects have eyes that seem to stare through you.  

I'm not really sure why I'm so daunted.  

Maybe because they are so starkly white?

Or because there are two?

Or maybe it's because my husband stares at me from the end of the couch with that look on his face like "Hey - what are you doing?  Should you be doing that?  Hey - is that what I would want you to do?"  

Any suggestions for artwork?  Short of squibbles and dots - I'm at a loss. 

I've thought of painting a large Blenko-like bottle on them that stretches from one to the other, or a grouping of bottles so that you can see two slices of it from each canvas.

Or a large green happy face on one. 

And a large orange one on the other. 

So maybe I am Wal-mart inspired after all.   :)

You'll Put Your Eye Out!

I'm alone - a LOT - so when it comes to fixing dinner for myself it usually ends up being some poor excuse of an ordeal involving a fast food joint or whatever is stuck to the bottom of the freezer.  Today was no exception as I came home, stuck my freckled nose in our fridge (handles still crusty from the meal Harry prepared me during my illness weekend before last since a symptom of mankind includes the inability to prepare meals withOUT covering the walls like they were part of the dinnerware) and came up with - a bag of frozen broccoli.   

Two pieces of cheese and a sleeve of Ritz crackers later and my dinner was complete.   It was unbalanced, a bit crunchy at times, but it was (mostly) edible so I was moderately pleased.  

 

But I wanted more. 

Creeping back to the icebox I glanced around as if worried about getting caught and slowly slid open the bottom freezer door.  Reaching one pale, bespeckled arm into the cold abyss, I pulled back and held in my tiny little hand - a half eaten pint of Cookies and Cream ice cream from Baskin and Robbins.  It wasn't mine.   But who was going to stop me?

I grabbed a big spoon from the drawer, threw caution to the wind as I bypassed a bowl and slid back into my still-warmed seat at the kitchen table.  

I mercilessly began digging out all the cookie chunks, hacking at the creamy mound with wild abandon until it loosed its bounty unto my waiting shovel. Spoonful after spoonful of velvety

 goodness found its way to my lips as I spotted the mother of all chunks stuck to the very bottom of the flimsy pink carton. 

Forgetting my cautious ways, I held the carton up at an angle, peered down into the depths and pushed with all my might with my spoon against the side of the carton. 

"FWOOP!" 

The carton gave way, the spoon found its mark and - I flipped a large chunk of ice cold ice cream up into my face. 

And into my eye. 

INTO MY EYE!

I yowled and hollered and cursed as I banged my spoon on the counter and plucked the milky bits from my cheek, chin, shirt and eye.   

And then I looked back into the carton with my watery eye. 

The cookie chunk mocked me as it held its ground. 

Squinting so as to protect my retinas from anymore flying cookie shrapnel, I dove in, caught my foe and ate it in one fell swoop.

I then sat down the carton and quickly texted Harry:  "I tripped.  fell into your ice cream tub.  ate it all.   Complete assident.  I assure u... :)"

I win. 

Little Miss Muffett Sat on a ....

When one enters the sanctuary of one's own lavatory it is a most vulnerable event as - well - you can be caught - quite literally - with your pants down.   So, as I'm perched on the porcelain potty and wishing I hadn't drank such a large glass of water right before bed - I see it.  Not three feet away and dangling suggestively ---over our toothbrushes.

A pale yellow spider, about an inch long and very meaty, was dancing and swaying, weaving and bobbing as it mocked me.   "Watch me!" It seemed to say, "watch me as I put my spidery legs really close to the bristles of your toothbrush.... I eat bugs!!! YUM!!!"   

I'm stuck - mid-pee.  I can't move.  I'm not wearing shoes to throw and since my aim is only as good as myopic vision is, I wouldn't have landed my foe anyway.  

I formulate a plan on the fly, grabbed some two-ply, fluffed it across the necessary region with one hand, flushed, and grabbed a squirt bottle with the other one. 

There, in my bathroom, with my lime-green Kmart sweatpant pooled around my pink feet, my "I love you!" post-Valentine-day mark-down panties nestled in the floor, I sprayed the spider with fifteen short bursts of water.   

Which it laughed off in tiny non-audible spidey laughs and crawled behind the freakin' mirror.  I had missed.  

And now must sleep with one eye open in fear of retaliation...

Until we meet again, Spidey, until we meet again....

Holly LVS 2 TXT!

"I sent about 500 text messages last month," Harry said to me as we got ready for bed the other night.   

"Wow! That's a lot!"  I said.  I lathered up my facial bar and began scrubbing the lingering black residue from around my eyes.   Cover Girl is a stubborn bitch sometimes. 

"You sent 2,464."

I sputtered and laughed as I tried to rinse my face off and not get soap into my eyes. 

"You sent 2,464 text messages in February.  February has 28 days.  Which is less than other months,"  Harry continued with his stupid, infallible logic . 

I was giggling hysterically at this point and careening around the bathroom trying to find somewhere to hide while water and soap bubbles clung to my cheeks.

"We have unlimited texts!  I'm getting our money's worth!" I screeched. 

"That's 88 texts a day."

I tried my best to sober up and to kick the giggles that threatened to overtake me again.  Sighing deeply I walked up to my loving husband and put a hand on his chest.

"Don't worry, babycakes," I said, my voice dripping with earnest.  "Those relationships are purely textual."

ahahahahahah!

ahahahahah!

(snort!)

ahahahahahah!

Textual!  ahahahahha!

Game On!

It's 12:15am on a Saturday night and guess where this rockin' WV chick is???

I'm in a deserted parking lot of a Gamestop.

Metallica for Guitar Hero was released tonight.

And we had to come pick it up.

Tonight.

At 12:15 am.

I'm totally giving Harry the "devil horns" hand gesture-whoops-wrong finger!

And now-I Fade to Black...

Well, Blow Me Down

AND - just because I feel the need to post another Daddy story - here ya go:

Thursday night I tottered over to the 'rents house to partake in some takeout "Jim's" spaghetti sauce (great lil' place in Huntington, WV - stop by ya'all!) and sat at the long, old table mom decided to put in her newly remodeled and modern kitchen.   

Mom was actually eating heartily for once and dad had abandoned the blaring tv in the other room to come regale us with stories of the zombies he works with at the Veteran's home.  He leaned against the sink, his blue sweatshirt straining slightly over his belly as he put both hands in his pocket --- and pulled out an open tube of super glue. 

"Uh-oh," he said while mom and I froze, food hanging halfway from our plates to our mouths. 

"Well, where's the lid?"  he dug around in his right pocket, eyes crossed in concentration before hopping slightly and yelling, "OHHH! IT BURNS! IT BURNS!"   He then grinned at mom and said ---- and here's where I died a little - again--

"It's burning! Wanna blow it?   It burns! Wanna blow it?"

He then capped his superglue, stuffed it back into his pocket and sauntered back to his blaring television set with a satisfied smile on his ruddy face. 

"Well," I said to mom as she tried to regain her appetite, "at least now when he slices off a buttcheek from putting exacto knives in his back pockets - we'll know where to find the superglue to glue it back on!!!"

That's my daddy!!!

I'm a "Killer"

My new nickname at work is - wait for it - "Killer."

That's right - I made a co-worker cry.  But, to be so mature about it, she started it.   I asked a simple question in a well-thought-out email and I got a paragraph about how I should "trust" her and other veiled accusations about me and my ability to do my job. 

Now, I'll admit, that last part made me pause as I have some doubts about my job performance quite often,  but what good employee doesn't? So I may have been a bit persnickety back.  

But just a bit. 

So, after all was said and done - I closed up shop and went home and she, apparently, sobbed on a curb.   

Really - I'm not that girl. 

I'm not a "hear me roar cuz I am a woman" woman.  

I am not a barracuda nor do I relish or denounce anything about women's lib. 

Open my door. Feed me peeled grapes.  Walk on the streetside of the sidewalk and you better be damn sure you hold the umbrella for me.   

But I'm not going to pick a fight. 

I'm not mean. 

I'm not that girl. 

So, maybe I'm in the wrong field. 

Maybe I'm assuming a persona that's not quite puzzle-picture-perfect on to my current Holly-shape.   

Or maybe I am just a "Killer" waiting to be released upon the innocent and ignorants that seem to multiply in my living area.   Maybe I AM that girl. The one on the five o'clock news and the CNN special report who, finally, snaps when faced with yet another person who cannot seem to capture the subtle art of email tone conveyance and, more difficult perhaps to grasp, the two-prong drive-thru at McDonald's.

Either way, no one likes to have their whole nature poked fun at and labeled incorrectly.  After all, labels are often placed in an area in the back, hard to read, and often quite itchy. 

So, if you excuse me, I think I need to head to curb now. 

Meh. 

Kid You Not

Just a small blog to let you all know that Harry got home safely!

Unfortunately, due to a laser tag injury to Harry's knee, our loving weekend was cut a little shorter than I'd have liked.  I was invited to play too but since I have half a brain and didn't want to make my back injury a permanent one, I, instead, spent 20 minutes being auditorally hammered by a pack of animatronic puppets.  

Two hours at Billy Bob's Wonderland is fine.  

Three hours at Billy Bob's Wonderland borders on the Redneck Version of Chinese Water Torture.  I don't remember that place being quite so, well, gross, as when I was a kid and it was Showbiz Pizza.   The puppets are the same but the location, and the amount of questionable gooey substances, have changed.   And never, NEVER, in my life do I want to enter a bathroom when a mother is profusely apologizing to a staff teen about how "if you clean up the big stuff, I can get the rest," 'cuz, well, ewwwwww!

But Harry had fun, we got to hang with friends and family and I got to see two grown men play "Tokyo Drift" - one in a bright pink Ford GT and the other, well, I couldn't see what car he was in since his nose was pressed against the glass in apparent approximation of distance from equals distance from finish line!  :)

So - uh - YAY!  Harry's home!

:)

When Life Gives you Lemons...

...tell 'em to suck it. 

I can't explain the level of my aggravation as Harry's been traipsing across the D.C. region having oodles of fun working 12 hour days while I was here watching bugs crawl up the wall.

Literally.

How sad is that?!

Since he's been gone I've had no creative juices, no ring-a-ding-dings of inspiration for stories, no romantic inklings to light kindling afire upon his return, no fun projects, no painting of canvases, no stories written, blogs posted, recipes tried and tasted and tacked on the fridge, no new music was discovered, no songs of love were created, no games won, played or even attempted in my three weeks of hermit-induced solitude. 

But I have cleaned a lot. 

I do that - ya know - when the ol mojo is on hold-o.  

Which has SUCKED.  And, since my blog ALWAYS seems to loop back to it, let's talk about sex!

The last time I went this long without having my knickers punted to the side was, um, what year is it?  The last time I can remember having a dry spell this lengthy was when my high school beau and I parted ways.   He left me for a chick with a hump and a wonky eye from Salt Rock (no, really - I kid not).   So I vowed celibacy for life.  

He was my first, my only, my one true love and he'd broken my heart and left me in a heap of dirty laundry on the floor. 

So, sis and I moved out and into a crack shanty of sorts. 

I went to school. I went to work.  I did every thing but pray in a black and white habit to solidify my nunish-ness. 

 

And then - there he was.  Baby-faced with blue eyes that sparkled with barely kept in check man-giggles and positively wreaking of a heavenly mixture of boy musk, Abercrombie cologne and garlic sauce from his day job at Papa John's pizza.  

"Do you have anything?" he asked as my knickers were punted to the side (Ah - those were the days). 

"No, of course not - I'm clean - not a thing wrong with meeeeooooooh - you mean - yeah- I have that, er those.  Hold on," I giggled and ran around the room, topless, until I found the key that was hidden in the bear that opened the box that contained the Trojan horses needed to get past the gates. 

We laughed and I wondered at the fact that two and half minutes was apparently NOT the average and - I was hooked.  

Harry, not even skirting the age of 20, had brought me back from months at the nunnery and showed me that sex didn't have to be something that's skirted around. 

Obviously - I learned that lesson well!

We lost each other after that.  We dated others.  We connected again - I was seeing someone else - and Harry was sporting pseudo dreads.  

ButI was hooked - again.   

Some trimming (both literally and figuratively) and here I sit - still.  Waiting anxiously for my love to come home again and love me again. 

To find me again. 

To hook me again. 

So pass the lemonade, peeps!  Life gave me a bunch of lemons and I survived! I made it!  Stung the eyes a bit and was a whole bunch of sour - but I made it.  I can make it.   

Well, until he comes  home tomorrow, anyway!

My Husband Made Me Do It

"Will you do me a favor?" Harry twisted his words up at the end, adding a little bit of a "you know you can't say no" lilt to it. 

"Sure, baby, what do you need?" I said, trying not to roll my eyes as his requests usually leave me standing in a long line with sweaty men, all of us clutching an over-priced gadget to our chests.   

"Will you post this on your blog for me?"  

And here it is - the story - as told to me by my loving husband:

Andrew and Harry were two non-assuming males.  Both loved expensive steaks, overpriced mashed potatoes and oodles of hair gel.  Their lives were the picture of perfection according to GQ magazine.  Both had women who loved them, enough must-have gizmos that even Bill Gates himself would want to come over and play and were also the owners of two very respectable and number-laden occupations tucked neatly under their perfectly coordinated and distressed belts.  

And then they pulled up to a stoplight in a downtown D.C. neighborhood.  

The Prius in front of them rolled to a stop and the doors flung open.  Harry and Andrew, two men who have damn near seen it all, watched as two Asian students laughed and scurried around the car and then rushed back inside the tiny imported car with a speed usually left for foreign game shows and Olympic trials. 

"Was that," Andrew's eyes grew wide in amazement, "An actual Chinese firedrill?"

"Yes," said Harry as the light changed and he eased the gas pedal down on his handy Audi.  "Yes, I believe it was a true Chinese firedrill!"

And the two went on to live happily ever after with the gals of their dreams who, of course, were tortured with this same damn story ad nauseam.  

(Groan!) 

Well, Excuse Me!

Finally, after days of utter misery I went to my first real Chiropractic appointment on Thursday.   I hobbled in and felt the butterflies in my stomach start to beat mercilessly in all directions as if they could see a light at the end of the tunnel and had to get out. My back was still not yielding in its pursuit of driving me insane and as I was led in to the office of the man who would either be my savior or my torturer I was a little taken aback by the

 things that decorated his office.   Among the bi-plane models, corvette Z06 car and plastic spines, there was Jesus string art:

and an empty gumball machine:

and the window I almost escaped out of: 

Good thing my angst was unfounded.  After I was tested for mobility, x-rayed, and placed in various positions on a table ("If you're going to ask me if that hurts - the answer is yes!!!") and a few accidental flashes (those tables were NOT made for the chubby - nor were the split up the back gowns!) I was finally hooked up to some electrodes and shocked for a good 20 minutes. 

I, the sicko, loved it!!

I'm back the next day, sitting in a chair with more of those relentless butterflies.  My stomach is rumbling and my lunch, eaten while typing emails to various supervisors about god-knows-what, is trying to make a reappearance. 

Dr. Chiroman then calls me back, shocks me some more and then shows me my spine.  It's a little un-moving-like at the bottom so as he explains to me in far more detail than my layman mind can comprehend I stare at the xray and wonder how my tiny spine can hold up my non-tiny chub.  It looked - scared. Fragile - even.  

"What caused this?" I asked him, fearing the worst would start with "good steaks and food with flavor" and end with "chocolate bon-bons."

"That's like trying to determine what exact food caused a cavity" he said and I was content. 

Then he put me on the table and jumped on  me.

I was so surprised by it that I couldn't react. 

But as my spine cracked - I went "Ohhhhhh" and I knew it was love at first adjustment. 

Turning over to my right side my stomach clenched as I knew I was to be laid on again.   I was nervous and as he bumped against me to get my spine to crack, the air between the vertebrae, held in all day, suddenly escaped in three short bursts.  At least that's what I was telling myself as he continued to manipulate me and my face turned red before my spine cracked and he jumped off of me and ran to the other side of the room. 

I was mortified. 

Here was this man, trying to save my posture, keep me from pain and trying just to be a good doc and help me and I repay him by farting on him. 

Three times.   

He seemed unfazed.  I, on the other hand, looked at the plastic spine dangling to my right and tried to figure out how it could be a suicide aid.  

So even though I embarrassed myself to no ends - he still wants to see me - three times a week for two weeks and if that doesn't work - MRI time to look for nerve damage. 

Either way, whatever he did seem to help as I was able to bend over to pick up stuff I dropped on Monday,  yesterday and today I have managed to do a load of laundry. 

I have my next appointment tomorrow morning and I'll be there, hopped up on the anti-gas-drug-Beano. 

After all, I really only want my spine to crack - nothing else!!!

:)