Welcome to My Life

"Beep! Beep" Goes the Weirdo

2012-01-18T22:59:00.002-05:00

"I really have to go to buy milk - wanna come?" I asked my sister as we walked, arms linked, from another successful night of wine and frivolity at our friend Amy's house.

"Sure!"

A short drive later and a few snarfs of laughter (we can't help it - our brains go into hyper mode when in short proximity to each other) we arrived at Kroger to buy cereal and milk. No sooner had we steered our small cart into the aisle and were debating the price of "Fruit Rings" to "Fruit Loops" did a man pop from around the corner.

"BEEP, BEEP!" he said and smiled as he hopped in front of us. Clothed in a white dress shirt, dark slacks, a tie and one of the god-awfulest toupees I had ever seen, he was also too tan for winter, and too old to be uttering the words "beep, beep."

"Now," he boomed to his waiting audience of two 'tweens nearby. "I want to buy something that's less than thirteen cents an ounce!"

"Okay - let's find a cereal for me..." Summer and I moved on down the row, leaving the man and the girls behind.

"What about-"

"BEEP! BEEP!" the man interrupted.

"Oh, excuse us!" My sister and I apologized for being in his way as we are children of the children of the Great Depression and were taught that manners, above all else, were to be maintained even when one is contemplating beating the hairpiece off a random stranger by sheer force of will - and a 64oz box of generic Cheerios.

"You want a good cereal! Try this!" he then popped a box of Grape Nuts in my face and added, "put in some brown sugar and serve it hot." He winked. I suppressed a shudder but remained diplomatic on the surface of my freckled and bespeckled face.

"Okay, I'll try it. But if it's not any good - I will hunt you down!" I laughed and tossed the box in my cart and tried to get away.

"Wait! You said you'd hunt me down, huh? In that case - add mustard and parsnips!"

"I like those, too!" I yelled behind me as we ran for the dairy case.

"Are you gonna toss out the box of Grape Nuts now?" Summer asked as we flattened ourselves against the refrigerators of Vitamin D.

"Nah. Sad thing is - it actually does sound good!"

We grabbed some milk, ran through the check-out line and hurried to my waiting van.

"Those poor girls that were with him. I mean, that was probably their dad. Can you imagine having to live with that?!?!"

Summer paused, and her cute, upswept nose turned to face me from profile.

"Holly? That's probably what people say about us and our daddy."

I stared at the red light in front of me, contemplated her observation, and completely lost it as I dissolved into dash-slapping giggles and hornks of laughter.

She's right.

Our dad is the weird guy who makes lame jokes. But, and this is important, he does NOT wear some floppy, streaky toupee.

That floppy, white-streaked mess is all his own.

BEEP BEEP!

Rude, Much?

2012-01-13T14:19:00.002-05:00

Actually managing to book a sitter, the hubs and I went to the mall to return a few things - among them were a pair of running shoes that while I loved them - I certainly didn't need two pair at this time, so my pretty purples were to be taken back to Lady Foot Locker.

A tall, slim blonde waited on Harry to take the shoes out of the bag and hand her the sales receipt. He immediately balled up the bag, pulled on the front strap of my messenger bag and shoved the wadded plastic in between my boobs.

"Did you want to keep the other pair?" the girl asked Harry while I struggled to release my strap.

"GOD! That is SO rude!" I said dramatically.

The salesgirl, hereafter known as "Bambi," paused and stared at me with wide eyes. I smiled weakly at her and then, glaring at my husband, I pulled out the bag and slammed it on the counter.

I was feeling a bit jumpy because, well, I had to pee and BAM! closed their bathrooms to the public. Never mess with a gal who has to pee. She WILL do bad things.

"I thought you meant ME!" Bambi giggled and turned back to her register.

"Oh, no, no! Just my mean ol' husband, here!" I laughed.

"Okay, so was there anything wrong with this pair of shoes?" Bambi asked a few minutes later after she had pushed some buttons and scanned some codes.

"Nope. I bought two of the same shoe and the other one is working out just great."

"Oh, did you join a gym?" she asked.

Now, a normal person would've answered her quickly and frankly, but seeing as how I am, at any given time, processing entirely too many thoughts at once, I stood there and apparently stared at her with a squished-up, constipational-like face.

I was thinking:

"No! I just have to run after a toddler all day so - well - yeah! I guess I did kinda join a gym!" (insert self-deprecating chuckle).
"No! I have a lymphatic issue and have to wear good shoes - alllll the time! No heels for me!" (insert self-deprecating chuckle).
"No! I don't have time to shave my legs much less go to a fancy-pants gym! "(insert self-deprecating chuckle).
"No! I'm good with being fat." (insert self-deprecating chuckle).

But instead, I just said:

"No!"

A few minutes later we were strolling toward Macy's and the comforts of their facilities when Harry turned toward me. "Wow," he said. "I really thought you were gonna bitch-slap that girl for asking you if you joined a gym!"

"Wait - was I rude? Was I really? Oh GOD! I was, wasn't I?" I stopped in mid-pee-pee dance to look at my husband imploringly.

"No!" he said.

Am seriously considering sending her a cookie cake with the words "I'm sorry. I had to pee. I didn't mean any rudeness." (insert self-deprecating chuckle).

***The shoe to start all meltdowns***

The Dreadmill

2012-01-10T22:03:00.002-05:00

Ahhh - the New Year.

A time of new beginnings. New DIEts. And new sentences that begin with "This year immagonna..."

I freakin' hate this time of year.

But as my toddler is encroaching upon his second year of life, and my personal space, with an alarming speed, I have decided that I need to at least be able to, ya know, GET MY FAT ASS OFF THE COUCH IN UNDER THREE MINUTES!

We all need goals, people.

So today, January 10th, I stared at The Treadmill. I loathe that name - "Treadmill," it's like someone naming their kid something that will guarantee to get them beat up in the playground. And the name itself just makes me wanna stay far, far, away as I think only thin people with words written on the butt of their sweats ever actually GET on the cursed things.

So I quickly emailed a very smart friend and asked her if she would help me rename it.

And thus began the life of "THE DREADMILL."

I approached the large monster holed up in the corner of my basement with trepidation.

Sighing, I started to look for the button to release it from its resting position and lower the belt so I could then haul my pudgy ass upon it.

Fifteen minutes pass while I yell, scream, cry, giggle and slap at The Dreadmill.

And then I found the knob. Hiding in plain sight.

The fat girl in me wanted to retreat. To go into the downstairs kitchen and pull out a glass bottle of coveted Coca-cola and waddle to the overstuffed leather couch to watch "Dinosaur Train" with my baby boy.

But I pulled up my big girl stretch pants, shifted my boobs back into their cups and re-pulled my ponytail into a sloppy bun.

I was determined.

I was ON THIS.

I was GOING THE LIMIT!

I was out of frickin' breath!

Two minutes in and I'm keeling over the rails like an 80-year-old smoker with black lung. Actually, my grandfather died of black lung and I'm pretty sure that in the weeks preceding his death, he could've ran circles around me - with his walker.

Ten minutes later I shove off of The Dreadmill and duck-walk back to the couch vowing never to approach the beast again whilst sober. About the time I'm deciding to start drinking for my new New Year's resolution my toddler comes up to me, rests his tiny blonde head on my chubby knee and sighs deeply. And I know then - I will be back on The Dreadmill by morning.

Even if it kills me.

Which it probably will.

In Your Face

2011-12-27T23:00:00.002-05:00

"Wow. Your makeup looks really good today!" my husband glanced away from the traffic ahead to pay me the highest of compliments.

"Uh. I'm not wearing any makeup," I said.

"I know," he said, smiling slyly. "I know."

Yup - after 8 years of dating and 11 years of togetherness my husband still knows how to compliment me, insult me, and also guarantee a night on the couch - all in one breath.

Now THAT'S talent.

Domistic Bliss and Other Lies I Tell Myself

2011-12-17T21:56:00.001-05:00

On Thursday I decided to be Lil Miss Happy Homemaker and whip up a giant pot of homemade vegetable soup.

Here are the ingredients:

Every canned vegetable you have in the house

Every bag of frozen vegetable in the freezer

Four Taters (Potatoes to you non-country folks)

Two cans stewed tomatoes

Two cans of water (I used the tomato can to measure)

A can of Tomato Sauce

Some salt

Some sugar

Some pepper (cracked)

And a can of Corned Beef

Toss in pot and boil for a bit, then simmer and then let it go for hours.

I only had two problems by the end of the day.

One was that I threw my back out AGAIN - obviously because my warranty didn't cover extraneous things like COOKING DINNER and --

Two, this kid kept following me around:

Ever tried to peel potatoes with one hand while simultaneously trying to keep a cabinet from being flung into your shins with the other?

It's talent, I tell you, TALENT.

Wanna know HIS talent?

He will only poop in a clean diaper.

And - he can clear a room in thirty seconds flat soon thereafter.

In that way he takes after his father.

Who is so proud.

And he'll tell you himself - when he gets out of the potty.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL YOU OUT THERE WHO CELEBRATE IT, HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO THOSE WHO DON'T AND HAPPY 25TH OF DECEMBER TO THOSE WHO ARE PERPETUALLY CONFUSED OR WHO DON'T LIKE GIFTS BECAUSE THEY WERE DROPPED ON THEIR HEADS, OR RAISED BY WILD GRINCHES OR --- I DON'T KNOW, ARE TEAM EDWARD OR SOMETHING.

(hee hee)

Throwing the Game

2011-12-12T21:33:00.002-05:00

The rugrat is now 20 months old.

That's a full-on toddler for those of you who don't know and over a year and a half for those of you who can't do math.

He's a ball of energy, so sweet, and so forgiving - and other times he's hell-on-size-8C-shoes, but I digress.

Yesterday my husband and I are playing "football" with the kid.

"Here, take the ball from Daddy! TACKLE!" and they'd both tumble to the ground in a heap of giggles and exposed buttcracks (neither can seem to hold up a pair of pants with or without the aid of a belt or a butt).

Eventually Daddy decided to try tossing the football at the kid.

Who is still working on fine motor skills.

So, ya know, the football, covered in blue smiling smurfs, beans him right in his grinning, gap-toothed face.

"Oh no! I'm sorry!" Daddy scoops him up and covers his little face with kisses and the game was back on.

Several minutes later my husband looks at me and says: "Wonder if that hurts? I better try it out." I watch in disbelief as he takes off his glasses, removes his hat and positions the football a few inches from his face.

WHOOOOOOSH!

The football, so carefully aimed, flies OVER his curly head, past the baby gate, down the hallway and into the laundry room.

"How in the HELL did you miss THAT?!?!?" I cried in between gasps of hornking laughter.

"Ahahahahah! I'm AWESOME!" he said.

And then got tackled by a toddler seeking revenge and packing wooden blocks.

Eye for an Eye

2011-10-10T22:06:00.002-04:00

Three hours spent sitting in an exam chair, trying to memorize the eye chart before the doc lumbers in is really no way for a relatively young person to spend her day. I finished TWO books while waiting and had used all three of the mirrors in the exam room to fix my eye make up, my lipstick and my hair.

I was the picture of perfection.

And impatience.

I huffed, I snuffed, I puffed and I tantrumed (internally) until the doctor came in and declared my eyes no longer icky (I paraphrased him. A lot).

"Give her an eye rinse and then we'll try some lenses..." he muttered and walked out of the room. He had barely cleared the door when I was instructed to tilt my head back and look down. What happened next has only been documented in Chinese torture cells before - the woman --- SQUIRTED MY EYE WITH WATER!

"Aaaack!" I choked as I fluttered my eyes and gripped the chair.

"Next eye!" she half-screamed at me in a sing-song voice.

No sooner had I dabbed the dribbles from my right eye did she start spraying my left one. Her aim was less than stellar as I felt the water pool in my cleavage and nestle close to my earlobe.

When it was over and I was being consoled by another assistant, one that I had bonded with when I admitted to her that I was off Seasonique as it was "The Devil's Birth Control," she asked if I was okay.

I stuffed my bra with tissues (the first time since middle school) and fanned myself with my Sookie Stackhouse novel.

"I feel like I was just accosted by a clown with a seltzer bottle!" I said as I continued to mop up my person.

She started at me for a beat and then we both dissolved into mutual hysterical laughter.

So, the moral of the story is, even if you have to wait for three hours to see a doc and you're sprayed in the face by a sadistic nurse with a Bozo fetish, please try to keep smiling - after all - no one really wants to wait on you anyway. :)

PS - I'm in trial contacts now. If I "fail" the test these next few days - I'm banned from Bausch and Lomb for 6 weeks. If I fail it again and my eyes revolt and start resembling raisins again - I will be out of them for 6 months. Failure for the third time is the final straw and I will then be forever known as "Melancholy Holly and the Four Eyes of Ick."

You Again?!?!

2011-09-27T21:08:00.002-04:00

"You again?!?!" the very large doctorman/young Santa said as he strolled through the doors of Exam Room 3.

"Yup. Me again," I tried to smile but doing so made the right side of my face howl in pain. So I grimaced at him oh-so-attractively.

"Another sinus infection?!?! " he said. I was wondering if he spoke in non-question mark/exclamation points to other patients or if I was just lucky.

"Yup," I replied wittily. (<--- Sarcasm. Right there. SAR-CAS-MMM).

"This is getting to be an every three month thing. Are you sure it's a sinus infection?" he asked me, the patient. I stared at him for a second and then smiled/grimaced again.

"No, not really. I don't feel sick at all. I'm just swollen from my nose to my cheek. It's hard to see really, 'cuz of my chub-" I paused here as I realized I either just insulted his poofiness or - referred to my face as a happily erect penis - "but you can see my glasses leave a crater in my face. I thought it was just a mondo zit!" I finished up the embarrassing statement with what I thought was a very astute observation about my knowledge of medical terms. I mean, "Mondo Zit" has to be in some medical book somewhere. Maybe "Facial Deformities for Dummies"?

"Well, let's see..." He then probed my ears, throat and - ew- nose. "I could do this all day and still go to dinner!" he exclaimed proudly.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I get pooped on once a week and it still doesn't curb my appetite." I silently willed myself to shut up. A lot.

I smiled/grimaced again.

"I think you either have the beginning of a sinus infection or you have a skin infection..." he went on to describe various gross things that could be happening within my sinus cavity to cause the swelling on my face. "I'll write you a prescription for something that should take care of just about everything it could be..." he said.

"Thanks," I said jumping off the table as fast as a fat girl possibly can and grabbing my mom purse.

"You're welcome!"

"And I guess I'll see you in three weeks!" I joked as I scurried down the hall, grimacing, smiling, and clutching my purse. I could hear him chuckling as he strode down the hall to the next room. I can now rest assured that I would be a topic of conversation at someone's dinner table tonight.

I called Harry as soon as I got outside the doors. "Well - I either have a sinus infection or a skin infection or maybe even something like an infected hair..." I said.

I paused, waiting for him to say "Oh sweetie! I am so sorry! I will take care of you and the baby when I get home and you can just relax oh and by the way I am so sorry I complained all day on Sunday and Monday and left still complaining about my sore throat when you were obviously struggling with an infection that has left you lame and swollen up like the before picture of a bee sting victim. I am soo soo sorry. Sorry. I am. So. Sorry."

But what did I get?

"Ewwwww!" he exclaimed.

So I've decided to start Halloween early in order to cover my deformity. I will be the girl in the Toyota Sienna minivan wearing the Gorilla mask and beating my husband with an over-stuffed banana.

Thank you.

Covert the Coven; A sappy post about my buds.

2011-09-24T23:38:00.004-04:00

My three best girls and I are a Coven. No, we don't practice any "Dark Arts" nor have we ever blinded a newt for a spell or two - but since we figured out that our Astrological signs aligned with the four elements of earth, wind, fire and water we thought it was too funny not to dub ourselves something all-powerful and mythical - like a Coven.

So what does my Coven do for fun? We consume vast quantities of Mexican food and often hit local thrift stores for party supplies.

Yes.

We are THAT exciting.

I'm not going to lie - it was nice to just be Holly tonight and not have to be a mom. And I love my friends. They make me feel like it's not only okay to be a complete dork but it's actually encouraged. We make fun of each other like with this conversation:

Me: "Okay, so post-baby I guess I can go and be the DD - but I don't think I can do it alone. Wouldn't that be hard?"

Tiffany: "No, you just have to take care of a drunk horde!"

Summer: "Well you used to take care of me! I was like a drunk horde!"

Me: "No, sis, she said 'HORDE'...

Summer: "Yeah, Hor-oh, I hate you."

And then we all laugh outrageously and start to eat more cheese. It all works. It gels.

And this:

Stacey: (looking down and admiring the four-inch Kate Spade heels on her pretty feet) "I'm like six feet tall in these!"

Me: "Ohhh - come here!" I go in for a hug to see how much shorter I am now).

Both: "You're/I'm like at boob height!"

As Stacey pulled away tonight she stuck her shiny haired head out of the minivan and said, "Can you believe we've been friends for 20 years?"

"I know," I said and smiled.

"I mean, I guess I could make some new friends but that's so much work and I have you girls!" she said and then drove away to scrape her Marshall University-lovin' hubby off of her friend's floor.

My closest friends have been there for me since birth/elementary school/ middle school. I love these women and am amazed every day at how much they have accomplished. One deals daily with a very sweet but temperamental autistic daughter, one lives the life of a homebound gypsy who has to be very careful what she eats due to a severe allergy, one lives the life of a working mom while balancing her health on a very slippery platter. And then there's me - and I just count myself lucky to be a part of their worlds.

Lovies to the Covies!

My Opinion is AWESOME! -UPDATED!!!

2011-09-22T22:10:00.003-04:00

Okay, maybe I'm overstating the value of my opinion, BUT I have been volunteering my free time to read and review books over at www.thepenmuse.net and I am having a blast doing it! I have, so far, reviewed a book and a short story - both you can read at the link above.

It's nice to be doing something with my free time besides, ya know, mom stuff...

UPDATE:

I seem to have left off the rather important links so hover yonder mouse over the links below and, if BLOGGER was nice, you should be transported to two short little reviews that I wrote for Pen Muse. :)

http://thepenmuse.net/?p=3680 - Link To "Ghost Patrol"

http://thepenmuse.net/?p=3682 - Link to "Kafe Castro"

Toe Tag Sold Separately

2011-09-19T15:26:00.002-04:00

"Are you a little nervous, sweetie?" my doctor asked, stethoscope pressed firmly into my giving skin. "Because your heartbeat is racing..."

"Well considering I thought I'd walk in here and you'd hand me my toe tag and give me a fast pass to the County Morgue - uh - yeah. I am." I heard myself say.

She laughed and continued her poking and prodding of my fleshy flesh and, like the preteen I am (not), I tried hard not to convey just how ticklish I am and instead focused on how I inadvertently matched my polka dot undies and bra to the half gown and drape I was provided which was a gorgeous shade of pepto-bismol pink.

"Okay - you can get dressed!"she said and ran out of the room as fast as her little five-foot-nothing frame could carry her.

Later, after dressing she asked me about what medications I was on.

"Well, nothing, really. I was on 'Seasonique' but it made me - bad. It was- bad. Evil. The Devil's Birth Control." I said, waving my arms in the air for emphasis. Then, realizing how insane I must look, dropped them back into my lap on top of my iPad (never leave home without it!).

"Okay... writing THAT down..." she made a few notations and then, the inevitable, "Let's see how you did on your blood work..."

"Terrible. Awful. Failed with flying colors of Awesomeless. Which way is the morgue, again?" were all things I was ready to say. But I kept my mouth shut - for once - and only slightly worried the strain of such an impossible feat would give me just the slightest of an aneurism.

"Well, your A1C shows that you're pre-diabetic, but we can get that under control..." And I fell outta my chair, mentally speaking.

"Seriously?PRE-Diabetic???" I interrupted the Doctor who I'm sure had nothing else to do but to sit and talk to a chubby girl who was questioning whether or not she had "The Sugars."

"Uh - yeah. You're not there - yet. But your cholesterol - okay, girl, you're at 233."

"That's bad, right? Like 'dead in three weeks' bad - or just kinda bad?"

"Like 'you're gonna have to watch it,' bad. But I think you can fix it. You're a smart girl."

Now, don't get me wrong - but in my experience the phrase "You're a smart girl" is usually preceded by the following:

1. An unmitigated, unrequested, unwanted, and undesired increase in work load.

2. A slight at one's intelligence based on the non-getting of a witty joke. As in "You're a smart girl. You'll figure it out."

3. A not so fun way of making sure you'll prove yourself capable and "smart" so that you will not disappoint the person in a position of authority (i.e. Mom, Doctor, Dentist, Butcher, etc.).

So with that I was sent on my way with a handful of prescriptions and then did what any girl would do - I shopped.

I bought "Missoni for Target" headbands, socks, a scarf and --- fittingly enough --- nuts.

And as I depart on this wacky journey of carb-counting and chol. watching - I can only hope that I am, in fact, a "Smart Girl" who can handle this added impediment of ickiness to her daily routine and who will not, I hope, end up face-down in a plate of homemade deep-fried Brie, a wilted Toe Tag clutched in her tiny, chubby, greasy hands...

To be continued... :)

Doc AcK!

2011-09-18T21:29:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow I go to the Doctor for my first post-op baby check-up. Yes - the baby I had almost 18 months ago, why do you ask? :)

While pregnant I was diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes and I pretended to look shocked as I was told that my sugar was dangerously out of whack. It was an emotion not easy to fake as I was so tired all the time I was virtually drooling onto the Informational Packet and Epipen-like needles in front of me. I woke up a bit when I was told to start sticking myself like a misinformed Voodoo doll.

But I digress.

I managed to actually lose weight while pregnant. My baby was born a healthy 8 pounds and was 21.5 inches to boot. And I was down almost six dress sizes.

And then came the Depression.

Oh wow.

That was a DOOZY. I was planning my escape to Tijauana on $20 when I finally asked for "help."

So I was prescribed Prozac. For those of you who have met me, read a thing or two about me or by me you know that I pride myself on being able to turn a phrase and can sketch a completely dead-on imitation of most anything on the planet - so imagine my surprise when I could barely string together a sentence or draw a straight line. I would stare into space for hours at a time.

Prozac had made me less of a flight risk to my new family but, unfortunately, managed to shut off my brain -- including that part that said "Woah - another cookie? Really?" So I gained back all my pre-baby weight. And then some.

And then maybe a little bit more.

It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I finally broke down and called my general doc and said "Hey - I'm a freakin' mess - can I go have some tests run and then you can yell at me about how I'm all unhealthy and stuff?" Okay - so I'm paraphrasing - but you get the idea.

So tomorrow I am going to voluntarily go and get yelled at.

It's like that show but this version would be: "Scared Straight - Fat Girls."

Just thinking about it makes me wanna throw up.

Or down a tray of freshly baked cookies.

Oh -wait -what's that over there on the stove??? hee hee .

Ugh.

A Buck and a Bunny

2011-09-13T21:46:00.003-04:00

I decided to go out on a limb and stick my old Superhero Novella in for a Superhero Anthology.

It was rejected.

I read the email on my Sunday - my birthday.

I knew it wasn't dashing enough to make the cut, but it was cute, it was clever, and it was funny and a wee bit sexy at times (well - not really but if the author can't stifle giggles during copulation her characters ain't gonna be able to either).

So I stuck "Super Bunny" (a Superhero Novella!) on Amazon - I wanted to do it for free but the site wouldn't let me - or I couldn't figure out how.

If you have a $1 and want to take a chance - go for it.

If it doesn't inspire a chuckle - I will pay you back.

EXHAUST-ing the Possibilities

2011-08-22T20:56:00.002-04:00

"I'm so hot. I'm soooo hot."

"I want to... do it.... Can we? MMmph? It's a furnace in here."

"Holly? Holly? HOLLY!!! I know what I want to do with my car."

My husband talks in his sleep. Especially when he's exhausted. But unlike most of his fellow sleeptalkers, his conversations are not one-sided. He likes to wake up to a semi-coma state, put his face thisclose to mine and slur words in my face. And my face? It's often asleep. And then pissed.

I once tried not answering him and ignoring him to see if he'd go back to sleep - or at least shut up, but it was an epic fail.

He just got louder.

And started climbing me.

So as I pulled my laptop up on me in bed and finished up an email to a friend the other night I was none too surprised when his ghostly pale and hairy face swam into my peripheral vision. He was up on one elbow and squinting at me.

"What? What is this? What IS this?" He was clutching his pillow in awe and showing it to me like it was encrusted in diamonds instead of man-drool. "What IS THIS?!" Apparently he thought it was a magical portkey to another dimension filled with v-8's and topless models because he was downright incredulous of the thing.

So I did what any sweet, nurturing and wonderful wife would do.

"It's a fuckin' pillow. You put your head on it and go back to sleep."

And he did.

I think I handled that quite well.

Pretty Sick - but not "Pretty Sick"

2011-08-16T13:05:00.002-04:00

I will never forget watching "Sleepless in Seattle" and seeing Meg Ryan fling open the door to greet Tom Hanks as she is so uberly sick that she looks --- awesome. Now, I know the magic of movies shows us the "wants" and not the "as is" - but COME ON!

I'm sick now and do I look like a curly-headed, perky, red-nosed and adorably flushed Meg Ryan?

No - I look like a girl who rolled outta bed, tossed on a t-shirt and pulled her UGG boots up to her nipples in attempts to keep warm.

I am pretty sick, yo.

And on DayQuil, yo.

Which makes me say and do stupid things -- like saying "yo" a lot.

(Yo.).

So, yeah, all my orifaces are on strike or fire (there's a mental image for ya!) and my throat hurt so bad yesterday that after a sneezing fit seen only on episodes of Looney Toons (post-pepper mill battle), it started making an odd clicking noise which, of course, leads me to think - I broke my larynx. Or something else in there. The hangy down thing? Maybe I sprained a tonsil?

No clue.

BUT I do know this - I am not a "pretty sick" person. I am awful. Slack, jawed, chapped lips that swell into something disturbing like Angelina Jolie's fat stunt double, and Puffs (with lotion!) stuffed so far up my nose that I may as well start auditioning for whatever Syfy flick is being made for tv. My eyes also swell shut so putting in my required 85 drops a day to keep me from going blind is not unlike trying to squeeze apart something wrapped in heavy-duty clamshell packaging.

So as I sit here in the kitchen, blogging, dripping, coughing, hacking and whining, I can only think to myself - DEAR GOD LET ME DIIIIIIIIIIIE! And the alternative: If Sudafed is semi-contraband due to the fact that one can cook it and make Meth - does that mean Meth is, like, the ultimate Cold Suppressant?

FIELD TRIIIIIIP!

The One in Which I Need to Stop Trusting the Internet

2011-08-12T20:40:00.003-04:00

Baby Harry has a few minor health issues that tend to blanket my mommy field of vision when I'm looking at him, so when I lifted him out of his carseat at my parent's house the other day andnoticed what looked like old oatmeal stuck to his head - I was horrified. Then I saw that it was ALL OVER HIS HEAD and I was mortified.

Dude has Cradle Cap - at 16 months old.

Then again, since he has to use special soap and lotion and cream for the other 99% of his body - why should I be shocked his head was dry, too?

So I did what any other mom of Googling age would do - I looked up "solutions" on the internet.

Stupidly.

A lot of people suggested using combs and certain shampoos while several others had luck with mineral oil or olive oil or coconut oil. One particularly lively poster had a raring success with A&D Ointment! Well, I thought to myself, I have that! I have a tube of that in every room so I'll (stupidly) take up a big handful of it and shove it on his head and then comb out those scales! Yeah!

Stupid.

Although, it did work.

Mostly.

But now - I can't get it out of his hair and he looks like this:

Needless to say I've withdrawn my name for consideration for Mother of the Year.

Harry Vs. Elmo

2011-08-10T22:45:00.002-04:00

Harry likes to show his Elmo Chair who's boss.

But --- sometimes--- Elmo fights back.

Toys for Boys and Creatures of Green Goo

2011-08-09T12:13:00.003-04:00

After twenty minutes of trying to wrangle my 16 month old away from playing with things like the trashcan (ew.) or the dishwasher (dirty.) or the cabinets (I like him having ten fingers, thank you very much). I finally gave him a new Melissa and Doug Wooden toy and plopped him on the cold tile next to me in the kitchen making me question not only my sanity but also makes me wonder if I'm more like "Clara" from the webshow "The Guild" than I care to admit.

But after three days of taking care of a baby who is more snot than substance most of the time - I need a break.

Even if it's just a few minutes to pop online, see what celebrity nipple-slipped today and what's new in the old world of Harry Potter.

And when he gets like this?

This crazy "nothing-you-do-pleases-me-vile-woman-so-watch-as-I-cry-until-I-can't-breathe" baby who should love me for giving him life but instead seems his damnedest to make ME cry until I can't breathe?

I can't deal with it.

I've read books, forums, asked the doctor and even posted things on facebook akin to "HOLY CRAP MY BABY IS UUUUUUUP MY BUUUUUUUTT - SEND HELP!" but nothing works. He has separation anxiety when he feels good - but when he feels bad? Oh holy schnikies look out. He reminds me of any green, dripping "monster" that the Scooby Gang encountered.

And at any moment I expect him to rip off his mask and reveal my sweet, darling boy that I have come to know and love .

So until he's unmasked - I will plop him in the floor, wish I had a maid to clean said floor, and continue to toss puzzles and toys at him until nap time.

Which I am counting down to like a freakin' shuttle launch.

T-minus 35 minutes and counting!!!!

She's My - Tomato PIE!

2011-08-08T21:13:00.002-04:00

Okay now that "Cherry Pie" by that one hair band that I can't remember their name cuz I'm old and I have to remember other things like how many times I've taken my medication, which, of course, I can't remember either and - wha? Crap. Tangent. Where was I? Oh yeah. Hair bands. Kidding!

I made Tomato Pie tonight. It was awesome! --- I think.

The Paula "I butter my butter" Deen recipe called for : Tomatoes, cheddar cheese, mozz cheese, mayo, basil and green onion and a pie shell. I had half of these so I improvised with cheddar cheese, mexican cheese, mayo, spinach, onion and a pie shell. All one had to do was slice the tomato, layer it with the onion and green stuff and then smear on the mayo/cheese coating.

And bake at 350 for 30 minutes.

It kinda ended up tasting like a confused quiche. But Drema (aka "The Mammy") liked it so I guess I should consider it a compliment on my cooking/subbing prowess.

What else is new with Holly the Master Chef Shivel?

Well, I think I'm officially dying. At almost 33 years old I have hit the plateau of being "unhealthy" and realized that I really CAN'T get any more unhealthy without having to order all my clothes through the mail.

From big catalogues.

With Circus Folk on the cover.

So I set an alarm on Monday to remind me to call my doctor and only after snoozing it 14 times did I finally call. And I asked for the works: Blood Sugar, Thyroid, Cholesterol, you name it - I was gonna have it tested. And yes, I actually requested them to take more blood.

"Would you like to come have the lab drawn here?" the ever-pleasant nurse asked me over the phone.

"Would you like to have to pick me up off the floor when I pass out like a whiny baby?" I asked.

"So - let's send you to the hospital..."

I'm glad to finally be taking charge of my life. For years I've been self-destructive and uncaring since I really only had me to hurt but seeing as how I've noticed I'm the only one (big Harry not included) who is going to stand up for that little sweet-cheeked boy who just screamed at me -- not his fault - 'roids' bender-- for a good two hours - I figure I better be able to live past 45 and get to see him graduate high school.

And be able to squeeze my big fluffy posterior into those damn stadium seats at the Civic Arena. I swear - If I'm ever at that damn arena and it collapses to the ground in a pile of rubble - I'll be the only one to survive - pinned in my seat like a sausage in a pair of tongs - high above the skinny ass carcasses who died in their skinnier jeans.

But I digress.

The pie? It was weird but good.

Me? Weird but good, too.

You Are What You Eat - Part II

2011-08-02T22:07:00.002-04:00

Now that baby Harry is a big ol' 16 monther - things have ---changed.

No longer will he gobble up anything that is placed in front of him like a starved hyena on a vegetarian date, no, he now positively wails at anything that is not a hot dog, a potato, a sugary-laden substance, or a puff.

Some days I handle his refusal of food very well and just hand him a pouch of apple sauce or an organic blend of something that someone else has made, packaged and slapped a $1.39 price tag on, knowing at least he'll get the nutrients he needs.

Some days, however, do not end as well.

Like tonight.

Baby Harry refused to eat --- mashed potatoes.

I tried to reason with him which just made him wail louder.

I tried to "airplane" it in the "hanger" which just made me wear it.

I tried to sing songs "YUMMY YUMMY YUMMY FOR YOUR TUMMY TUMMY TUMMY!" which just made him cry harder (hmph. Everyone's a critic.).

So, finally, I took some on my finger and smeared it on his lips. Now, before you go calling CPS on me I only used a small amount and it was in attempts to get him to taste it and realize that I was not tricking him into eating turnips or cottage cheese or some other "horrendous" food.

It worked.

For two seconds.

He stopped. Licked his lips. Waved his hands. And then erupted into a wail that rivaled that of the biggest Barboursville Fire Truck.

At this point we were both covered in taters, peas and a bit of ham shrapnel so I gave in. He ended up eating a crescent roll, some puffs, a pouch of sweet potato and corn puree and a bowl of ice cream.

Anytime I mention his new pickiness to friends, relatives, strangers in line at the checkout, or even the guy who stands too close in the Hot Wheel aisle of Wal-mart - they all have the same response (not counting those who just stare at me as if I've lost my mind) -- "You just have to get creative!"

To which I would politely respond, "Oh really? Well - what a fuckin' genius idea!"

Okay - I'm way too southern and gentile to say that but I do smile politely and say, "Oh really?" because let's face it - kids will eventually eat. There ain't no way in blue blazes hell that a kid under my watch would starve to death (my ass size alone guarantees it) and I'm pretty sure that if I continue to smear things on his face - he'll eventually learn to like it!

KIDDING! KIDDING!

...(mostly...)

Got Milk?

2011-07-29T22:02:00.002-04:00

Me: "Hello, my son is a patient. He's 16 months old and has been on Soy Formula since he was a baby due to his lactose intolerance."

Nurse: "Okay. How do you spell his last name?"

Me: "S. H. I. V. E. L."

Nurse: "S. (pause, pause, pause). H. (pause)...

Me: "I. V. E. L. Yes."

Nurse: "Okay. So what's wrong?"

Me: "I need to know what to try instead of whole milk. Harry can't drink Vitamin D milk due to his lactose issues... It makes his diapers --- beige colored. The output? It's beige and he's really cranky."

Nurse: "Okay. Hold on..."

Nurse: "Ma'am? You need to give him whole milk. But you can do it gradually-"

Me: "No, I can't. Remember? His POOP TURNS BEIGE AND IT MAKES HIM CRANKY! AND GASSY! What are the alternatives? Soy? Lactose-free? WHAT?!"

(In my defense I had been having a few rotten days so the fact that yet another person was refusing to listen to me before "helping" and offering their "advice" was enough to throw me into a barely-controlled-Julia-Sugarbaker-style-rage.)

Nurse: "Okay. Hold on... Ma'am? You can try Lactaid."

Me: "Thank you."

I hung up the phone and collapsed into a crying fit that let my kid giggling hysterically while he clutched my knees with two slimy baby hands (he laughs when I cry - evil, huh?).

You know that point? The point where you've been stretched and stretched and have feigned uncaring and politeness while others talk over you, or at you, or ignore you all together? I was at that point. Or rather, I was past it. So I had a pity party of one right there on my beige, apparently poop-colored couch, while my baby tried to cheer me up by showing me all 12 of his teeth at once.

Hmm. Maybe it's not others who are inconsiderate but maybe it's me. Maybe I've grown uber-sensitive in my little hermit shell here with my untalking companion and have relied too much on PBS to guide me in life. Because, unlike the world of kid's shows, people are not yielding to others, they do not give a crap about your issues, dreams, hopes and aspirations because they're too busy with their own.

After my sob-fest I picked up my darling jackal and gave him a big, sloppy kiss.

"Don't be mean when you get older, okay? Don't forget to listen when others are talking, and don't forget that mommy is a pretty, pretty princess - even if she will eventually be a big 'ol blind, blob of blubber someday..."

"Shit," he said.

Oh well - I still have a few years to mold him...

You Are What You Eat

2011-07-27T12:19:00.002-04:00

"Balls."

I am a woman who thoroughly enjoys food. Eating makes me happy, comforts me when I'm sad and calms my worried mind through the gentle art of baking, sauteing, mixing and even just chewing. But lately I've been eating like a fast-food employee - quick and on the sly.

As Baby Harry gets to be pickier about what he shoves, double-handed, into his mouth, I, too, have to be careful as to how long I fix my food and how long I take to enjoy it. Which is usually not long.

And he monitors what I'm eating. And I will often find myself in mid-bite only to feel two or three little fingers wiggling my lips open. I laugh - he eats what falls out and I say: "Ew! You're such a boy! Gross!" and we go about our merry way.

However, last weekend while we were all at the mall eating "MOR CHKN" - I fed him a few bits of cut-up nugget. One of which stuck to his face. So I plucked it off. And ate it.

ATE.

IT.

OFF OF HIS FACE!!!!

I jerked to a stop in mid-chew and painfully swallowed.

"I just ate food off of our baby's face," I said to my husband who was busily (and weirdly) peeling all the batter off of his fried chicken sandwich.

He stopped. Smiled. "Priceless," he said and went back to his OCD (Obsessive Chicken Disorder) and offering me no comfort or advice on the tragic face-eating event that just occurred.

I was horrified.

What on earth possessed me to pluck a food morsel off of my baby's red cheeks and then put that same piece of food --- IN MY MOUTH?

Can I expect more of this in the future?

Will I be that parent that doesn't bat an eye when I'm offered a slobbery pre-licked popsicle?

A pre-chewed cheeto?

Only time will tell, I guess...

And oh - look - there's a cheerio on his chin....

Border Patrol

2011-07-23T20:55:00.002-04:00

"We had a little accident," my husband deftly steered our non-chopping-fingers-off Maclaren stroller around the throngs of people in the bookstore.

"What happened?" I took my son who was red-faced and sniffling through the liquid that had pooled in his eyes and little round nostrils during his latest public freak-out. Freak-outs that were becoming more frequent. And loud. And migraine-inducing.

"A guy we were talking to accidentally dropped a cd on his head. But he caught it before it really hit him. In the head. I think he needed a Momma hug."

"I'm sure he's fine," I said and walked our little cherry-cherub over to the magazines. "Here, baby. You sit and look out the window while Momma looks at all these cooking mags."

"Coooooing!" Baby Harry said to me as he patted the glass.

No, I don't know what "cooooooing" means but I'm sure it translates to, "You're a cool mom, Mom!" or "I will kill you in your sleep with my tiny oatmeal-covered hands." Whatev.

I was a third of the way through a shiny article all about cheese (CHEESE!!!) when I heard the sound of muffled laughter. I looked down and then stepped closer to my loving, well-dressed, perfect little man, son.

Who was licking the glass like a mad man.

Full throttle XXX tongue action with both hands next to his face.

"Ack! No, don't lick the glass!" I cried and wedged him away from the cesspool of germs. "Harry! Border's couldn't even afford to stay open I KNOW they haven't been able to spring for a bottle of Windex! Ew! We DON'T LICK GLASS!" I said to him in a firm, but not mean, tone.

At least I didn't think it was mean.

But his face, which had faded to a healthy hot pink, flashed devil-red again.

"wwaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!' and off he went!

Into the mall!

Into the hall!

Into the crotch of a man-who-looked-like-Daddy-but-wasn't!

Okay - I caught him in time - but didn't dare make eye contact with the dude who almost received a snotty toddler in the crotch.

I picked him up and walked him back into the bookstore where everyone in line turned to look at the woman who was surely beating the tar out of a poor child. Instead, they saw me, a fat sweaty girl in a too-low-cut shirt, trying to keep her boobs out of view and her child in a fully upright position while he wailed like a banshee in her now defunct right ear.

"Yeah, that one's mine," Big Harry said to the woman in line behind him as I dove for my purse and - the paci.

"Plug the hole!" I screamed. "PLUG. THE. HOLE!!!"

After I managed to calm the Rage of Baby Zeus, I realized something very important.

Next time I'm in a crowded store full of people trying to get 10% off a Dolly Parton cd or the latest trashy romance novel, I will be sure to be armed with a pocket full of pacis.

And hand sanitizer.

And ---- next time---- I'll let him make out with whatever piece of glass he wants.

Hard core.

Bitchy Bitchy Bitchy Me

2011-07-06T21:35:00.002-04:00

"You've become more of a bitch since Harry's been born," my husband said to me while turning the wheel of "Bessie" our Toyota Sienna "Holy-crap-I-bought-a-min-van" mini van.

"I have not!" I defended myself immediately. And then paused. "I just hate stupid people." I paused again. "And slow moving people... And people who can't seem to get out of my way when the kid is screaming or hungry or tired or... Okay, fine - I'm a bitch." I resigned.

"You yelled at that waitress," he pointed out, continuing to beat a dead horse.

"I did not!"

"You said 'GO GET OUR FOOD!'."

"Well," I crossed my arms and huffed. "Well, she was trying to tell me that it took thirty minutes to make a piece of GRILLED chicken and a SALAD. And then when I said that it shouldn't have she just kept repeating it was in the window and that chicken takes longer to cook and IT WAS IN THE WINDOW! So I merely suggested she GO GET IT!" I concluded my rant and sat back against the leather seat while my husband digested my obviously dignified line of reasoning.

"You were a bitch," he giggled.

"Yeah, well she was an idiot," I said huffily.

Since becoming a parent I have found that my filter has loosened. Whereas before I would've just left the restaurant or complained gently to a manager, I now found it necessary to blow up and turn green like the freakin' Incredible Holly-shaped hulk in order to put people in their place for slighting my child. Maybe it's stemming from a childhood filled with "respect your elder" speeches and "be seen and not heard" and all that - or maybe my hormones are just flexing their feminine wiles - I don't know.

But - she really was stupid. I mean really, really stupid. Case in point. Harry ordered "Two chicken breasts and two sides of mashed potatoes."

The idiot's follow-up question? "What do you want for your second side?"

Harry stared at her until one of his eyes dilated more that the other. I mean, she was so incredibly useless that he couldn't even fathom her level of uselessness.

For all I know, had I not ordered her to "go get our food" she would have stood in the middle of the diner and continued to explain why we hadn't gotten our food for ANOTHER 3o minutes.

And then, well, then I would've had to have cold-cocked her with my giant Mom purse.

And I guarantee - she wouldn't have woken up for at least ---- 30 minutes. :)

Kinda Trippy

2011-06-23T18:20:00.002-04:00

The Kid and I have been a bit hermitish likely so Big Harry decided it was time for us to shed our furry feet (get it? Like hobbits? Huh? No. Okay...) and get out on the road with him. So in the next few weeks we are to pack up Big Bessie (name of our new 2011 Toyota minivan which I LOOOOOVE and if you ever repeat that - I will run you over. In my new purty van. A lot. ) and I am to be trapped in a hotel room with a baby for days on end.

It's my own personal purgatory.

Originally Harry looked at me with his big man doe eyes and said, "You won't really need a kitchen will you? I mean, this hotel has a tiny fridge and a mini microwave - that's all you need, right?"

When he regained consciousness and rubbed the MacAir-shaped bruise on his face he quickly reconsidered and found us a place a LOT less fancy and a LOT less convenient but with a full/mini kitchen. How am I to entertain a kid without my stockpile of Fisher Price, V-tech, CAT and Melissa and Doug helpers???

To put it simply - I am terrified.

But since my dear mother was often too scared to let my sister and I do things that were asked of us like SIGNING A MODELING CONTRACT TO LIVE IN NEW YORK FOR A YEAR when we were kids - I decided that I was going to be a "cool mom" and let my concerns shift to the backburner --- all the while my fingernails are being chewed down to nubs. I'm sure my dear, sweet, semi-backwoods mother thought she was doing the best for her two daughters when she declined to sign us, wishing, I hope, that we would have a more normal life in WV than in NY. Although I'm sure if she knew what was to come in the years to follow she'd have shipped us in crates to get us good and gone before things in the Adkins household hit the big ass fan.

But I digress.

I am going to face my fears and put on a happy, tight, wide-eyed face and let my kid have the life I never had - one free of terror, nervousness and enough anxiety to fill one's own "FAME!' lunchbox with their regurgitated breakfast.

Which, really, I only did that one time. In Kindergarten. And first grade. And...

So wish me luck, blogosphere, as I boldly journey where no/tons of moms have gone before --- on vacation!!!!

A Blog in Which I Overuse the Word "Ass"

2011-05-31T16:21:00.003-04:00

"We're really assholes, aren't we?" My husband chuckled as he turned out of the parking lot of the "ghetto" Wal-mart (we have two here in Huntington, WV, within about five miles from each other. And, yes, we have gone to both on the same night before.).

"No!" I proclaimed and sat up straighter in the passenger seat of our mini van that we swore we'd never buy.

"Yeah, we are. But it's okay."

"No," I continued. "We just don't like it when people say things or do things that are impolite or make us feel bad so, ya know, we get pissy and stuff."

He paused, looked at me and then said: "No, we're assholes."

Funny thing is - he may be right. How can one really tell if they're the ass in the room? Is it the same theory as the sucker one? "Look around the room and if you can't spot the sucker - you're it?"

I think so.

But the thing is - we're not usually this bristly. Only since we became parents did our patience for things like bad parkers, doorway smokers and door slammers really start to wane. So, maybe it's not US who have become the Assholes - maybe the Assholes have just become more noticeable leading us to, of course, point out their assishness which then, in turn, makes us asses too?

Wow.

Talk about your double-edged (ass) sword.

Sweaty, Sweaty, Sweaty - or - How I Spent My Summer Vacation

2011-05-26T11:46:00.002-04:00

Actually I'm not even on vacation yet.

I'm just sweaty.

Sweaty.

Oh-so-sweaty.

And don't get me wrong. I don't "glisten." I don't "sparkle" like some Twi-hard vampire. I don't "shimmer" either.

I am just - sweaty.

I know some of it has to do with my extra, er, fluff, as one may call it. But some of it, I think, is purely mental - as I'm starting to think I am.

Mental.

I can't seem to go out in public without breaking into waves of panic and sweatiness. My perfectly coiffed hair? Sogged. My quickly-applied-but-heck-I-tried make-up? Heading toward chinsville. My freckles? Popped out like they were summoned by Abby the Sesame Street Flying Fairy.

It's horrible.

I'm wondering if, in my stay-at-home-mom role, am I becoming a bit Agoraphobic or if it is, ya know, due to my fluffiness and my oh-so-stylish knee high compression garments that keep my swollen limbs in check.

Either way - I hate being sweaty.

That's why I don't exercise. Yeah... THAT'S it... :)

But with this blog I issue one final plea - please don't ask sweaty people WHY they're sweaty, or say asinine things like "Why are YOU sweaty? I'm fine!", or, even worse, make comments like "MAN! Your cheeks are RED!" or "The heat doesn't bother ME!". Because, and this is my promise, I Will--- Kill you. Okay- maybe not really - since, after all, a sweaty gal throwing a punch is probably gonna just slide right off your cool-to-the-touch cheek, right?

But I can fling sweat beads at you.

Yup - like a monkey with his poo - I will come for you.

(hmmm- I like that--- bumper sticker worthy??? hee hee).

Happy Vacationing!

Prom-a-drama and Karma

2011-05-11T21:49:00.000-04:00

While watching the "Glee" prom episode I can't help but think back to my own high school moment of Promenade. I found my dress, a red silk number, low cut to show off what God failed to give me and, best of all, it was $30 dollars at Kauffman's. So, even though my family was so poor that we envied the dirt poors for at least having dirt - my mom bought me the dress.

I was the happiest girl in the world - who was apparently going to go to the dance barefoot.

Due to my lovely loopy lymphatic system most dressy shoes were not going to work - and then, one day, at the mall, a light shone upon a pair of red satin not-too-high-heels. It was like all the good Karma I spread was coming full circle. I was finally going to get mine. And they were on sale.

Needing a minor repair, I dropped my found footie goodies at a local store which promptly burned to the ground a few hours later.

Karma's apparently a real fickle bitch.

The day before I was to attend Prom I found a pair of stripper shoes at the local discount store that were about four inches too high, platformed and of the worst shade of whore-red I had ever seen. And they were too tight. But I bought them. And I suffered. But lucky for me I actually had one of those sweet boyfriends. The ones who will fetch you food, rub your aching feet while others partied their pants off and who, later, let me sleep on his chest at the after party. Romantic? Yes. Sweet? Yes? Drooled over the ENTIRE front of his sweatshirt? Unfortunately, yes.

So even though I ended up with a cheap dress, a pair of shoes that were meant for Frankenstien's mistress and accidentally tried to drown my pre-fiance in a puddle of my own drool, I still had a great time.

So what happened to Mr. Drool? Alas, he was meant for another - who was meant for several anothers. Just goes to show you that high school is a long way off of who you are, who you're meant to be with and who you are going to be. If someone had pulled me aside that night, pushed a tacky decoration out of the way and said: "In fifteen years you will be happily married, living in a big house, have a mini van and be totally crazy for a thirteen month old baby," - I'd have decked them.

Or at least blinded them with glitter.

Huh.

Karma.

Pulitzer? Puh-lease.

2011-05-09T22:18:00.002-04:00

Recently I double tapped a book, quite by accident, on my iPad and was the not-so-proud owner of "A Visit From the Goon Squad" by Jennifer Egan. Due to my shaky pointer finger I had just paid $12 for a book I didn't want and didn't have any desire to read.

I wanted Vampire Smut.

Not this--- Pulitzer Prize Winner???

In spite of myself - I was intrigued. And since my spasticness bought the damn tome, I was going to read it.

As punishment.

I can't even recall the last Pulitzer-worthy book I held in my greasy lil' hands - which should tell you how much I enjoy reading "intelligent" fiction.

But I digress.

I settled in each night, iPad pressed against my nose lest the sleeping baby tyrant see the glow and roar his disapproval. I got to know the characters somewhat, each flushed out to be intelligent or drug-addled, all damaged in some "cool" way that real people never are. All had smartass answers to seemingly innocuous questions and each person introduced was cleverly intertwined back to the original love-triangled teenagers we met in a previous chapter. The book spanned decades and - I got lost. I felt like I was being apparated and got splinched, to steal an example from JK Rowling's books. Each time a new chapter hit I was left wondering whose head I was in, what time was it and why should I care.

By the time I got to the chapter written entirely in Powerpoint Slides (no, not joking) I was ready to toss the book out the window.

But, seeing as how I like my iPad, and was not near a window, I forged ahead.

Through 300 pages.

It was like watching a soap opera where all the characters were ones you didn't care about but you couldn't change the channel because your half-dead Aunt Lulu has watched it since she was twelve. So you suffer through it. Catching snippets. Getting caught up in one of the 30 storylines weaving across the screen only to find out it was a subplot that wasn't even important enough to be tied up neatly.

So - my final review?

I didn't like it.

I didn't get why it was a "winner," per se.

So I downloaded Rick Riordin's new book.

Knowing that, if all else fails, the main characters were not likely to end up as drug abusing hookers in Venice.

At least, I hope not. :)

Security Needed - Apply Within

2011-05-03T23:59:00.002-04:00

I'm going to post an ad in the paper/Craigslist/local Unemployment office.

LOCAL SECURITY NEEDED

LATE HOURS

RUDE CUSTOMERS

BRUTE FORCE NEEDED

MUST KEEP WOMAN FROM HER OWN REFRIGERATOR.

For the past two nights I have cuddled my kid, let him thrash about on top of me while crying and giggling like some sort of bi-polar rolly-polly, and then drifted to the kitchen to stare in to the fridge.

Last night I decided, at 11pm, that the only way to be able to sleep well was to load up a casserole dish with broccoli, cheese and Panko and eat my way into oblivion. Tonight was no exception as I scooped up the last of the sour cream, salsa and chips into my gaping maw.

I've tried busying myself with other tasks but I find that only delays the inevitable.

So, instead of dieting (that would be foolish), I have decided the only reasonable option is to hire a large man to stand in my kitchen like a bouncer and make sure my name is NOT on the list.

Yup. That's the only reasonable option.

Maybe I could be the next Jenny Craig?

Or Marie Osmond?

Or Kirstie Alley?

Yup - I'm totallllly Kirstie. :)

Egg-ceptionally --- Stupid

2011-04-24T01:54:00.001-04:00

"Why don't you just go ahead and boil the eggs tonight?" Harry suggested as he sat at the kitchen tabled backing up the kajillion pictures we've taken of our kid the past year.

"Good idea," I said. I hopped up and went to the fridge to hunt for the eggs I bought last week with dyeing in mind. Plucking the carton from the shelf I flipped the lid open and - paused.
"Oh my GAWD," I exclaimed.

"What?! What did I do? What did I do?" Harry bellowed from the table.

I walked over to the table and tossed the eggs in front of him. "These are the eggs I bought for our son to dye on his first real Easter."

"They're brown," Harry said. He lifted the carton and studied the side while I dissolved into hysterics in the kitchen floor. "And expired."

Sometimes my stupidity surprises even me.... :)

Right in the Kisser!

2011-04-21T16:37:00.003-04:00

I taught Baby Harry how to give "KISSES!" so that every time I ask for a kiss, he presents to me his forehead. When I finish the smooch I then flail my legs and basically pretend to have a semi-seizure of happiness. He grins at me with crinkled blue-grey eyes and drools with happiness - he absolutely loves it.

However, no one told me that kids like to do things over and over and over again and will not tire of a new "game" for, oh, I dunno, three and half years!

So ten minutes into our "KISSES!" game today, I was pooped. I am a plumply girl, with matching legs so having a mini-seizure of happiness every five seconds wears on the bod, ya know? So I took his little cheeks in my hand and said, "Momma is tired now, K? One more kiss and then we'll just sit here, K?"

He stared at me for a few seconds, trying to figure out the new rule.

A large, gap-tooth smile lit up his face as he lunged and - HEADBUTTED ME RIGHT IN THE MOUTH.

Apparently, the game was not over.

And would not be over until he was ready.

And as I reeled in pain and flailed my legs in agony, he giggled and drooled - he liked this new game.

He liked it a lot.

Music of the Night

2011-04-21T16:26:00.002-04:00

At 1:14am last night, Baby Harry's toy piano turned itself on and began to play Beethoven while flashing lights at the same time.

So obviously - my house is haunted.

In the past two weeks I've had:

Mysterious ants that appeared and disappeared within days.
Bees that also come from nowhere and refuse to die even when beaten, sprayed and squashed repeatedly.
and a continuous creaking noise with may or may not be the pipes or ductwork settling.

My house - is haunted.

So what do I do?

Instead of googling "How to Get Rid of a Ghost" I've decided, instead, to embrace my new houseguest. I will leave the piano out in the other room, along with some Grenadine and Sprite (Ghosts like Shirley Temple Drinks, right?) and maybe some cookies...

I will just kill 'em with kindness. Er, wait. They're already dead... Hmmm...

Oooh - Shiny!

2011-04-19T23:26:00.002-04:00

As soon as the coffee cup overturned and spilled it's foul-smelling contents onto the surface of the hardwood floor, I saw my husband toss the baby (not literally) at me, grab paper towels and had the spill cleaned in a matter of seconds.

Crisis averted, I went back to gaily chatting with my Bostonian and Pittsburghian aunts since I didn't get to see them very often.

"Wow, that's shiny!" Big Harry said as he looked down at the floor.

I pulled myself away from the conversation. "What did you clean it with?"

"That Swiffer stuff you bought." I was impressed. It must've been hard for him to wrestle with that big bottle attached to the Swiffer mop but I just smiled and let it go. Until I stepped on the newly clean spot and did a quick three second impersonation of a hippo in flight.

"What the hell?! That's SLICK!" I yelled as I continued to slide around ungracefully.

"I know. I wish the whole floor looked this good," Harry said as he gazed hauntedly at the shiny patch of oak flooring.

A few days later I was filling the dishwasher and opened up the under-the-sink cabinet to grab a handy Cascade pack when I saw a shiny canister. I stopped. Thought. And then called my husband.

"Hi. Where'd you get that Swiffer cleaner from?"

"The cabinet under the sink."

"The shiny spray canister?"

"Uh-huh."

"That's FURNITURE POLISH!" I said slowly, hoping he would get that he turned our living room into a free for all skating rink.

"No. No, it's not."

"It says, 'For Wooden Furniture' right on it."

"It's wrong," he said.

"It's wrong? The can is wrong?"

"Yes. It's floor cleaner. Not furniture. Floor," he repeated.

"Is it your plan to try to kill me? Or are you just trying to get us to glide around in sock-feet all day like in 'Risky Business'?" I asked.

"That one. The 'Business' one."

I know they make child-locks for cabinets to make them childproof - but do they sell husband-proof ones, too?

Brush 'em, Brush 'em, Brush 'em!

2011-04-11T14:31:00.001-04:00

Baby Harry was nestled sweetly in my lap, Spongebob jammies on, one hand wrapped around my wrist while he held tightly to his toothbrush with the other. It was so comforting that I closed my eyes, just for a minute - and suddenly felt a slimy, drooly Oral-B toothbrush shoved in one side of my mouth. Lips still propped apart, I opened one eye, stared into the grinning gap-tooth face of my baby - and burst out laughing. Last time I let myself rest when an evil baby is so close by! ;)

You Scream! We Scream! We all Scream for --- Snow?

2011-03-31T17:20:00.002-04:00

I live in WV.

For those who do not know it's not like our land plot of blue mountains majesty is near the top of the world - nor is it near the bottom. And it's also pretty safe to assume that the North and South Pole are not neighbors to me here in good ol' W of the V, either.

(Then again, I chose to go to Hawaii for our Honeymoon in 2003 because it was "closer" to us than flying allllllll the way to London.)

(Yeah.)

(I'm educated and stuff.)

And seeing as how Santa is NOT on my Neighborhood Watch List (elves kinda freak me out sometimes - with their little jangly footwear and petulance for candy canes...) I'm not really sure why, when I look out the windows, I am seeing snowflakes.

A LOT of snowflakes.

So I have two theories.

One is that WV is now directly located underneath the Bermuda Triangle (earth's shifting and all that jazz) so that our weather is now completely undeterminable at any give time -- OR

That God has a sense of humor and couldn't wait until tomorrow to release it.

Happy Early April Fool's Ya'all - From the Big Guy!

Now - where'd I put my friggin' parka....

Pillow Fight

2011-03-24T00:18:00.002-04:00

I snuck into bed last night, careful not to wake my sleeping husband or the baby that slumbered in the crib nestled up to the far wall. Like a cat I slipped into bed, removed my restrictive clothing and flopped carefully --- on to the mattress.
I shone a light to find out where my many pillows had gone but could only see my husband. He was snoring, mouth open, head resting atop an intricately placed mountain of Simmons Beautyrest's finest.
I dared not disturb him so I searched lower in the kingside bed to find a pillow so that I too may drift to Dreamland.
The only other pillow in sight was nestled in between my partner's knees. The soft, downy wonder was stuck and being held in a vice-like grip.
My dear hubs, in his deep slumber of the dead, was sending me a message : my nuts should be

**Update** See THIS is what happens when I try to be sneaky and blog via an app on my phone and instead I get caught, the hubs pushes some buttons and I have NO CLUE that this was even posted! Or, um, what I was gonna say. But let's just all agree that it would've been freakin' HYSTERICAL! :) hee hee

Party Planning Post-party 'pocalypse

2011-03-23T00:24:00.004-04:00

Baby Harry is turning one this Friday.

Which turns this chubby monster...

...into THIS grinning monster!!!

And this rather angelic looking monster, too! :)

So, since it's been a year - Baby Harry is turning one this Friday.

And, to quote every mother everywhere, it hardly seems like that much time has passed.

I think it was just a few weeks ago that I was holding him while he cried, fed him while he cried, and bounced him - while he cried.

And although his tears are now saved for frustration fits and for making me feel like crap for not letting him lick the china cabinet, I am still planning his first party.

I had originally wanted a small, informal, party but his father wanted different.

So I gave in.

And did ya'all know that you have to give party bags/favors to all kids just for attending?

I mean, all we got when I was a kid was a free piece of icing-less cake (my sister had convinced me it was gross so she could eat all the sugary goodness) and maybe a tiny scoop of PET ice cream.

But now you are expected to have coordinating plates, napkins, themes, tableware, cups, and food and snacks as well as cake and cupcakes.

And the damn favor bags.

So, as I'm pouring over my todo's last night, taking in "buy ice" and "serving utensils?" my husband sighed and, with the look of a well-seasoned traveler said: "I wish we would've just had a small family party."

So I stabbed him in the eye with a Banana Tootsie Pop.

Nah, but I wanted to.

Instead, I turned the page in my Dr. Suess-themed notebook and wrote "Family Party" on the top and started making lists for a small party - IN ADDITION to the bigger one on Saturday.

Lord give me strength to do what is asked of me as a mother.

And to, ya know, not stab my hubs with candy confections.

Now You See Me...

2011-03-16T23:14:00.004-04:00

Baby Harry can be quite the handful. He will love on you like you are his long-lost friend one minute and then the next he will headbutt you and kick you in your man-junk to get at your Iphone.

But he's cute - so he gets away with it.

Case in point:

My dad came over to watch Baby Harry so that I could empty the car of groceries, take out the trash and, I dunno, BREATHE for a minute. Harry is always very excited to see his Papaw ever since my father got down in the floor of his colonial-based home and pretended to be a cat to make the kid giggle. Complete with cat toys. And sound effects. For ten minutes.

Tonight, Dad came in, leather bomber jacket on, smile on his face and hair, as usual, sticking up like he had just been electrocuted (which, for those who know my father, we all know this could be a reality).

He swooped up his grandchild who smiled sweetly at him, snuggled up against him --- and grabbed his glasses from around his neck and tossed them deftly into the murky sink water three feet away.

I instantly admonished him for his baby-rudeness but, while I cleaned the bits of cobbler off of my father's glasses, I couldn't help but be slightly impressed with his aim.

Oh, and, just a thought - anyone know if the Terrible Two's can start early - say at eleven and a half months????

The Mentalist

2011-03-08T01:32:00.001-05:00

I was perusing the newly released DVDs when I felt a pair of eyes on me -staring. Not wishing to be rude, I flipped around to the endcap and shuffled down the next aisle.

"Hello!" said the staring stranger as he managed to block an entire Walmart aisle with his 5 foot frame. He smiled warmly at me from under a barrage af misplaced tattoos, piercings and rebel flag gear.
Not wanting to be rude --- or hacked into a zillion pieces in the Media section , I chirped "Hi!" back, smiled a big fake smile and then walked briskly back to my menfolk.

When the Harrys and I finally left I remarked I was relieved and told him about the guy who was staring at me.

"Oh," he said. "What, was he like old or something? Mental?"

I paused in the act of strapping in our wiggly 11 month old and met Big Harry's eyes in the rearview.

"So, lemmie get this straight. You think that the only reason a guy would stare at me is if he was senile or crazy." I tried to keep a straight face. "NOT that he thought I was cute or anything? Dick!"

"No, I, no!" my husband sputtered as he put the car in gear and avoided my gaze. "You said he- you made it sound - see? THIS is why people think I'm an ass! Don't post this on Facebook!"

"I won't," I assured him. "Dick."

Winkies, Pinkies and Ding Dongs

2011-02-25T00:10:00.001-05:00

Why do parents insist on naming their child's man bits things that are bound to scar them for life?

I know grown men who still blush at the word "penis" and balk at the word "vagina."

I blame the baby boomers.

THEIR parents just didn't talk about body parts. Such things weren't discussed but baby Boomers? They were Bound and determined to be more open.

Mostly.

So "willy" and "johnson" and "peepee" and "dinky" were so christened.

My mother followed this crooked path as well. I was in my twenties before I could pronounce the name of the female and male sex organs without dissolving into ugly fits of girlish laughter.

But I still can't look anyone named "Lucy" straight in the eye.

;)

Cherry-poppin' McD's

2011-02-23T00:48:00.001-05:00

Tonight I decided to partake in a little fast food "food." since nutritional value was not a concern my first instinct was for a nice frothy, simple milkshake from McDonald's.
I wanted that sweet, cold, sinful beverage to carry me through the remainder of the night as I catered to the every whim and demand of my increasingly violent 11 month old. (He totally gave Daddy a fatlip yesterday. Awwwwwesome!).
But when the man/woman/Overly-made-up worker handed me a plastic cup - I was a little taken back.
And then I spied it.
A cherry.
On my vanilla milkshake.
Infiltrating it.
Oozing into it.
So I steered with one hand, pulled over into a space and flicked the offensive and intrusive semi-fruit into the parking lot.
I was not pleased and was tempted to go back and ask them for another, minus the fruufruu.
Instead I took a massive gulp, closed my eyes - and gagged. The shake tasted like it was made with refrozen ice cream and vomit.
Yay.
So I flipped the rest of the "treat" out the window.
Nah. Not really.
But I shoulda!!!!

Behind Door #1

2011-01-28T21:22:00.001-05:00

Tonight I pushed open my car door, felt it resist, cursed at it for being "broken," and shoved it as hard as I could.
"AAAAAGH!" I heard someone yell and saw my Husband flying across the driveway.
"Oh! I thought you were getting in the back!" I said.
"No," he said, rubbing his stomach where the car door had slammed into him, " I was coming to help you!"
"Oh. And I - I - HIT YOU WITH THE DOOR!" I screamed with laughter as he took the child from me, shook his head and walked away.
"I HIT YOU WITH THE DOOOOOOOR!" I laughed even harder. "THE DOOR!" ;)

Princess and the Pee

2011-01-25T21:14:00.002-05:00

Before I had a child, I was completely self-obsessed. And really happy about it.

I slept when I want.

I ate when I want.

I went to the bathroom when I so pleased.

And I was content.

Then I had a baby.

And here was this little screaming monster/angel (depending upon his mood) who needed me to make sure he could eat when he wanted, poop when he wanted and sleep when he wanted.

And I oblige.

But tonight I was hoping for a miracle. I was praying for an easy bottle/cuddle/bed and off he would go into Dreamland. So, to say I was not paying attention when I was changing his diaper would be a gross understatement. Anyone who has ever faced the infant penis knows this - approach with caution - it's loaded. But I, in my stupor and lack of sleep, forgot.

So I lowered the diaper and - was super soaked.

He grabbed the new diaper from me and started giggling hysterical while twisting like a curly fry on an Arby's platter - and just as warm and greasy as one too!

And that, my dear friends, is how this Princess met her Pee.

Look for the next installment in this series: Whiney the Pooh, out soon!

No Pain, No Gain, No Sleep

2010-12-30T22:40:00.001-05:00

Baby Harry is nine months old and, until recently, was doing a spot-on job of sleeping through the night. Then he got sick. Like "hey I could probably fry an egg on you if I wanna!" sick.
It was the worst two weeks of my life.
So, obviously, I met his every whim and need on command. If he was hungry even after eating his large lunch, I fed him. If he didn't want to sleep until midnight and could only find comfort by lying on his back, arched over my shoulder like a mink stole, I accomodated. If he felt like climbing my shirt front, ripping off whatever breast-like mass that happened to be in his way, and leaving a goo of baby nose slime in his wake - he did it.
And I showered more.
When he let me.
So now that he's pink and perky and back to a less fiery temperature - I seem to have nurtured the sickness - and the brattiness- out of him.
He sobs if I remove a found toy from his hands - no matter that his new "toy" is usually something that could choke/scar/maim him. He now imitates a banshee on crack if I so much as venture more than 12" from his person - making "quiet time" for momma a near impossibility. And, finally, he refuses to sleep alone.
His Pottery Barn crib with colorful sheets and bumpers?
A torture chamber.
The Twilght Turtle projecting the night sky upon the ceiling?
His jailer.
And me?
I am his Pardoner.
Only I can save him from his cruel cold prison. And so he howls, he shrieks, he yells, he shakes, he grunts, he coughs, he sputters and he pleads: "MOMMOMMAMMMOMMAAAMOMMAMMMOOOMMMA!"
And what do I do?
I escape. I hide. I cry. I --- blog.

Giving Up

2010-12-06T21:52:00.008-05:00

As the year 2011 approaches I realize that my life has been less about what I wanted and more about what others have wanted from me.

I am a born people-pleaser.

I may be able to craft a story, type quite a few words a minute (not well, but still!) and I can make the best of most any situation - but I've often felt I was one of those people born to make others shine that much more brightly.

My sister was the brain (even though her grades didn't show it) and she was the beauty (her trophies did show that) and I was - the other one. I often referred to myself as the Danny DeVito of "Twins" - that my sis sucked up the gene pool so that only the leftover crap and sludge caught in the filter was what constructed my DNA.

I lacklusterly finished college with a BA in Criminal Justice - a degree so useless that it is often mentioned first in 2am infomercials to the weak-willed and weaker-minded. Fresh out of college I reached far in my pursuit of Career Advancement - and started work as a Receptionist. At a second-rate law firm. A place that was lovingly nicknamed "Hell" whilst I sat in the lobby and let my brain rot on Harry Potter fan fiction and my butt expand on the consumption of poorly placed Hershey's miniatures.

But things have changed.

And although I am still a people pleaser - I find that my ability to please only one, tiny, demanding person, at a time is --- enjoyable.

So although I may not be a world famous authoress as I once intended - I'm happy now to just be Baby Harry's mom - a fact that should embarrass my semi-feminist bod to the core - but I find it's actually soothing.

I'm not giving up my life for him - I'm just --- giving.

Then again, I could wake up tomorrow in a blind panic and find myself in two years' time, at 3 am on one of those infomercials saying "I'm a Phoenix!"

Merry Christmas Cyberland!

The Unclean

2010-10-28T21:57:00.001-04:00

It's been a rough week. Big Harry was gone, frolicking through the Georgian meadows and soaking up the warm southern sun (certainly not working like a dog!!!) while I stayed behind to tend to the behind, and other parts, of my darling baby.
Who laughs at me when I cry.
And laughs harder when I cry harder.
Evil baby.
So when I called Harry today to get sympathy for my maternal maladies, here was his response:

Me: "it's been a hard week. Baby has been a little fussy and clingy and wouldn't let me put him down. Hell, I haven't been able to take a real shower since you left!"

And what pearl of wisdom did he pull from 'tween his butt cheeks? What comforting phrase did he utter to quell my fears and soothe my nerves?

Big Harry: " Eeeeeeeewwww."

Yup. Not "ohhhh, baby, don't you worry, I'll be home soon and you can go soak until you're pruny!"
Nope.
I got "Eeeeeeeewww."

So when the baby wanted to spit up on Daddy's side of the bed and then roll in it like a little hairless puppy- I let him.
Cuz, ya know, "Eeeeeeeewww!"

:)

Baby Pictures

2010-10-06T20:59:00.006-04:00

Creative blog title, yes?

Here's some pics of my babykins from the past few weeks.

Hard to believe the lil' bugger hit the six month mark already!

Baby Harry is growing so fast!

He found his toes the other day - and he's been angry at them ever since - punishing them by biting and chewing on them every chance he gets.

Also, he figured out that by yanking the dark strands coming out of my head - he can make me make funny, loud noises like, "uugowowow!" and "quititevilbaby!"

Motherhood has its challenges. Like figuring out how to make pea-vomit-speckled shirts look classy-ish, and how to pack an SUV creatively since you're cramming in everything but the kitchen sink (we have wipes for that), and, of course, how to still maintain some iota of your former personality while calculating the available "free" time you have left in a day. Which is, usually, none.

But it has its perks too. Like having a cute baby.

"F" For (Lack of) Effort

2010-10-04T13:36:00.002-04:00

"You know," I said as I snuggled deeper into Big Harry's armpit on the tacky striped sofa, "we could totally do it right now." Then I sighed. "But as soon as we got naked you know he'd wake up."

"I was just thinking the same thing," he said, grinning - and not taking his eyes off of the football game on tv.

"Is it sad that we now gauge our sex life by whether or not we'll wake up a sleeping baby?"

"Ungh," he grunted - either in agreement or because defense showed blitz or someone dropped a ball/caught a ball/ saw a ball - I don't follow "The Football."

A few minutes later I was standing at the sink when I felt a presence behind me.

Zzzzzip!

I felt something pressing against the back of my jean-clad butt and legs.

I giggled and glanced back at my husband who was grinning.

I was beginning to make a snarky comment about how it was probably half-time when - we heard distinct crying and disgruntled sounds coming from the other room.

Baby Harry, sensing his parents were about to do something that would distract their attention from his many needs for longer than five minutes, had awoken and was not pleased.

"Your turn," I said, turning back to the dishes.

"Ungh," he grunted.

This time I'm sure it was not because of a bad football play.

Random Happenings from World of Holly and Harry(s)

2010-09-18T21:11:00.002-04:00

I'm a bad, bad, Mrs. Blogger, huh?

Well, it's like this - the Ipad? Ya know that uber-cool thing that Mr. Jobs RAVES about - DOESN'T WORK FOR BLOGGER BLOGGING. And no app in sight.

And---- I killed my Macbook Air. No - I don't know how and NO I didn't do it on purpose - it just got - confused. And kept trying to load but, pathetically, couldn't. But never fear. Big Harry was here to fix it - with a backed up copy. From May.

So I only lost a few months (forehead smack goes here).

I traveled to NC for a few weeks with the Harrys and was taunted daily by a mysterious ball in the pond behind our hotel. "Fred" as I named him would show up at random times and random places within the pond - looking no worse for the wear from storms and random Hurricane-winds that swooped by. I made up stories of his origin since there are NO houses near that part of town and I could only guess he was related to "Wilson" of "Castaway" fame. He was my friend. Some days - my only friend.

I threw my back out again - worse this time. I swear if I find the expiration date on this here body of mine.... Well - I'm asking for a refund - or a bionic body - I can scrape up donations for $6 million, I'm sure. So after two weeks of ineffective Chiro-ing I finally went to the doc and got a shot in the butt for my trouble - and a crap ton of Rx's. I'm going to be better in no time - and probably do something else stupid to mess it up.

Currently my baby boy, Harry the Fourth, is creeping along toward the six month marker. What the hell happened to the past three months? The first three seemed so slow, as if they would never come to a close and reveal the boy beneath the fussy baby and now - dude is growing up too fast! I buy him 6 month clothing - AND THEY'RE TOO SMALL! He wears baby capris cuz the pants are too short and they give him a lil tummy fat roll too! He's found his toes, too. And instead of being overjoyed - he's mad. They're like little five-toed invaders into his world and must be destroyed. Problem is, once he's managed to pull of his socks and get into a reclining position - his belly blocks their way to his mouth. So he tugs with BOTH HANDS to get one foot to his mouth. Holding his breath he'll get his big toe in his mouth, grin, slobber - and lose his grip. For which he will then utter his favorite baby curse word:"MAMAMAMAMAMAMA!" - Yes, my name is what he utters when he is BEYOND pissed at the world. Siiiiigh.

Went to the Fallfest tonight in Barboursville, WV. Ate a hot dog. A Pepsi. Some bits of a funnel cake that fell out of Big Harry's mouth. A deep fried pecan pie. Some curly chips and - currently - a bag of cotton candy. I expect the sugar coma to be a way to catch up on my sleep from the past few months.

Oh - and on the "New Mama" front - my hair has decided to part ways with my head. The hair sculptures on the shower wall have gone from Minimalistic Expressionism to A Grotesque Overuse of Medium. Nothing I can do will stop my hair from falling out in clumps. So - if you have a lot of pesky hair, thick strands that you can do nothing with - just have a baby and watch it all, literally, go down the drain. I'm THIS CLOSE to hitting Chic Wigs in the local mall. Maybe they'll have a Katy Perry blue one and I can start a (very bad) trend.

Last week I turned 30-uh-(mumble). The boys and I went to a very fancy restaurant. I was mortified. I was expecting the baby to go all Excorcist crazy on me since I was eating (He doesn't like for me to eat. No, really, he'll knock the food out of my hand or grab it from me. It's the best diet - if I'd let him win). But he did really well. I have pictures but, of course, my Mail isn't working right now. Why? Cuz Mac's hate me.

And sometimes, the feeling is mutual.

Okay - off to bed now since the baby is asleep and, per usual, if he's asleep, I'm asleep. Or bidding on stuff at Shopgoodwill.com. That place is ADDICTING! And so much less commercialized and confusing and shady as Ebay.

Rant over. Everyone back to their large bag of pink and blue Cotton Candy. What? No Cotton Candy? Oh that's saddddddd. I'd share but.... well... uh.... :)

A Minute to Collect Myself

2010-09-04T00:32:00.001-04:00

My husband has control issues. It's the one major thing we fight about and it creeps into all aspects of his life. He won't let things go if he knows he's "right", he has to be involved on all decisions which involve him, or even if they don't, and, most importantly, if he has one of it -he must have them all.
I used to make fun of him for his OCD-like collections: Simpsons figures, GI joes, Transformers, Masters of the Universe, Metallica records, comics and more fill our basement and walls, shelves and windows, rooms and even bathrooms in order for him to feel happy, complete and in control.
Not that I'm innocent of having the odds and ends of collectabiles either. I have quite a bit of Harry Potter merchandise, some special Barbies, a few Buffy and Angel dolls and stands and a large wardrobe of designer duds, handbags and shoes. But do I have to have them? Surely not.
But then I started cleaning out our downstairs closet in hopes of having some loot to sell this weekend at my parent's big Yard Sale. I tugged and lugged, cursed and sweated my way to the back and then turned to look at what I'd dragged out. A pile, roughly as tall as me and as big around as my extended redneck family loomed before me.
It was all Christmas wrapping paper.
And bows.
And balls.
And ribbon.
And tags.
Oh. My. GAWD!!!
I tried organizing the mound, but it only made it worse - and prettier. I wondered aloud about possible wrapping paper support groups. Should I just give up and ask Santa to bring me a wrapping paper wall organizer? Nah, no way my name was accidentally moved off the naughty list.
I stuffed some horrendous old decor items, curtains, fake foliage, and a few other odds and ends into bags and lugged them up the stairs all the while ignoring the alluring pile of bedazzled paper.
Temptation behind me I then searched the bathroom for useless items like footbaths and hair product gimmicks (a hair dryer with a brush attached!!!! Wow!!!) when I noticed another pile forming.
Headbands. Plastic ones, fabric ones, small and big ones, sparkly ones, classic ones, old and new ones. Piles upon piles of strayhairkeepers were being pulled from every drawer and alcove in the bathroom.
And I had more.
In my suitcase.
I quickly shoved them in to a bottom drawer but stopped first to admire a rather pleasing pink and gray number in thick flannel.
I vowed then and there never to bring up my hubs crazy collections again.
I'd be silent, supportive and sweet, even for it seemed that I, too, collect things. So I shall bite my tongue... for one whole day. Whew! Marriage is full of sacrifices! ;)

A Feat of Feet

2010-08-27T00:40:00.001-04:00

I'm obsessed with boots right now. With Fall looming there are visions of booties, knee-hi and even the occassional peeptoe leather wonder wandering in my brain. And now that the swelling in my legs have gone down - some may actually fit!
Oh the thought makes me as giddy as a naughty schoolgirl in plaid!
Thus far I have ordered two pair blindly from the web (ugly and waaaay too big-I'd have to have Andre the Freakin Giant's calves to fit in the last pair!) and tried on about a hundred more. My problem, I'm realizing, is that I just don't like ugly shoes. And there are some doooooozies out there!
So even as I cling to my hope (and all those side zippers) I know my boots are out there, waiting for me, and when I find them, I shall love them -and name them Nancy. ;)

Crawl Bawl

2010-08-03T11:21:00.002-04:00

At a little over four months old - I think my baby is amazing. People compliment me on his "soulful" stare, his adorable grin and his ability to stuff his entire hand into his tiny mouth. I've called Guiness Records on that last one.

So when his daddy and I placed him on his back under his fun gym so that he could exercise the last thing we expected was that it would turn into a rescue mission.

He started out calmly enough by grasping the tail of the monkey dangling over his face - he then flung himself to his side and, before we could move, on to his belly. He then pushed up on to his chubby arms, repeatedly banging his head on the plastic disc that was hanging at the end of the gym. His legs began to kick furiously in an effort to crawl, but instead, since his arms are not as strong as his constantly-moving legs, he ended up eating mat.

But he didn't stop kicking.

Instead he kept trying to crawl, orange and yellow-striped butt wiggling in the air while his face was ground into the colorful sealife mat below.

He actually made progress, like a determined inchworm, until he hit the pole at the end of the gym, which made him scream indignantly until daddy rescued him.

"There ya go," Big Harry said as he rolled him back on to his back and placed him under Harvey the Monkey. Big Harry got up from the floor, turned around, and almost made it back to the couch when he looked back and saw his child wriggling back on to his stomach to repeat the process.

We are all gluttons for punishment in this family!

Seven Year (B)Itch

2010-06-16T12:21:00.002-04:00

This Monday, June 21st, marks my seven-year wedding anniversary with my hubs and we hit the "Seven Year Itch." Based on pre-conceived and popular notions, I believe this seven year milestone entitles me to a Pool Boy. Or a Gardner.

I mean, seriously. It's hot here and I've got some overgrown bushes. No, really, I do.

Welcome to Harry's Baby Life

2010-06-15T15:50:00.003-04:00

As is well documented, my baby makes no small show when he is making "presents." So while my sister was enjoying the lunch I made for her, my darling baby decided to start grunting like a pig in heat.

Rushing like a footballer, I tucked him under my arm and rushed to the changing table and, breathing only through my mouth lest I pass out from the foulness and squish my newbie, I pulled down his diaper. Elmo seemed to be warning me from the waistband, but I pressed on.

It was empty.

"Well, Harry!" I said and stepped off to the side to grab the nail clippers as his tiny toe just cut a gash in my arm.

I turned back around to see - a fountain. My baby was grinning and peeing a stream that was reaching a good two feet in the air and drowning the yellow duckies on his footy pajamas.

"You did that on purpose," I said to him as I stripped him down to his (new) diaper.

He's been like that all day.

Earlier he grabbed my thumb between his two pink gums and chomped and then licked it. When I asked for it back - he grinned - not releasing my digit but instead having a grand ol' time increasing pressure slowly - just to see what I would do.

I may have watched too much "Family Guy" while I was pregnant...

I'm scared of my baby. :)

Will Work for Sparkles

2010-06-12T22:15:00.004-04:00

Today I revisited my youth by volunteering mine and my sister's services as pageant judges. In the pre-JeanBenet world of pageantry, the biggest "Glitz" accessory was the occasional can of spray glitter or a "flipper" to fill in that one missing front tooth. So I am often unprepared for the amount of preparation that goes into pageants nowadays.

Case in point - a two year old today rocked a red, white and blue outfit as per the pageant requirements. But her mother had also sewn little seahorses and fish to the bottom of her sailor dress.

"Ohmygaw!" Summer gasped as the little girl turned to leave the stage and showed us the back of the tiny dress adorning her two year old frame.

Her bottom was completely covered in a red and white Lifesaver Tube.

As Summer and I left the pageant today, we were all a twitter (the emo not the app) because the director saw fit to give us two of the leftover star-spangled crowns. You'd have thought we won them the way we oohed and awwed over the tiny crowns with a red, white and blue star upon each.

"Arewegonnawearthemhome?" my sister asked in her normal non-pausing way, face shining with hope and anticipation.

"Well, duh!" I said and, as soon as we were safe inside her rustic Ford pickup - we plunked them on to our heads and adjusted our hair appropriately as any princess knows that hair placement is as important as the crown placement.

Pulling up to the window at Burger King we watched as each employee came to the window and handed us our change/food. And then paused. And looked at our sparkly heads.

We grinned.

It really is hard being this cool. hahaahha!

And Then There Were Two

2010-05-31T13:15:00.001-04:00

Big Harry: "You feed him - I'll go get breakfast!"
Me: "Yay!"
Baby Harry: "UNNNNNNNH!"
Big Harry: "Byeeeee!" (cloud of dust in his wake)
Baby Harry: "UNNNNNNH! UNNNNH!"
Me: "Crap..." (begins mouth-breathing only)

My Changing Life

2010-05-29T21:11:00.003-04:00

Today, for the first time, I changed my baby in a public restroom. I had, previously, been there for changings on relative's furniture and even for the occasional change in the back of my SUV (the latter of which had to be done in three different stops since my kid is not one to waste time and only defecates once a day. A BIG ONE. Once a day.).

Big Harry and I are strolling through Target and, once again, I am stuck muttering in the deodorant aisle since my particular brand seems to now be geared toward sweaty pre-teens instead of glistening housewives. I was delving through row after row of "pear blossom" and "cherry daffodil" or some crap like that when I heard a familiar sound coming from the cart.

"Unnnnnnnnnnnh!"

"Is he poopin'?" I asked Big Harry as he continued to prattle on about air filters or horsepower or percentages - things beyond my stuttered and drugged comprehension - "Is he?" I peered closely at my serious-faced child. His head was to the left. His blue eyes were shiny and - his face was beet red.

"Unnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnh!" he repeated, lips pursed and face turning tomato-like.

I look at my husband. He looks at me. We race to the checkout line, unwilling to forgo our over-priced toiletries but praying that we can make it back to our home, a mere five minutes

down the road, before Poopgate 2010 began.

"Unnnnnnnh!" We're in the lane, and the cashiers, obviously being paid hourly, continue their slow and oh-so-difficult job of running items over a scanner in a speed usually reserved for Nursing Home relay races.

"Unnnnnnnnnnnnnh!" My baby grunted again - a loud and evil sound. And then the smell filled the air. That smell that can only be known by the parents of fussy children with sensitive systems being run on things like soy milk and oatmeal.

"Oh no," I said and sighed. I grabbed my Kate Spade overfilled diaper bag and plucked my child from his seat.

"I'll do it," Big Harry said, looking every bit the martyr as he heaved his large manly

shoulders and hung his large-but-cute-head in defeat.

"That's okay - I have my diaper bag. I'll do it."

"Okay!" he said and waved to me as my squirmy, stinky child and I headed toward the Target lavatory.

I had noticed the changing tables BK (Before Kid) but had always considered them to be, well, too icky to contemplate. A place where poop was harvested and pee was captured. The ironic part of it being located directly next to a toilet was lost on me.

Carefully, I plucked a paper towel from the dispenser and approached the plastic slab on the wall. Using the towel as a shield, I flipped the table down and set my bag upon it. I then laid

down my own changing pad (carefully constructed to match my Kate Spade bag but not, as it happens, to stay put as I chased my squirmy kid from one end to the other, dodging sneaky pee streams all the way).

"Unnnnnnnnnh!" Baby Harry grunted again as I laid him on the pad, removed his Jordan shoes and bright orange shorts and surveyed the damage.

One tiny pebble stared at me from the confines of his Big Bird diaper.

"Well that's not so bad!" I grinned at my baby and dug in my bag for a wipe - as he grunted again - a fierce and mighty UNNNNNNNNNNNH and - covered himself, my hand, and the rest

of his Big Bird diaper with yellow goo.

"Ewwwwww! Harry! Ewwww!" I laughed and tried to remember not to breathe through my nose.

"Well, that's still not so - AAAGH! HOW ARE YOU STILL POOPING?!?!" Like a secret agent my small child had lined up the shot, folded his chubby legs in the air and grunted like a sliverback gorilla as he delivered another barrage of poopy play-doh into the filled diaper.

A bag of wipes, two diapers and three handwashings later, I walked out to meet my husband. He took one look at me, a sweaty, disheveled mess with red cheeks and then looked at his happy, giggling son.

I expected him to offer to take the next round of poop roulette. Or to offer to get me a cool

beverage so as to recoup from the stank war I'd just waged - and sorta won. At the very least I expected him to lovingly wipe the beads of sweat from my hair so as to keep it from curling into a hick-fro.

"Hey," he offered instead. "What did you do with his shoes?"

Luckily, I was too parched to answer him with the string of curses that filled my mind as it would've required oral acrobatics that my tired self and dry mouth could not perform.

"In bag," I managed to reply and tossed (not literally) our kid at him. I slowly shuffled to the concession stand and purchased a bag of popcorn and a large Cherry Coke to make myself feel like a real person instead of a walking latrine. I savored the drink, letting its sweetness fill my mouth, bubble on my tongue and rehydrate my very soul (I'm country. We like our pop. Get over it.).

I then dug into my popcorn, grabbing a handful with glee and stuffing it into my face - when I realized something.

My hand smelled like poop.

Even after multiple handwashings up to each elbow - the stinky baby butt smell permeated from the pores in my hand - which was now filled with popcorn.

Which I ate anyway.

I really am adjusting to motherhood...

Sleeping Beauties Green with Envy

2010-05-20T00:22:00.001-04:00

Both Harrys are sleeping peacefully right now. Both have arms and legs flailed and both are snoring softly. United in slumber I am again reminded how outnumbered I am as they frolic through dreamland and I stare at the wall trying to remember if I took the sheets out of the washer.
My days are filled with the stresses of keeping my baby, Señor Fussybutt, fed and happy. This is my new job. And, to discredit myself as a mother, it really can suck sometimes. As much as I love my baby, I find myself yearning for those things I now miss: movies, free time to write, personal hygeine and showering daily. Sigh. Oh and sleep. I miss lazy Saturdays and sleeeeeeeep!
Sometimes I'll be watching tv and see a mom with curled hair and darkened lashes and think: "When did she have time for THAT?!" and then I remember --it's fiction.
So although I have little time for fashion, romance, and, unfotunately, hygeine, I am constantly amazed at my little guy and his ability to make me smile one minute and be terrified of his lil' 12 pound ass the next.
Motherhood, so far, is kinda smelly, kinda weird, kinda tiring (a lot!) and kinda great.

One Month - Really?

2010-04-25T22:02:00.003-04:00

A month ago today I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Harry, who was named after his father, grandfather and great-grandfather.

I'd love to say that things have been easy but as many of you parents know - babies are hard! Baby Harry has had tummy issues, gas issues, spit-up issues, latching issues and pretty much any other issue that a kid who's only been around for a few weeks could have. Which, to say the least, has drained this new mother to the point of having to ask the doctor for "Happy Pills." I'm not one to admit defeat easy so trying to pretend that everything was hunky dory while sobbing hysterically 24 hours a day, not eating and puking more than when I was prego - well - that was not a fun task.

But he really is a beautiful baby.

He's strong.

He's loud.

He's mine.

I'd post more but due to my lack of brain power, sleep and properly balanced hormones, I will have to save it for later.

Oh - his stats: Birth date: 3/25/10. 8 pounds, 3 ounces. 21.5 inches long and he has a full head of hair, pretty olive skin and blue-grey eyes.

Speak Clearly. Think Clearly. Huh?

2010-03-13T19:33:00.002-05:00

I have about two weeks left of being a host to a creature that kicks me, causes my sciatic nerve to torment me, and my food to often reappear at inopportune intervals. In the meantime I have gotten used to people looking at me funny. Tonight was no exception.

I approached the checkout desk at Border's Bookstore and plopped a Clive Cussler book on cd and two P.C. Cast novels onto the stand. "Is this not on sale?" I asked the unattractive woman who had spent too many hours at the front desk. Her hair stood on end - her eyes flashed with contempt of shoppers and her breasts sagged from the effort of trying to run away from her offending personality.

"I don't know," she said oh-so-helpfully.

"Well - okay," I said, trying to hide my disdain of her ways. I worked in retail for YEARS and even at my worst "I hate all customers" time - I was still a pleasure to behold. Or at least I'd like to think so.

"No, it's not on sale."

"Well, can you check my card and see if I have a five dollar coupon on there?"

"No, you don't."

"Well, I'll just go ahead and take it then," I sighed. I was fed up with her "helping" and I just wanted to go home and sit on a heating pad to make my leg stop hurting.

"What?" she stared at me blankly.

"I said I'll go ahead and take it."

"You want the book on cd?" she seemed confused by my lack of ability to convey that I WANTED THE DAMN BOOK.

"Am I saying it funny? Are things not coming out right?" I asked my sister, who, unfortunately seemed to confirming sasquatch's confusion.

"Youwantthebook?" she asked me in her non-pausing fashion and patted me like a kid who couldn't make up her mind between Sour Patch Kids or Sour Worms in the candy store.

"Seriously? Did I not just say that I did?" I was incredulous.

"No, youweren'tmakingsense," Summer said and pushed my other books forward.

"Well, huh," I said, pulling out my credit card and handing it to Hateful Eyes.

"This pregnancy thing sucks," I continued while walking out of the store.

So on top of my other maladies - I can now add the inability to talk real good to peoples either.

Yay.

Pregnant Pauses

2010-03-03T14:58:00.003-05:00

Last Friday I went to my Physical Therapist. I was wearing nice jeans with a stretchy maternity panel and a cute baby-bump showing sweater with an empire waist and lowcut enough that my milky milkjugs were so far on display that I could barely see my feet. I had even put on cute dangling black earrings to match my sweater and a chunky black bracelet.

The only thing I was missing was - my feet.

They were still wrapped from knee to toe in gauze, cotton, foam and bedecked in a pair of navy blue and white velcro-strapped faux footwear substitutes.

I wanted them off. OFFFFF!

So when my box arrived stating its contents were "For My Swelling Solutions" - I was uber-excited and made my appointment as soon as possible. The garments - two pair - were as varied as can be. The stockings that I had so wished for were "Suntan" which, for those of you in the know, is the exact shade of "Old Lady Brown" or "Hooters Girl Jiggle." They were thick, scratchy and hells-a-ugly. And I loved them. The other pair were large and looked like potholders - but for feet. So - should I ever be able to make and enjoy baked goods again, I could use my black, quilted legs to get them out of the oven. :)

They come with a spandex oversleeve and, once put on, appear more Uggboot-like than Hockey goalie -but a comparison could be made. These Lymphedema control garments will hold me in during the day - with a compression of 50 during the day - and 50 at night.

And even though both of these are as about as ugly as ugly can be - and my vain side screams when I think of sandal-weather and my gorgeous (useless) Mary Jane collection - I will grin and bear it.

Harry and his grandmother took me out to dinner at The Chop House the next day after my stocking-fitting to eat jovially since I could now wear real people shoes again. I was feeling quite good about my return to the pages of plus-sized prego fashion so when the tiny lady to my left grabbed my hand and begin lavishing me with compliments, I was glowing - both with motherhood and with the ease of basking in the love of an old, wise woman.

"You don't even look pregnant! I mean, you can't even tell! If someone didn't know you were pregnant - well - they'd just think you were just LARGE!"

Ah, yes - the wisdom of old age. Not only can it backhand you with an open-palmed compliment, but it can knock the wind out of your sails so fast that even months of hard-leg-wrapping work can prepare you for the fact that no matter how hard one tries to put vanity behind her - the non-filtered views of the old will always make you feel like a cow.

Who then ate an entire piece of cheesecake.

Thank God for fast-acting insulin shots!

Ugh.

Baby Harry - Cha-Cha-Chia!

2010-02-21T16:09:00.003-05:00

He's getting bigger. Growing like a Chia Pet on Miracle Grow! Six pounds, six ounces.

I'm at 34 weeks. He's at 36.

At this rate - he's going to pop out a toddler!

Eep!

In other baby news - he's passing all of his Non-stress tests/Fetal Monitoring with flying colors (basically he's rewarded for kicking the crap out of me) and continues to do well with getting all of his fetal development points too. So far so good!

HITLER!!! HITLER PANTS!!!

2010-02-21T15:53:00.002-05:00

Since my being uber pregnant, sick, diabetic and wrapped like King Tut from the knees down - to say that romance was put on the back burner would be an understatement. Romance has gone from "maybe tomorrow" to "maybe in the summertime."

In order to try to jumpstart the need for romantic interludes seeing as how new babies and healing girly parts tend to put a damper on such things for some time, I decided to take charge one late weekend night. Our downstairs bathroom is right off the TV room and our Apple sits right on the other side. So while Harry was surfing on the net I went to the bathroom and, since my mobility is somewhat limited (as is my libido), I just left my pants and pantaloons pooled around my ankles as I shuffled to his side.

He was laughing hysterically at some You Tube video showing Hilter's supposed response to the tragic Ipad. He glanced up at me and pointed at the screen,: "This is HILARIOUS!"

"Uh huh," was my response as I continued to feel a cold breeze assault my netherregions. "Is it funny, darling?" I leaned against his arm.

He looked back at me and grinned. Oblivious.

"Fine!" I huffed and started scooting toward the couch while trying not to stumble around my pants still pooled at my stockinged feet.

"Wait - what?" he looked over at my retreating half-naked form. "Why are your pants off?"

"Just let it be duly noted that you chose HITLER over nookie. HITLER!" I yelled while yanking my pants to their rightful upright position.

"But, wait! I didn't know - I didn't see - I --- You really should watch this video - it's hilarious!"

"No," I said, stubbornly.

A few hours later we were going to bed. I was still smarting over my snub so as I was getting dressed - I dropped my drawers again, stuck my butt in the air and yelled "HITLER! HITLER PANTS!"

You'd think this game would be old by now.

But it's not.

It hasn't rekindled any inklings of romantic notions - but we do reassure one another that our girl and boy parts are still there through brief flashes and war cries of "HILTER!"

Oh what our neighbors must think...

Fashion Faux Pas and Fears

2010-02-10T11:11:00.005-05:00

"I like your shorts."

I look down, notice my giant Harlequin print granny panties and looked back at my loving husband.

He smiled sweetly. "They're nice shorts."

And somehow he's still alive today to tell the tale.

Since my uterus has been invaded by a future Chuck Norris wannabe, my fashion choices have gone from limitless to limited - and not in a good way. I have stretch pants that can be tucked into my bra. I have panties that can be tucked under my chin and I have pads that now go in my bra and not to create "definition" or lift. My legs are still wrapped in the most wonderfulness of fake-fleshy peach bands - up to my knee and are padded all around with gauze, cotton, foam and sock-like material. In 2.5 weeks I will have three sets of knee highs that will be "Suntan" and made out of burlap sacks (at least that's what they feel like to me) and it's sad how much this will be a welcome change for me. Mainly because I will then be able to wear real shoes again (I had to attend my Baby Shower last weekend with plastic bags on each foot to protect me from the snow). They will arrive just in time for me not being able to bend over to lace them up. Yay! :)

I now go to six to seven appointments a week for the baby, my Gestational Diabetes (I'm up to taking 140 units a day of insulin. My track marks continue to be the envy of heroin addicts everywhere) and my legs. I am now busier than I was when I actually worked for a living. Now I work just to keep living. BUT - even though my health continues to be tested (sugars increasing due to big baby, UTI's that keep popping up, leg swelling keeps creeping in through the wraps...) Baby Harry continually gets good reviews. He's big - but developing well and progressing along - quickly and a little faster than I had anticipated.

Harry and I have (reluctantly) signed up for a Birthing Class on Saturday. I'm sure it will be educational, informative, long and will do enough to flip me out that I will probably never want to go through the actual birthing process.

Too late on that one, huh?

So - wish me luck and that I'll remain conscious throughout the video selections. How embarrassing would it be to be HUGELY pregnant and NOT be able to watch the videos of a woman giving birth? Something I'm going to have to do - eventually!

X-Ray Visions

2010-02-02T22:42:00.002-05:00

Getting up at the crack of dawn, injecting myself with multiple units of insulin, grabbing a quick balanced breakfast and picking up my doting mother - all before 8am was not my idea of fun. But I still arrived right on time for my leg-rewrapping.

All of this seems very ho-hum until you factor in the fact that I was up every two hours the night before to rewrap my left leg which was THROBBING in pain. I can barely bend due to my big ol' baby belly but I had to figure out how to pull my leg up and carefully wrap my own foot, ankle and calf with layers of flesh-colored compression bandages. I cried. I screamed at them. But nothing helped. They ached - and I was all alone. With no help. I was the picture of perfection of pitifulness...

So as I hobbled into the Therapist's office my mother jumped the gun, "Can we talk about maintenance? She is going to need to do something else..." I could've kissed her.

Rebecca, my Lymphedema Therapist agreed that it may be easier just to see how I do this week and then go and have me measured for compression hose garments (sooo pretty! Ugh) by the end of the week. I can be re-evaluated after Baby Harry's arrival.

Afterwards we went for a Gestational Diabetes check up and giggled and laughed as Baby Harry, now 5lbs and 3oz, hid his face from the Tech's probing wand. But when she went to check on his organs - he was more than ready to show his junk to her. So I was given 4-D images of his "turtle" instead of his chubby face. Harry was happy to find out that his namesake already has hair since he, as a child, sprouted fuzz sometime around the 2 year mark and was very cue ballish before that. I came out with enough hair to braid so I wasn't too worried.

After slightly raising my insulin (yucky) - I was sent on my way so I dropped mom off and went home for a well-deserved nap.

One hour and not nearly enough z's later I was rudely awaken by the Perinatal Center: "Your test is showing fluid in your system. You have to go to Ob-Triage and have them check your lungs. Are you having trouble breathing?"

"I have a five pound baby laying on my lungs. Yes - I have trouble breathing," I said - in a sleep-like stupor.

"No, you need to go," she said.

"Fine," I said and gathered my things, and mother, and went to the local hospital.

After navigating the Labyrinth halls of Cabell Huntington, we finally find ourselves in "Labor and Delivery."

I wanted to run.

Although I was wary - I did one x-ray and, after three hours of baby heart monitoring, I was free to go with no fluid to be found.

It was scary.

And now I worry my baby will be affected by the Radioactive X-ray. Will he glow in the dark? Have X-ray Vision? Telekinesis?

Seriously - if I was a pregnant horse on a farm - they'd have already shot me.

Shoo Fly

2010-01-26T22:06:00.001-05:00

I've read a lot about being pregnant. What to eat. What to do, sing, read and buy for baby's growth. And I've read that he feels what I feel. That my moods effect him.
But I'm starting to think my little Baby the Hut may be influencing me. Instead of getting "The Dropsies" my dexterity has increased. Instead of being forgetful, my organizational and cleaning skills are boosted.
Like last night. I'm lying in bed after having eaten my Diabetically approved diet food when a large black fly buzzed into my dimly lit bedroom. He flew past me and landed above my head. He hopped and veered toward the glowing tv showing some Indie drama I rented from Netflix. His course then changed and he was playing chicken with my head. Straight toward me he charged, hell-bent on collision - and grossing me out.
I quickly leaned right and tossed a straightened karate-chop hand in his general direction.
He died in my floor.
I had karate-chopped a fly in mid-air.
I'm the new Karate Kid.
Or Baby Harry is and I his chubby puppet.
WAX ON! WAX OFF!!!

Linebackers and Porn Stars

2010-01-25T14:01:00.002-05:00

Baby Harry the IV is a-growin'. Even with me watching my fat intake, counting carbs and eating more protein than I ever did before - he still rivals that of most lightweight bowling balls - that is embedded in the right side of my tummy. :)

At the last Ultrasound the tech, who had very little personality, was like "Well, there's his boy parts!" That's the first thing we see filling up the large screen mounted at the end of the room. My baby boy is not shy about his genitalia. Kinda like "look what I got!!!" while the whole time keeping his tiny little hands glued to each side of his head. She then started measuring his belly, his head, his legs.

"33 Weeks" popped up on the screen. "He's measuring all over at 33 weeks --- and four pounds 13 oz." I was shocked. Two weeks ago at my last appointment at the Perinatal Center for my Gestational Diabetes - he was 3 pounds, 15 oz. He'd gained almost a pound in two weeks.

Yup - that's my boy for sure. I'm at 30 weeks - he's at 33 - an overachiever already!

"He's gonna be a Linebacker..." I heard Harry wonder from beside me.

"He's gonna be a BIG Linebacker," said the Ultrasound Tech while bouncing on my belly to encourage my already-stubborn child to move his hands.

So while I'm fighting with sometimes painful leg wraps for my Lymphedema, needles and pills for my G. Diabetes and sleepless nights with sparse fitful dreams of unattainable toilets - my baby grows. And grows. And grows.

Later that week Harry curled up on top of my stomach and cooed to my swollen belly parts. "Daddy loves you, Daaaaady looooooves youuuuu!" he said while rubbing in circles to which Baby Harry responded - by kicking him in the face. A lot.

It was sweet revenge.

Pretty Ugly

2010-01-24T16:46:00.002-05:00

Those are my legs. Yup. Now many of you will only see slightly chubby gams stuck in what are called "Stockinettes" - but what you SHOULD be seeing is distinction. There are actual feet there. Ankles. Shins. Calves.

After being a Lymphedema patient and suffering since childhood with swollen feet and beyond I am finally getting the treatment I should have sought years ago - had I known it was out there.

The first step is taking my hardening, swollen limbs and putting on the Stockinettes. Size Large. Eeek. But really - they were that bad. And I had begin to build up scar tissue. Over this Stockinette will go toe gauze (weaved in and out so only my sparkly blue toes show through) A layer of fluffy wrap, two pieces of foam wrap on either side of my leg, two different sizes of Ace Bandages and three different sizes of Compression Bandages finish up the equation.

And it hurts.

Oh boy does it freakin' hurt.

The first time (in the picture above) they took off the layers - I was greeted with a horrific sensation of freshly burned flesh - only UNDER the skin. This was due to the immense amount of stretched skin - shrinking.

I've heard it hurts to be pretty - and it's flippin' torture to be ugly, too. :)

Friday I was re-wrapped. And I still can't put on my "shoes" (oh - they be awful blue and white and velcro monsters) by myself. But the new pain - coming from my even tighter wrappings, is unbearable. I can't sleep. Can't walk. But I'm told it will all be worth it.

Ya know - to have ankles again.

Pregnant and Smoking!!!

2010-01-15T18:59:00.002-05:00

I had another meltdown last night. To the extreme. But in my defense - my needle slipped. my $300 per refill medication spurted, along with a good amount of blood, and I stuck myself repeatedly trying to catch it. So I held my bleeding abdomen and cried choking, blinding sobs that made my nose run and my mascara head for my chin(s).

Cursing my tiny hands, I managed to sniffle, snort and bind up the courage to re-inject my insulin.

And I thought things couldn't get worse.

But today, when leaving work, I decided to go through the automatic car wash since my white Acadia looked, well, black. I sat in line for 30 minutes and waited patiently(ish) as each car went through and paid too much for their "Wave Automatic Wash." It was close to six p.m. by the time I pulled through the dryers and decided to go to Arby's to get a sandwich. Sitting in yet another line I noticed that the car in front of me was smoking really bad.

"Geez - get a new exhaust, Peeps," I said to myself as I rolled up my window.

Finally, it was my turn and I pulled to the window to get my sandwich.

"Do you need any sauces?" the man asked me.

"I uh - huh?" I was distracted. The smoke was still in front of my car - but the old Buick was gone. "Um -yeah - ketchup please." I was mesmerized. Large clouds of smoke were coming from the front of my Acadia like an old man on a park bench.

Now, I'm not a mechanic and I never claimed to have oodles of car knowledge - but I was pretty sure that the massive amounts of smoke - not a good thing.

So I got my sandwich and pulled over.

Quickly, I popped the hood latch and turned off the car and started feeling under the hood to find the release.

Which I couldn't find. I called Harry.

"Hello darling - where is the hood release?" I said (or something like this equally sweet and not at all demanding-like).

"Um - why?'

A nice couple from NC who were stretching their legs helped me find the latch release. "It's your radiator," the man said and then apologized for smoking around me when he found out I was pregnant. How sweet. :)

Long story short - it's my radiator. The fan isn't kicking on. Moses, the local dealership we buy from, came down and followed me back to the Service Station. I was given a tiny red Toyota to drive and I came home, clutching my cold Roast Beef and purse to my chest and finally, two hours after leaving work, I arrived home.

And couldn't get the key out of the ignition.

I was close to bursting into tears - again. For the third night in a row. Like a babyhead.

But instead I laughed the laugh of the insane and just kept tugging on the key. Finally after holding my breath, crossing my eyes, turning back on the car, moving the gear shift and then quickly yanking the key out - I was free.

And starved.

So I made it through the night - so far - without a meltdown (if you don't count my radiator) and without shedding a single tear (so far).

"Did you get home okay, then," Harry said when he called later.

"Yef, I ho okey," I said with a mouthful of food shoved in my piehole.

"Okay. Just making sure. Do you want a new car? Or mine? You can have my Escalade if you want it, you know that," he offered.

A smile, and ketchup, spread across my face.

It felt odd - it felt different - it felt - right. :)

Eat This, Not That - or That - or That...

2010-01-14T08:51:00.003-05:00

I was officially diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes right before Christmas last year and since then- well - it's been like the armpit of hell on me. Not only do I have to grab my fat like a perv on a subway, but I have to inject it with insulin five times a day along with watching my carb-intake, staying away from refined sugar, taking about six pills a day and testing my blood sugar five times a day.

In a word? SUCKY.

I plan, pre-plan and constantly dwell on the "What will I eat?" subject - and, honestly, I'm to the point where I'd rather NOT eat than consume one more cheese and cracker snack.

Just when I think I get the hang of this rather complicated diet-balance - I get an email from the lady at the Perinatal Center berating me for eating Graham Crackers and Milk for a bedtime snack. A snack which I thoroughly enjoy since it doesn't make me gag while eating it like most of the other "meals" I have to choke down.

If it weren't for the (largely) flourishingly life in my belly - I'd have converted to anorexia as a New Year's Resolution.

Apparently, even though "Graham Crackers and 8oz of milk" is a listed and recommended snack in the information I got FROM their own nutritionist, they now say it is not a good snack idea.

So I had a minor meltdown last night.

Like some food-starved Jenny Craig survivor, I clutched the handles of my stainless steel fridge and just sobbed while my baby kicked me for being such a wuss.

They were more tears of frustration than out of want of a corndog or an Icee but c'mon- I'm hormonal and no one likes to be told they're wrong when they are trying SO HARD to be right. I was framed. Misinformed. Pissed as all hell.

So I cried while doling out some Dole pineappled into a measuring cup and sniffled while scooping out some nasty cottage cheese and sat down at the kitchen table to cry and eat a snack that I didn't want, wasn't hungry for and wasn't happy about eating.

The things we do for our children...

The good news and silver lining?

Baby Harry the IV is growing like a weed and is happy and healthy. He is a bit like Baby the hut and at 28 weeks - he is 3lbs and 15oz. Off the charts. But still -healthy. My sugar - though it spikes occasionally - is stabilizing and my weight is down five pounds from pre-pregnancy.

But I'm still mad.

So I look at the latest Baby Harry picture and I calm down. Some. :) That's the cord in front of his lips that looks like a Fu Man Chu mustache and the shadow of his ever-present hand over his head is making it look like he has Hitler hair. Not really sure where his nose is - hopefully he'll grow into it. And it will look like Harry's. Not mine. Lord help me - let him have Harry's pretty nose! :)

On a last, semi-related note - I quit my job. I put in my notice two weeks ago and decided to focus on my health instead. Unfortunately, I got suckered into working part-time and since my "last day" of Friday I've been at work every day. :)

Sigh. Only a few more months to go.

And then things will calm down.

Right?

Righ?!

Riddle me This...

2010-01-04T14:56:00.001-05:00

Is it better to feel guilty over leaving a job because you'll miss who you work with? Or stay at a job you love even if you aren't able to perform at 110% as expected- causing the beloved coworkers undue stress???
I may have just answered my own question on that 'un...

;)

HaPpY NeW YeAr!!!!

Sugar and Spice - Not Very Nice

2009-12-27T18:32:00.002-05:00

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

2009-12-17T20:36:00.001-05:00

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

2009-12-03T17:58:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-18T20:24:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-03T20:36:00.002-05:00

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

2009-10-27T20:53:00.004-04:00

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

2009-09-21T22:43:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-11T21:35:00.003-04:00

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...

2009-08-27T19:12:00.002-04:00

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?

2009-08-18T21:00:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-12T21:34:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-12T21:33:00.000-04:00

Rub a Dub Suds

2009-08-11T21:43:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-04T16:29:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-18T13:21:00.002-04:00

"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...

2009-07-11T21:55:00.002-04:00

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.

2009-07-04T16:16:00.002-04:00

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!

2009-06-13T21:14:00.004-04:00

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?

2009-06-10T21:22:00.003-04:00

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...

2009-06-08T21:11:00.003-04:00

"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!

2009-06-01T21:13:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-31T11:17:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-27T22:17:00.003-04:00

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? :)

2009-05-25T00:21:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-19T21:18:00.002-04:00

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

2009-05-17T22:12:00.008-04:00

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

2009-05-12T19:54:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-11T19:42:00.002-04:00

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!!! :)