Dulldroms

Thanks everybody for all your kind wishes for healing. I'm definitely feeling much better now!

I got a heckofa cold which settled into my sinuses and both ears. But as most Mom's know, you can't EVAH be sick on your own. The creeping crud goes round and round. Usually.

You got to weed out the--uh--fakers--or more kindly, those struck with "mental colds by association which renders them completely helpless so they expect to be waited on hand and foot".

In other words, the men in my house. I'll give them a foot.

With a bad cold, for the most part, on day one, you start feeling a little punky. Day two, you realize you got issues, but you hope that popping 12 vitamin C tablets will ward it off (too little, too late, and then you get acid burny butt on top of it).

Day three is when it really kicks in and makes you feel like death on a platter. Day four and five---if it's a really bad cold---is when you might end up with bronchitis, an ear or sinus infection.

So those of you who are familiar with the characters in my family might think this is pretty amusing. Yes, I exaggerated a bit. Maybe. A little. But in my feverish state, I swear this is a true happening. ;-)

Day three into my cold, Little Guy came home from school. He asked if he could take a nap. This is the kid who NEVER tells you he's sick until he's got a 104 fever.

"You ok?" I croaked.

My throat is a little sore. Can you ask Dad to bring home orange juice?

I call Hubby and tell him that I think Little Guy is sick. Could he bring home orange juice? Me? Still in the throes of heinie of fire, not going to touch anything citrus with a 10-foot-pole.

I'm feeling a little sniffly too. I think I have what you have. I can't be sick now. I have too much stuff to do!!

An hour or so later, Big Kid emerges from his cave, where over the last 3 weeks, with birthday and Xmas money, he's upgraded his Xbox 360 so he can play online with people all over the world who are a lot better at the games than he is.

Is Little Guy home from school?

"He's sick and he's taking a nap."

I sneezed a couple of hours ago. Do you think I might have pneumonia? Can I wake Little Guy up to go out to the garage to bring me in some soda? I'd feel better with soda, and if I expose my frail pneumatic body to the cold it would make it worse. Some guy said so on his MySpace page. And you know that everything you read on the Internet is true!

I didn't have enough energy to respond verbally, but he ran off back to his room after I bounced a hairbrush off his head.

Curled up next to the woodstove, wrapped in a blanket and reading a book (just couldn't seem to keep warm), the phone rang. It was Hubby.

I had to blow my nose, so I'm leaving the office. I know I caught what you have! I can't be sick now! I have too much work to do! Do we need anything besides orange juice from the store? Do we have Nyquil? Do we have cough drops? I can't believe I'm sick! &*^%$$!!

I said I didn't know and I'd be damned if I was going to go and hunt it all out. I'm wrapped up, I'm finally warm, and I ain't moving an inch. Might as well buy it at the store, we'd probably use it at some point during the cold and flu season.

Big Kid comes back out of the Bat Cave. Was that Dad? Is he coming home? Could you ask him to pick me up some cigarettes?

"WTF? You had a new pack this morning? You smoked a whole freaking pack in 9 hours?"

I've been feeling stressed out! And my chest feels really heavy. Do you think I might have a lung tumor? Since I probably have pneumonia, can I smoke INSIDE the house because it's really cold outside and as you know, experts say that cold temperatures can make pneumonia worse! I probably got pneumonia because I have to smoke outside in the freezing cold!

He didn't run fast enough out of the room. I'm sure my book left a good dent on his head next to the one left by the hairbrush. If he'd even GOTTEN the irony over that exchange, I might have just thrown my slipper from hell. The entire stupidity of it deserved the force of a big hard-backed book.

I'd stuck a huge pork roast in the oven that morning to slow cook over the day without anybody having to watch over it. Like I could. Saute a little peppers and onions, throw on some sauce, BBQ sandwiches for everybody who is up to eating.

Hubby came home loaded for bear. Bottles of Nyquil. Several bags of cough drops. Gallons of orange juice. Lubricated kleenex for his sensitive widdle nose.

I can't believe I'm sick! I can't afford to catch this crap right now! I've got too much work to do! I'm really starting to feel like sh*t! I know I'm on the verge of being horribly sick, and I just don't have the time for it!

Oh....do I smell BBQ?

Big Kid came out of the Bat Cave again and forgot to mention that he couldn't breathe any more.

MMMMmmmm!

Little Guy woke up, and I asked him how he was feeling. His throat was a "little sore", but he had bright red cheeks and Charles Manson crazy eyes. Would he like some soup? Some jello maybe?

Did you make BBQ?

Hubby and Big Kid chowed down. Little Guy had a bit. Then he started walking into walls.

"Honey, can I make you a cup of Theraflu?"

In a little bit, Mom. As soon as my dinner taste goes away.

Snarf.

Got him dosed, and I fell into bed without dinner. Woke up the next morning to unopened Nyquil and bags of cough drops on the counter. My "sick"--ha--and noisy guys hadn't even touched them. And they were both fine when they woke up.

Little Guy had the full whammy though.

I don't know if it's been the gray and freezing days, or trying to bounce back from my cold, but I've just been suffering from a really crushing depression, in which I feel almost paralyzed.

I haven't felt like writing. I haven't felt like reading. I don't want to get out of bed at all.

I have a mountain of paperwork to do, which I wrote about here in Disaboom a week or so ago. It's partially done, which is a good thing.

I truly thank you Friends, for all your lovely comments. You really are the best!

Love,

ATM

Pfffft!

I godda bat code. Be back soon. Achoo!

ATM

The Good, the Bad and the Fugly

Now that the holidays are over, I can take a breath and catch up on the silliness in the news.

Peeps. They just boggle the mind, don't they?

The Good:

Woman Finds Skaters Scott Hamilton and Kristi Yamaguchi Trapped in a Potato.

Well, not really. She thought she found Jesus. But since I don't think anybody really knows what Jesus looks like, it's just as likely to be Scott Hamilton and Kristi Yamaguchi, isn't it?

The Bad:

This woman is my kind of bad.

She and her boyfriend are about to take a shower together.

Except that he wants to include his dog in the bathroom for some reason (my mind doesn't EVEN want to go to some of those places). She says no. He insists.

She says, "I don't think I want to be your girlfriend if we have to have your dog in the bathroom while we're taking a shower together."

He says, "I think my next girlfriend will appreciate my dog more." And calls her a name.

So she punches him in the mouth. He gets hurt in the ensuing melee.

She ends up with a second-degree assault charge.

He ends up being known as the creepy guy who got his ass kicked by a naked girl.

I'm sure he and his dog will be very happy together.

The Fugly:

Geraldine Magda went to the nursing home to say goodbye to her terminally ill sister.

After she left, other relatives noticed that the dying woman's wedding ring was gone from her left hand---the hand that Magda had been holding shortly before. So they called the police.

Later that day, the police confronted Magda, asked to search her purse, and found the ring inside an empty prescription bottle.

"I have no idea how that got there!" she exclaimed. She's been charged with two felonies.

Fugly is probably the kindest word I could use. Sheesh!

My Green-eyed Boy...

Arrrgghhhh. A new rite of passage that makes me feel 100 years old.

My oldest turned 21 today.

The first thing Big Kid said to me when I woke up this morning was..."can I finally have a beer?"

No, just kidding. But this post is going to be long and probably boring, so get out while you can! It's pretty self-indulgent.

The day before, he asked what time he had been born. It was about 1:35pm on January 2.

I was 19 years old.

Back then, I felt kind of ashamed of admitting it, because I was a teenaged mother. I always had to qualify it by explaining that I'd already been married to his dad for 6 months before I got pregnant, because I thought people would assume that we "had" to get married.

My oh my how things have changed.

Now I hang on to the "teenaged-mother" thing. I mean, how could I have a son this old? I just don't tell everybody that I was only a teenager for one more month, because my birthday is one month and one day after his. :-)

When I first found my birthmother, one of the things I really needed to hear was the story of my birth. For 35 years, all I ever knew was the story about when my parents brought me home from the adoption agency.

I was 3 months old. I left my first mother when I was 3 days old, and was fostered for a few months. She thought I went directly to a waiting family, but those agencies are/were often pretty cagey when dealing with birthmothers when it comes to "getting" the kid. My folks were waiting for a boy when they got the call a few days before they took me home.

Interested in a girl? the agency asked.

My dad said, "hell yes!"

I don't think my mother has ever forgiven him.

Just kidding. Sort of. Family lore says she planned on adopting 3 boys.

So although the Big Kid has heard "his" story quite a few times over the years, I understand the need to hear it all again. Where did I come from? Where did it begin?

I told him, but as always, I left stuff out. This is HIS day.

But I can't stop thinking about it. The "not said" stuff.

Since we were newlyweds, his dad and I boinked like rabbits, so we were never sure about what the due date would be. Sometime within a month, obviously.

In the wee hours of the morning of Wednesday, December 31st, I thought I was in labor. So we made the trip to the hospital and were there about 7 hours before it was determined that no, I wasn't actually in labor. We got home around 8am, and I had an OB appointment at 9am.

Although I was absolutely freaking enormous, the young doctor on call in the practice for the holiday season (not the older, fatherly one I'd been seeing) said that well, yeah, he could admit me and induce labor, but he'd rather wait until I went into it on my own.

I was on board. I was exhausted, and in pain. Men won't ever get this, unless you liken it to getting kicked in the nuts, and then they just won't believe it.

Because giving birth is "natural" and getting kicked in the nuts isn't. Unless he's a total asshat, and try getting a guy to admit that he is and it's natural for him to get kicked in the nuts.

When a women's body gets ready for giving birth, the hard cartilage crap that's separating all the little pelvic bones gets soft and everything grinds together when you move, like somebody trying out a stick shift for the first time or twelve. If a woman listens, she can actually hear it when it happens. It hurts like hell.

I just wanted to sleep. So we went home.

Of course, my now ex-mother-in-law was there waiting (she'd flown in a couple of days before from Hawaii and had taken 10 days from her job---and really I promise, she's a nice woman in real life), and so was my ex-father-in law. He'd called, found out that we were at the hospital, and invited himself over. They hadn't been married for a number of years, and got along like two cats tied in a sack.

So by the time we got home, they were ready to unload on someone. And it turned out to be me.

When they heard that the doctor had offered to induce and I refused, they kicked me around like a can.

"I only have 10 days off from my job!" my mother-in-law moaned. "I've already been here for 3! If you wait, I might not get to spend any time with my new grandchild! How could you be so selfish?"

"How could you be so fiscally irresponsible?", my father-in-law shouted. "If they induce you and you have the baby before midnight, you can claim it as a deductible for the whole entire year!"

No shit. I am NOT kidding you. And my now-ex just sat there and let them smack me around.

Where were MY parents?, you might ask. They both lived a couple of hours away and were just waiting to get the call that I was going in to the hospital like normal people.

I went into our bedroom and called my dad. I just wept. I was so damn tired and sore. And tired. Did I say that already? He demanded that I put my husband on the phone.

"If you can't protect my daughter, I'm going to come down there and rip your GD head off!" Then-hubby assured him that he would, and went out to "deal" with his parents. Dad asked me if I wanted him to drive down, and I told him that I thought everything would be ok. I went to sleep.

A couple of hours later, then-hubby shook me awake.

"My parents decided that we're going to go ahead and induce labor. They're calling the doctor now to set it up so we can have the baby before midnight".

We? What's with this "we" shit? When did my personal sprog plopping become a group decision?

Yes. Yes. This is what happened! They decided I wasn't fit to make the choice and to take matters into their own hands. They got the doc on the phone, made demands, and he insisted on speaking with me.

I know the doc didn't want to mess up his own holiday weekend plans and was trying to put me off from ruining them.

"If you want to come in now and be induced, it's your decision!" I was too tired, but I didn't think I could wait another 4 or 5 days. I decided to come in the next day, January 1st. And I did.

I called my folks first. My mom met us down there. She was a little late, and got there while the tech had stabbed me like 6 times trying to get an IV going. My mother-in-law was marching around yapping her head off, making the tech nervous, so he kept stabbing me randomly. We were both almost hysterical.

Mom sweet talked my in law out of there, calmed both the tech and I down, he found a vein, and we were good to go.

Basically, after 12 hours of induced labor, I didn't get dilated beyond 3 centimeters. And believe me, if you're in a teaching hospital, the number of people who come by to stick their hands up your Miss Daisy equal the number of people who actually walk past your room. I felt like my crotch was the No Tell Motel on East Colfax that rents rooms by the hour. I think even the janitor copped a feel at least once.

My now-ex never even noticed. He was too busy listening to his Walkman and reading some stupid W.E.B Griffin novel. My mom was busy keeping the marching and ranting in-laws out of my room.

Finally, they decided to do an ultrasound to actually see where the Big Kid was positioned, since although I was in pretty active and painful labor, nothing seemed to be happening.

Doh! He was so big, he was positioned diagonally, with his shoulder pushing in the birth canal. So at about 11pm they unhooked me and planned for a c-section the next morning and told everybody to go home. Except for me, of course.

I was so restless that I NEEDED to get up and walk in the middle of the night. My back ached. I'd been on one of those hard damn beds all day and I needed to MOVE. The nurse on shift was like a freaking drill sergeant and kept barking at me. "Stay where you are unless you need to go to the bathroom!"

In the morning she stomped in and ordered me to go take a shower before surgery. I shuffled out of the room (the labor and delivery section is like a big circle with rooms all around the nursing station, and the shower facilities were on the other side) and stopped.

Some woman who was in labor in another room had invited her 12 brothers and all her friends and neighbors to watch her writhe and moan. Only two were allowed in the room at a time, so the rest of them were congregated in the common area. I was expected to walk through the throng with my heinie hanging out of my hospital gown to get to the showers.

Nurse Nazi actually POKED me to get going. I refused until she gave me another hospital gown to wear backwards. I mean, what was she going to do, say "No birth for you?"

Sheesh. But she scared the crap outta me anyway.

If any men have survived the saga for this long without running away screaming and stabbing themselves in the privates with a sharpened pencil, I suggest you now run like hell.

After my shower, while I was waiting, I got out of bed to go to the bathroom and felt/heard a big-ass plop. I looked down at the floor and saw this thing that looked like a part of a strawberry jello-cup. I'd read the baby books. I knew this was the uh "mucus plug".

I kicked that f*cker under the bed so Nurse Nazi wouldn't see it and make me get hooked up to that pitocin drip again!

Ultimately, my original OB came in to do the surgery, and my actual pediatrician---I mean MY pediatrician, who was close to retirement, attended as well.

I felt so comforted to have two such old and distinguished "hands" taking care of business!

Although I had an epidural, I had to be gassed a little bit at the end because I kept saying---"you know, I can feel that, and it kind of hurts!"

When I sort of came out of it, and was told that the Big Kid was 12.5 pounds and 23 and 3/4 inches tall, I made myself proud amongst these eminent doctors who had taken time away from their holiday weekend to deliver my son.

"You're shitting me! No way!"

Happy Birthday, my beautiful green-eyed boy.

You'll always be my baby.

P.S. When I went to the same hospital 3 1/2 years later to have Little Guy, the maternity ward still had Big Kid's picture up as the biggest baby ever delivered there!

Happy Anniversary, My Love

Today marks 12 years to the day that Hubby and I got married the first time.

The first time?

No, we didn't get married and divorce each other. We ended up having to get married twice, so we celebrate it twice a year.

Funny story that I'll share sometime.

In the meantime, here is the secret to a happy marriage (knock on wood)!

Devil 2, Angels 0

I haven't done this in awhile, most likely because when I have these kind of dilemmas, they aren't blogworthy.

You know, when you've got an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, arguing in your ear about you which way to go on stuff. Usually it consists on whether I should put skim milk in my coffee or real cream. If real cream is available, there's no contest. The devil always wins.

But that's boring.

I was talking to my good friend Elizabeth tonight and relayed an incident that happened over the last couple of weeks and she encouraged me to blog about it, even though I try to stay far far away from the political when blogging.

I was a bad, bad Attila. Again.

I have to confess. Hubby and I have a mixed marriage. Our 12-year wedding anniversary is coming up on New Year's eve, and so far, we've been able to work with it. We knew what we were getting into.

When we first got together I was an unabashed egg-sucking liberal dog (to quote former radio host Ken Hamblin). Hubby, on the other hand, was (affectionately) a shithead conservative Republican. But when you got down to brass tacks, our views really weren't that different. He wasn't a radical religious right sort of person---he just leaned economically to the right. Plus he recognized how my kids needed a couple of government programs to help get us through tough times when they were both uninsurable and their treatments cost about 1500.00 a month which I didn't have as a single parent trying to keep a roof over our heads without help from my vanished ex-husband.

And he wasn't about to step in and tell women how to manage their bodies as far as reproductive rights go. Gays? To each his own. So we were pretty simpatico.

Over the years, we've both come somewhat to the middle. But we've kept our separate party affiliations.

As an added bonus, I get more interesting mail from my party, which he loves to look at so he can eyeball the enemy.

Anyway, last week at about 10am, the phone rang for Attila's Hon.

"Hi, I'm Bob, and I'm calling from Washington and the National Republican Party. Could I speak to Mr. Attila?"

To be honest, I LIVE to f*ck with these people for a couple of reasons. First of all, because it's political, you can't tell them that you're on a "do not call" list. They don't have to respect that. But to us, it's just more telemarketing.

Secondly, if it was from the local Republican party, I couldn't mess with them, because we live in a small town and these people KNOW us! If it was the National Democratic party calling, I'd willingly hand the phone over to hubby. I won't condemn him for his opinions/reactions, and he won't condemn me for mine.

So it's a free-for all!

I said, Hi Bob, he's not here. Like many corporate white-collar Republican nobs, he works from 9 to 5 at an office. Do you have a number that he can call you back on?

Bob said, "Are you Mrs. Attila? Could I ask you some questions?"

And I said (sharpening my swords), Why yes I am. Yes you may!

Ok, I admit it. I think I was drooling a little in anticipation.

"How important is it to you to have a Republican in the White House after the next election?"

Not a bit! Why do you ask?

"Uh. So I guess you're not a Republican?"

No I'm not. We have a mixed marriage. In fact, Mr. Attila has to sleep on the couch quite frequently!

"Uh".

I took pity on him. After I laughed like a lunatic in his ear.

Bob, Mr. Attila gets home after 5pm our time. Call him then.

The next day we were out. I came home and checked the caller ID to see who called.

They called TWICE! During the 9 to 5 period.

Then we had the weekend and no real self-respecting Republican works then (just kidding---well, only a bit, because those guys didn't call THEN, did they?), so we didn't get any calls.

On Monday, we got a call from them around 11am, and when I answered the phone, I got a dial tone.

Now that really pisses me off. They have those automatic computerized dialing systems that call 3 numbers at a time and hang up on two of them if someone else answers first. You can't tell them you're on the "do not call" list, but they're allowed to use telemarketer crap like that designed just to chap your ass and inconvenience you.

Tuesday was of course, Christmas, so no calls then.

On Wednesday, I was prepared if they DARED to call during the 9-5 hours. And they did.

The person didn't give a name, but identified himself as calling from Washington from the National Republican Party.

I said, You know, I told you guys that hubby works a 9-5 job, and you'll have to call him after those hours.

And the guy said, "Are you Mrs. Attila? Can I ask you some questions?"

Certainly!

"How important is it to you to have a Republican in the White House after the next election?"

I said, It's very important to me! Because if a Republican gets elected, I won't have to give my husband a blow-job for the entire term!

"Uh--uh--pardon me?"

We have a deal. If a Democrat gets elected, he won't have to go down on me for 4 years. And basically, we're both really selfish people and want instant gratification, so this election will be important. I'm tired of wasting MY time trying to fulfill HIS needs, just to get a slap and tickle in return. We're both going to vote for each other's parties and hope for the best!

Then I told the guy to call back either before 9am or after 5pm to talk to the hubmonster. He was completely speechless. LOL

So TODAY I get ANOTHER call from them, around 2 in the afternoon.

"I'm calling from Washington from the National Republican Party. May I speak to Mr. Attila?"

Me (wondering what it will take to REALLY make them take notice) says, You people have called multiple times. I've told you over and over again that my husband works a 9-5 job, and amazingly enough he STILL isn't here at 2pm after your 10th call. Do you have anything you want to ask ME?

He says, "Mrs. Attila, are you a Republican?"

I said, Why no, I'm not.

And he said, "I think I'll call back later."

LOL

I can't stop myself. I need help.

Cleaning Up the Aftermath

Not as ominous as it sounds, I promise! LOL

As usual, nothing goes as planned in our house!

Never made it up to Grandma's---we woke up to snow, and it snowed all day. We're going to try to get up there on Saturday.

But it made for a restful Christmas. Sort of. Big Kid was wound up tight, but that's another story for another day when I feel like talking about crazy. I'm not calling HIM crazy, but just some behavior I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around.

I got some wonderful gifts.

The first was an AeroGarden. If you've read here long enough, you know that I'm a frustrated gardener. Back when I lived in the lowlands, I had an extensive veggie garden in my backyard. Up here in the mountains it's been a bust, since the growing season is so short, and there are wild critters everywhere just waiting to gobble up anything and everything that might be tasty.

Can't talk Hubby into investing in a greenhouse yet, so I bought myself the AeroGarden, gave him the box and said, "Wrap this!" ;-)

When I opened it on Xmas and thanked everybody for getting me what I REALLY wanted, Big Kid said, "wow, what is that?"

I (stupidly) said, "It's my very own hydroponic pot garden grower!" Of course, he perked up at that.

Oh-so-wise-Hubster countered with, "I'll bet we're on a 'list' now."

And I'll bet he's right! LOL

So I've included a "Day One" pic of growing snow peas (not a code word for pot). I'll let you know how it goes!

One of my sisters-in-law, who usually sends us a big-ass ham every year, must have gotten the word. Not from me, of course, because I would never ever snub a gift (plus the guys love ham). She sent us an 8-lb Smithfield seasoned Turkey breast.

I'm just wondering. I have really big boobs, but I don't think either one weighs 8 pounds. How big was this freaking turkey?

As an adoptee, synchronicity with my birth family fascinates me when it slaps me in the face. I wrote about one incident here, when I was redoing my bathroom (at the bottom of the post).

My birth mom and I are good friends, but we don't have the familiarity you get when you grow up together in a family. I could tell you her favorite color, which is pretty basic, but I couldn't tell you what her favorite pie is. In my family, my younger brother loves strawberry rhubarb, my older loves chocolate cream, and my mom likes everything except for cherry, which in some way horrifies her. It's all in shared history.

So for the last few years at holidays, I've bought my birth mom something safe---Jo Malone---a boutique perfume designer she's partial to.

This year, I thought that maybe I'd break out of the "safe" rut and explore other options. I looked at Macy's online and perused designer purses and bags. There were a few in my price range (like I could AFFORD 600 bucks for a purse for myself or anyone else---NOT) that I thought were really nice.

Then I slept on it.

Purses are personal women things, kind of like panties. I didn't know what she liked, and I sure as heck didn't want to buy her a bag based on MY preferences that she might store in the back of her closet and never use.

So I went with safe, sort-of---this time I got her a coffrit (whatever the hell that is) which was a variety of Jo Malone fragrances that could be layered or worn alone.

On Christmas, I opened her gift to me. After I tore off the wrapping, I noticed that it was a box from Macy's. Cool. There aren't any Macy's near us, but I do shop there online from time to time.

I opened it. Inside was a purse from THE SAME LINE that I admired and considered buying for HER!

How very weird (and I think wonderful) is that?

________________

Here's my latest on Disaboom if you feel like moseying over.

Happy Holidays!

It's actually been pretty tough keeping up with the "12 Days of Humbug!" for the simple reason that I'm a person who has been truly blessed in my life and have so many things to celebrate!

I just wanted to wish each and every one of you a wonderful holiday, and ask that you keep a couple of blogging buddies of ours in mind.

The first is Rhonda. Her son has had a devastating medical problem lately, and although his surgery went well, they won't get the biopsy results until after the holidays (Merry freaking Christmas!). Please drop by and send her your warmest wishes.

The second is Scully. She hasn't been posting too much over the last few months, but I'm sure she'll get any comments. Her husband and kids are here stateside, but she was deployed to Iraq some months ago, and is missing them for sure. Any kind words you could send would be most appreciated.

We're off to Grandma's tomorrow, so I'll catch up with you after the 25th!

All my love,

ATM

1 Day of Bah Humbug!

You know, I did a really dumb thing a few years ago, and I can't believe I did it again. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson. So today's humbug is going to be a public service announcement.

The directions on the bottle of Nair say "Shake Well", and by golly, they mean it!!

When I had my "me" day yesterday, I decided to take care of a couple of grooming things that had fallen by the wayside in the past week. My pits were starting to look a little like that thing that grows on Barbara Boxer's head.

Unfortunately, I have a couple of small moles under my left arm-pit which makes quick shaving in the shower an impossibility (yes I KNOW about mole removal and electrolysis, something I might have time to get around to when I'm 60), so I've used Nair or Neet or similar products for eons---through all of their stinky evolutions. I just slap it on, wait 5 minutes, wipe it all off and take a quick shower to get the residue before I enjoy a bath. Easy peasy.

Except I frequently forget to shake the $*&^%! bottle. Although it works fine, apparently all the really powerful hair-dissolving goodness sinks to the bottom to form a concentrate that has the equal power of "Round-up" or the industrial version of "Weed-B-Gone". And is just as caustic if you've got sensitive skin.

Normally, I toss the bottle when it feels like there's just a couple of inches in the bottom. But was I thinking? NOOOOOOOO!

Luckily, about a minute into the process I started feeling the burn, realized what it was, and jumped in the shower instead of standing around going "whaaa??" like the last time while I lost 6 layers of skin.

I only lost 2 layers this time. So I only have to do part of the chicken-arm-wing thing!

Only two days left! You guys ready yet?

On the twelfth day of humbug, Santa left for me

Semi-flaming armpits,
The Internet is watching,
My ex-inherited-inlaw,
More freaking football,
Too tired to be blogging,
7 steaming bowls of stupid,
Hubby's buttocks blasting,
5 Chin hairs,
4 exploding Snapples,
3 open tubs of frosting,
2 dead pens,
and a lump of coal for under my tree

2 Days of Bah Humbug!

Well I guess I got a little reprieve. Ex-FIL called in the morning to reschedule our lunch. Seems the lowlands got quite a bit of snow and he didn't feel comfortable driving into town. Yippee--er---I mean aww shucks!

We'll get together later next week when I've had a chance to recharge.

So I took Special K's advice and had a "me" day. Told the guys they were on their own and locked myself in the bathroom for a couple of hours for a bath and then took a nice long nap. Not a peep out of them.

Of course the duct tape I wrapped around their heads might have helped a bit.

While I was pretending that I was single and childless, Hubby organized the troops and the guys cleaned the house. I love my men!

My AOL has been acting funky for the last few weeks. Although the rest of my computer works great, while surfing the web, everything has been freezing up over and over, and I've been getting these "not responding" messages. Microsoft's tech answer? Keep everything updated. Well duh!

I logged on this afternoon, and AOL had a new update/upgrade, which I hoped would take care of the issues, so I downloaded and installed it. Happy to report that it seemed to fix the issues and added a couple of new features.

Like a creepy freaking eyeball. Yep. An eyeball so that other people can see you. Unless you poke it with your cursor point and close it.

AIIIGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

It used to be that you could go into preferences on your Buddy List and customize who can see if you're logged on or not. Now there's an eyeball staring at you.

What sadistic bastard dreamed up that bit of nightmare fodder? I can tell you already that this eyeball will have a starring role in some of my future cheese dreams.

As a funny note, in the early years of our marriage, my husband refused to have the internet hooked up in the house. He had the idea that just HAVING a connection meant that some marauding hacker could have a view inside our home and suck out all the private information that was locked up in his desk drawer.

I know it's an odd idea, but it's one he hung onto for quite a few years after I said "the heck with it" and got us hooked up with the information superhighway. Then he moved the papers and locked them in his office. Until he had to get the Internet there.

He's better about it now, but the Internet still kind of scares him.

Wonder what he's going to think about this?

On the eleventh day of humbug, Santa left for me

The Internet is watching,
My ex-inherited-inlaw,

More freaking football,

Too tired to be blogging,

7 steaming bowls of stupid,

Hubby's buttocks blasting,

5 Chin hairs,

4 exploding Snapples,

3 open tubs of frosting,

2 dead pens,

and a lump of coal for under my tree

3 Days of Bah Humbug!

Well, I knew this was coming eventually, but I hoped I'd have a few days or so to relax from the frenzy of gift bag/basket hell.

No such luck.

You aren't going to understand a bit of this unless you go here first. I wrote about this on my Disaboom blog a couple of months ago when this situation first reared its ugly head.

Since I wrote the above, I talked to both my ex-husband and his sister, who has remained a good friend over the years. I encouraged them to call the sheriff's department to have a wellness check-up done.

Ex-sis-in-law hemmed and hawed, said she'd think about it. I think she's been counting on the doofy neighbors sneaking into ex-FIL's house or stealing his mail so they can find the address to his mortgage company to report him so that the crack team of mortgage medical diagnosticians (who, I guess occupy the cubicle next to the compliance officer) could commit him.

Yes, that's sarcasm, so don't go running off thinking this is possible. LOL

Ex-husband said he doesn't give two shits. As he's said before, the only time he'll come back to the state is when his dad is dead. He has stuck with this philosophy over the years (there have been a few clandestine visits here with his job), although it's cost him a close relationship with our sons. He's been offered positions in the state and he could have seen them at least every other week. He's settled for seeing them at least every other year. Sometimes every other two years.

He's got new kids "who need music lessons, and he just bought his wife a bigger car, and aren't those grooming expenses for little frou frou dogs just out of this world? Airline tickets are expensive and he might not be able to swing it this year to see the boys (note: Hubby and I have paid for the tickets the last 3 times the boys have gone down to visit). And then the frou frou dog ran out and got hit by a car, so they needed 1000.00 to buy another purebred frou frou for the kids, and this one needs to be groomed often as well."

I could understand and respect their positions if it weren't for one thing. Both brother and sister (they're in their early-40's) go crying to Daddy every time they have a financial crisis (which is frequently) and beg him to bail them out. He's not a wealthy man by any means, but he does. Even when it leaves him short. Wonder if ex tells him it's for replacement frou frou dogs.

When I talked to my ex a couple of weeks ago and expressed my concern about having his dad drive the guys anywhere, ex pulled up his old mantra. "As far as I'm concerned, I don't want him to EVER see them!"

So I let him have it. He doesn't care if the his dad ever sees his kids, but he's not willing to be the one to tell his dad himself. As with everything else, he wants to dump it in MY lap. To be the messenger of bad news. To be the confronter. To be the one to use our kids to express ex's contempt for his dad.

Not gonna happen. I sort of inherited the old man, and have forged a somewhat decent relationship with him over the years.

Every year, ex-FIL has traditionally assigned the kids an amount of money for Xmas and taken them shopping to spend it. Since Big Kid's birthday is the 2nd of January, he's gotten an extra amount to spend. Some years ex-FIL has taken them overnight (he lives almost 2 hours away), some years he's just run with them into the city for lunch and shopping. This plan obviously has to change.

When he called, I had a whole recitation memorized. Little Guy would like to have a necklace instead of money (ex-FIL is a retired jeweler with a whole stash of stuff), and Big Kid would just like to have money to save towards a big screen HGTV. With ex-FIL's hip problem, we didn't want to make him traipse around shopping in the mall with them, or drive a long time to get up here to the mountains, so how about if we met him halfway down in the city and took HIM to lunch???

He was persistent. He "knows how much the guys love being at his house" (this entire side of the family only sees what they want to see---that must be where Big Kid gets it). I was even more so.

"We've got SO much planned with community and business and dinner parties over the next week, that keeping them overnight wouldn't work. Please let us take YOU out, because you've done so much for the boys!" He didn't want to listen, and I was afraid that I'd just have to lay it out for him.

The angels were on my side. At least for now.

We're driving down into the city tomorrow to meet up with him. We made up a fabulous gift basket filled with specialty cheeses and goodies from Ireland and Scotland, plus that neat thing we had specially made up.

I wonder if ex will send his dad a card, since he hasn't even bothered to send one to our sons at holidays or birthdays for the last 5 or more years. Music lessons are expensive, you know.

I know his dad wasn't a great dad, but I think he did the best he could with the tools he had as a single father. I'm not an apologist---the man did his best to interfere with and control my marriage with his son.

But he's been there when ex has needed him (financially, if incapable of being there emotionally), and that should count for something. He's toed the line with my rules to have a relationship with my boys, and has been a loving, if gruff grand-dad.

He's elderly and alone, mostly by his own past behavior and eccentricities.

And it makes me feel sad.

On the tenth day of humbug, Santa left for me

My ex-inherited-inlaw,
More freaking football,
Too tired to be blogging,
7 steaming bowls of stupid,
Hubby's buttocks blasting,
5 Chin hairs,
4 exploding Snapples,
3 open tubs of frosting,
2 dead pens,
and a lump of coal for under my tree

4 Days of Bah Humbug!

What wiseguy thought up the idea of NFL games on Thursday nights? I'd love to give him a kick in the ass.

During the regular season, I lose my husband on Sundays and Monday nights. I reluctantly accept it. But Thursdays too?

Hubby just started watching them a couple of weeks ago. I came home from class to see him anchored in front of a game.

"No", I said. "No freaking way. When did they start doing this?"

They've been doing it for years. They show the games on Thursday when the college season is over.

Since when? I would have remembered Thursdays. I would have remembered him watching games for years. Then it hit me. We didn't have Dish this time last year.

$%$#@!! Satellite! I hope a tree falls on our roof.

On a good note, the gift baskets are finally DONE DONE DONE. Everything has been mailed and/or delivered. Just a couple more gifts to wrap and no more for me. Whew!

You guys done yet?

On the ninth day of humbug, Santa left for me

More freaking football,
Too tired to be blogging,
7 steaming bowls of stupid,
Hubby's buttocks blasting,
5 Chin hairs,
4 exploding Snapples,
3 open tubs of frosting,
2 dead pens,
and a lump of coal for under my tree

5 Days of Bah Humbug!

Today I assembled 12 corporate gift baskets filled with coffee, tea, cocoa, cappuccino, apple cider mulling spice mix and 24 loaves of individually-wrapped pineapple macadamia nut bread, cranberry bread, apple streusel bread, and banana walnut bread.

All made from scratch. Got 6 more to do tomorrow.

Already made 31 gift bags for Hubby's business associates, which he took to the office today.

I assembled 38 gift bags with cards for Little Guy's teachers and friends and people who've helped him through the years since this is his last year in high school. The gift inside was something specially made that arrived today and is really really cool----I'll tell you about it after the holidays.

I'm just too damned pooped to blog. I'll catch up with you guys tomorrow.

And you know what? That colored cellophane wrapping stuff smells funny.

On the eighth day of humbug, Santa left for me

Too tired to be blogging,

7 steaming bowls of stupid,

Hubby's buttocks blasting,

5 Chin hairs,

4 exploding Snapples,

3 open tubs of frosting,

2 dead pens,

and a lump of coal for under my tree

6 Days of Bah Humbug!

Time to do a round-up of stupid.

When you're drinking wine in the street and have to pee, it's really REALLY not a good idea to stick your johnson through somebody's fence to water their garden. They might have a dog who thinks you're offering him a chew toy. Stupid!

What kind of doof fabricates an assault and sends threatening anonymous emails to himself and other members of his conservative campus group? A Princeton student! This is 2007, fer pete's sakes. Short of having a microchip implanted in your head, technology is advanced! You can't run, you can't hide! Gone are the days of calling people up and saying, "Is your refrigerator running? Better go catch it!" Oy! Stupid!

It's not the library's job to police what your kids are reading. Instead of calling for a book ban, why don't you get off your lazy butt and see what YOU checked out for your six-year-old? If it offends you, put it back. That's why YOU'RE the parent, Stupid!

What makes you assume that complete strangers would be thrilled to be part of your student video, oh wannabe film director? Or should I say, why were you surprised when the mall Santa called the cops after you assaulted him by smashing a pie in his face? Stupid!

If you're insane enough to drive 107 miles per hour drunk with your 11-year-old daughter in the seat next to you, you really can't expect the judge to take your "not guilty" plea seriously by telling him to "speed it up, I'm bored". Stupid!

Yahoo! gave some guy named Dave a forum where he wrote an article about "5 Ways to Keep Your Man From Straying". His list included such gems as "Plan Scrabble Night", "Send Him on Guy Getaways" and "Give Him a Boost".

I can sum it up in 2 1/2 short ways.

A brand-spanking new chainsaw prominently displayed in the garage with a tag that reads, "My Half of the House and Everything in It".

And an 18-inch blade hedgeclipper on his nightstand with "Got Bobbit?" inscribed on the handle.

Giving good head never hurts either. But I didn't say that.

'Nuff said.

Ok, I'm a philistine. I admit it. The first time I saw Blade Runner, I didn't understand it very much, but Harrison Ford was hot. Plus it was too long. Hey, I was like 14. I saw it a few more times over the years, hoping that with time and maturity, I'd "get" the brilliance. Not really. Yawn.

We like to watch movies, so for the past years since I've been online, I've kept up pretty much on what's new and what's coming out on DVD. And every freaking year or so, there's a "new" cut of Blade Runner, just in time for Xmas.

There's the "Director's Cut". Then there's the "New Special Effects Cut" (meaning they were able to pixel-out the strings that suspended the flying cars). Next was the "Director's Cut with even MORE Special Effects" (pixeled-out Rutger Hauer's laugh lines). Then there was the "Director's Cut with even MORE Special Effects Including Deleted Scenes" which showed Harry Ford toking up between takes. And the next year was "Extra Special Director's Cut with even MORE Special Effects Including Deleted Scenes" which took you into the dressing room of the acrobat who REALLY performed all the backflips for Darryl Hannah.

Now you can buy the 5 FREAKING DISC (yes the movie was long, but how in the world did it evolve into 5 DISCS?) set called the "Ultimate Edition" on Amazon for $55.00 (originally $79). Buy it? Do you sign your credit card slip with "Stupid"?

Poo on you!

On the seventh day of humbug, Santa left for me...

7 steaming bowls of stupid,
Hubby's buttocks blasting,
5 Chin hairs,
4 exploding Snapples,
3 open tubs of frosting,
2 dead pens,
and a lump of coal for under my tree

7 Days of Bah Humbug!

Ever get a song stuck in your head that won't let go?

That's what happened to me this weekend. The song "Little Boxes", by Malvina Reynolds is the theme song for the show Weeds, which airs on Showtime. We don't actually get Showtime, but we saw Season 1 and 2 on DVD this year and laughed our heinies off. It also has a kickin' soundtrack, which somebody is getting for Xmas.

Here is the song and credits:



Anyway, I got that song stuck in my head yesterday while I was wrapping presents and packing boxes to take to the post office.

Little boxes, on the hillside...

Since Sunday is football day, Hubby ensconced himself in the loft with his new love---Sunday Ticket----where he can watch a truckload of games. So from 11am to about 9pm, the only time I saw him is when he came down to forage like a bear 2 weeks away from hibernation.

I sat at the breakfast bar wrapping stuff and watched a parade of food go back upstairs with him. BBQ wings. Chips. Cheese dip. BBQ peanuts. Beer.

In the middle of the night I was dreaming that I was stretched out on a grassy hill watching Malvina Reynolds in concert and she was singing "Little Boxes" accompanied only by her guitar.

Little boxes, on the hillside...
Little boxes made of ticky tacky...

Suddenly I heard a da-da-d-d-d-d-d-da-pop-pop!

Somebody had joined her on the drums. Although they weren't exactly on beat. I craned my neck to see down to the stage.

Little boxes, on the hillside...
And they all look just the same...

A trombone section started in. Boy were they loud! And not terribly on key. I wished they'd stop. They were ruining the song!

Unexpectedly, I noticed a foul stench seeping up from the stage. People close up were retching and fainting from lack of oxygen. I sat up quickly to run away, but I couldn't get to my feet. I was stuck to the grass.

And then I woke up. I was sitting on the edge of my bed at 3:45am, gagging my head off.

Hubby was blissfully snoring away, ripping a BBQ peanut and beer fume-powered hole in the ozone layer the size of a Humvee. I hauled my butt out of the room as fast as I could, catching my pinky-toe on the door jamb on the way out.

AAAAIIIGGHGHHHHGHGHGH!!!

Mayhem ensued. But everybody got back to sleep at about 4:15. Except me.

Let me tell you, the couch is damned uncomfortable! Next Sunday, if Hubby even LOOKS at a beer or cheese or anything BBQ, that's where he'll be sleeping!

I've got the huzz just thinking about it!

On the sixth day of humbug, Santa left for me

Hubby's buttocks blasting,
5 chin hairs,
4 exploding Snapples,
3 opened cans of frosting,
2 dead pens
and a lump of coal for under my tree.