The Smell of Burning Fat

Ten years ago, a group of co-workers and I started monitoring our weight loss together while all doing some variation of the Atkins diet. We walked together during our breaks and once a week we met at the gym and weighed in. During this time I learned about Ketosis.

Ketosis is when your body burns stored fat for energy; and what an amazing concept. If you use more calories then you put into your body it is forced to burn stored fat to compensate. How great is that?

I did learn that you have to watch yourself while in this state. Your body can actually start burning muscle if you aren't careful. But the one thing I thought I'd never forget is the smell.

Most of the stored fat is utilized when burned to energize your body and mind, but not all of it. The non-used portion is excreted through your breath and in your urine. So you end up with stinky, to REALLY stinky, breath and pee.

The strange thing is that I did forgot.

Then, some ten years later, I start smelling something funny when I go to the bathroom. (It smells like brussel spouts boiling.) As a woman, the first thing I think of is that I'm having female issues. So I buy a test to check for that. Nope, all is fine. But the smell is still there and worse. Maybe a urine infection? I buy several bottles of cranberry juice (which coincidentally have a lot of calories per servings) and by the time I finish them off the odor is gone. Problem solved.

Until a week later when it's back. That's when it dawns on me; by body is in a state of Ketosis. With my added weight training I am burning a lot more energy than I have been, but still maintaining a low calorie diet - most of the time. So my bad breath, and funny smelling pee, come and go.

And I'm okay with that because now I know it's just the smell of burning fat.

Burn, baby! Burn!

The Fat Guy at the Dollar Store

I am one of those women who never has fantasies about other men - not in my entire life. I don't see a hot-looking guy and start imaging how he'd feel or what he'd look like with a few less clothes on. Just doesn't happen.

So I found myself more than a little shocked this evening when I had an immediate knee jerk reaction to the overweight cashier at my local dollar store. As soon as I looked in his kind, but tired and overwhelmed, eyes I had this flash of cuddling up with him in bed. Nothing dirty. Just a comfy bed and us wrapped in each others arms.

I was so aghast that I stopped the thought there. Not only do I not fantasize about men, but this is the last man in the world I would be attracted to. He was older than I am, a good 100 pounds overweight, and way to nice for me. (Sorry, but it's true.)

As I visited with my friend over coffee later, I continued to be puzzled by my attraction to the chubby checker. And that is when I realized I wasn't...attracted that is.

When I went back over the moment before the vision of us in bed, I realize that he looked very nice. Worn out. Needy. He had very sad eyes. The poor guy looked like he needed to go to bed and/or get a hug.

As my BFF likes to say, I have a very visual thought process. Everything I think, or others say, colors pictures in my head. It just so happened that it painted me hugging the sad teddy-bear looking man while he was in bed.

This I can deal with.

Postal Poo

I could not find a photo that would do this post justice, so I just found one that would serve fair warning to all that the following is literally about poo, shit, feces matter.

Last week, while at work, I was shocked, alarmed, and amused by a customer complaint my boss received. As we all work very close together, we can overhear everything said on the phone . . . and it doesn't take much effort to decipher what the other party is saying in return.

We had a customer call us absolutely furious with the state her package was received in. Apparently, the envelope had been ripped during transit and then shit on. Well, sort of "on" and "in", as the fecal material was runny and had managed to get inside as well. Then the nasty mess was placed inside a clear bag and delivered to her.

It took ten to fifteen minutes for our boss to get the customer to calm down enough that she could even reassure her the package had not left our shipping department in that condition. No postal service in the US would accept such a package. Once we got her to admit that was most likely true, my boss promised to pursue the issue and find out what had happened, as well as offer the customer a 25% discount for the trauma of dealing with the shit.

The customer sent photos of the package. My boss tracked down the postal station that would have delivered the package and nearly lost her temper trying to get them to acknowledge they delivered it. They would NEVER deliver a package in that shape. Since we had a tracking number and their department scanned it prior to delivery, they agreed to contact the carrier who entered the bar code.

When they called us back, it was to state that the package had already been damaged and contained when the carrier received it. She just delivered.

My boss was aghast, as was the Post Master. This is a bio-hazard. It should have never been delivered.

At the end of the day we were all left stunned. The package left our postal station in perfect order, but arrived at the destination postal station torn, covered in poo, and in a clear envelope.

Begs the question; Who pooed on the package?

You just can't make shit like this up.

Online Dating: Take Two

You may remember that a few months ago I set out to find new female friends I could do things with. As I haven't been in the work force for almost six years (and do not belong to any political, religious, or parenting groups) I found myself extremely lonely and in need of a larger social structure.

Coming from a large family that lived in a small town most of my life, I've never had to deliberate set out to make friends - mine grew up with me. So as time went by and I moved from place to place the only friendships I maintained were those I made at my current place of work - which majorly sucked when I no longer had a place of employment.

I utilized craigslist personal listing to make new connections. There is actually a platonic section; though all the posts are not necessarily platonic.

The problem is that the majority of women looking for girl friends (in a non-sexual way) are in their twenties. And I don't want to hang out with someone who feels like one of my kids. The first two 40-something women I tried to hook up with ended up more talk than action and we never even met face-to-face.

My third attempt was Leticia. We've been meeting every Tuesday night for months. She's a stay-at-home mom that would rather be working, an engineer by trade. She writes short stories and has two children. We've graduated to having coffee in her house and I've met her family. I even get little girl hugs when they head to bed. We're both sort of cautious; but I see our relationship slowly evolving.

However, I still find myself without that one "social" friend. Someone that I can go play pool with, watch a movie, grab dinner out.

Out of boredom I checked craigslist again and was shocked to see a woman near my age (cause, is anyone really THAT old?) looking for someone to hang with. She works part-time and has a seventeen year old daughter. SCORE!

We're meeting for dinner tomorrow night. I'll let you know how it goes.

Oktoberbreast

Some of you may be aware that I've been working for an online costume shop the last few months. I find the job diverse in responsibilities and highly entertaining . . . . never more so, than today.

I was unpacking a new shipment of costumes when I stumbled across Mr. Oktoberbreast shown above. After verifying what we received, we go ahead and package each costume in a shipping bag with a custom label at the top telling what it is. If a costume has something that can be damaged easily during shipment, then we have to measure it for a box.

So I pull out the first Mr. Oktoberbreast - I can't stop saying that, and start laughing. The dress and wig are folded neatly in a bag like most of the costumes I've unpacked. The shocker is the 'breast' part of the costume. Maybe you'll understand better if I show you a different photo.



Right on top of my package are these huge, very hard, fake breasts that are a pretty realistic color. They also have huge nipple-colored nozzles from which beer flows. After I get over the shock, and amusement - wondering what kind of man would wear a costume like this, I realize the package might need to ship in a box.

I push down on the breasts and they are very hard. Worried about the spigots, I try to turn them. I bend them. I pull on them. This is about where my sick sense of humor strikes and I just break out in belly laughs.

My boss, who is a woman about four years younger than I am, asks what's up. So I wipe my eyes and hold up a costume so she can see the issue. I ask if she thinks I'll need a box.

"Are the breasts hard?"

When I catch my breath, I answer in the positive. Then lay the costume, boobs facing up, on a box so she can reach it. She walks over and grabs both boobs at the same time and squeezes them. Then she tries to turn the spigots. Bends them. Pulls on them. By this time, I'm laughing so hard the other workers are gathering around to see what is going on. Oddly, they found it pretty hilarious too.

"I don't know," my boss finally replied.
"You'll have to ask Ed."

Ed is her husband and the shipping guru. So I trek out of the building and into the warehouse carrying Mr. Oktoberbreast - but not touching him inappropriately. I ask Ed about the need for a box. He takes the costume and lays it on the table. Then he squeezes the boobs - both at the same time, and boy he has big hands. Then he tries to turn the spigots. Bends them. Pulls on them.

The outcome? I had to tape two layers of bubble wrap over each nipple of every Mr. Oktoberbreast costume. What can I say, at some point, every girl needs a little extra support.

Issues of Weight

Weight has been on my mind lately, in many aspects.

First, I am constantly impressed and motivated by my best friend and her weight loss efforts. In the years I've known, and cared, for Charlene, she has lost over 100 pounds. Fifteen of that in the last three weeks. She recently converted to a near vegetarian diet and is looking and feeling better every single time I see her. She has more energy, a glowing complexion, and the most positive attitude imaginable.

I met Charlene for a late breakfast today and we ended up discussing our clothing issues. The issue is they're all to big. They've been to big for months. I can't get clothes to fit me fast enough before they hang on me like sacks. The funny thing was that during our conversations we both kept stumbling over the phrase "growing out of". All our lives we've been "growing out of clothes". Now we're . . . what? I can think of several different words or phrases for getting to large for your clothing, but I can't think of one for getting to small for your clothing. Weird, hu?

And last, but not least, is that fact that my 'life changing' eating trends are now habits. I haven't had to count calories, research a restaurants menu's nutritional value on line, or fight huge cravings for a hamburger in months. I pay less attention to what I'm eating - because I just automatically make better choices, I work out less due to an increasingly busy schedule, and I am still loosing weight.

I was pretty excited to step on my scales this morning and see I had dropped another 20 pounds. Since May of this year, I've lost a total of 40 pounds. Oh, I'm still about fifteen pounds from my goal and the weight is slower to come off the closer you get to your target. Overall, I'm pretty happy with my issue of weight. (But let's not discuss baggy skin.)

Light at the End of the Tunnel

I sit at my computer with the week behind me and experience the greatest sense of accomplishment. I didn't do anything extraordinary, nothing most women don't do on any given week. However, I had lost all belief that I would ever be able to function at full capacity again. And I'm doing it.

Steve was out of town Tuesday, Wednesday, and most of Thursday. He came home around 6 PM and was out of town again this morning. He will not be back until Sunday evening. And his absence is one of the main contributors to my feeling of euphoria, because, I never would have realized what I could accomplish on my own if he'd been around.

I worked four days this week. Each of those days I had to get up at 5:45 to get Will out to the bus, fix breakfast, pack lunches, and leave the house by 7:00 to drive into work. When I returned home, I had less than an hour before Will's bus showed up. In the evening, Will and I would go out to the park or go shopping. We'd eat out. Come home just in time to get him bathed and in bed. Then I'd spend 3-4 hours on the computer finishing up my online class.

Big deal, right? I worked part time, took care of my kid, and did an online class. The amazing part is that I did it without loosing my cool, getting the shakes, or sinking into depression. I felt great all week.

Now, I did stumble across at least one major issue. I can not deal with the entire 'fix a meal' thing in the evenings when it is just Will and I. He requires too much attention after a day at school and my nerves can't handle the constant interruptions while trying to work on something. But as long as I put us in a situation where I can give him the attention he needs, we do fine.

I even watched the neighbors boys a few minutes today. I took them all riding in the trailer on the lawn mower as I mowed the grass in the front yard and then out to Sonic for ice cream.

Tonight, I clearly see the light at the end of the tunnel, and for the first time in years, I don't think it's a train.

Walmart Wine

I've had several occurrences in the last week that have really taken me back - back to what I'm not sure.

First, there was my attendance at the World Championship Goat Cook off this last weekend. And while the word "world" in the title may make it seem more important, it was really just a little hick festival held in my home town. It's huge to those that live in the area. The rest of the world? Not so much.

It's three days of heavy beer drinking, gorging on food cooked on a bbq pit, loud (and opposing) music played in every tent, and oppresive heat. So basically, you have a bunch of old red neck boys in stained t-shirts that haven't taken a bath in days. Everyone is covered in sweat, dust, and smells like bbq smoke.

I'm not going to lie to you, it's fun. But it's a shock to my system after living in Austin all year. But as my Aunt Cindy says, you get enough alcohol in me and the hillbilly comes out. And I'm always shocked when it does. Buried deep in side (or maybe not so deep) is still the small town girl with the hick accent.

Besides the cookoff, other things have come up this week to remind me of my roots.

I was having coffee with my friend, Leticia, on Tuesday night and she told me a story that made me laugh so hard I almost fell off my chair. Her husband was born and raised in New York city. The closest he's ever lived to 'country' is the subdivision where they reside in Buda. When she took him to meet her family in Del Rio he was ASTOUNDED when the first thing he saw at her folks place was a bunch of men pulling a live (and kicking) goat out of the trunk of a car. Apparently the family had a huge old car, no truck, and a farm. That part of the story didn't seem off to me at all. I grew up like that. It was his reaction that killed me.

"But, but, they have a goat..."
"In the car! A live goat."
"It could get hurt!"
"What are they doing with a goat in the car?"
Did I forget to mention he's a vegetarian.

Then tonight, I finished off a nice bottle of sweet red wine and Steve poured me a glass from some wine I have sitting on the counter. I take a drink and shudder. I've been trying out different reds the last few months and not all of them are worth drinking; which I shared with Steve.

"You know, I think I'm going to have to stop buying wine at Walmart . . ."

That was as far as I got. Steve started laughing so hard I was afraid he was going to choke on his beer. I guess my raising was shining through again, 'cause I don't see anything wrong with buying wine at Walmart . . . if you can find one that tastes decent.

Apparently, others agree with Steve though. Here is a list David Letterman put up regarding Walmart wines:

10. “When Kmart Wine Just Won’t Do”
9. “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Wine”
8. “Show Your Friends How Little You Care”
7. “Kills Germs on Contact”
6. “Recommended by 4 Out of 5 Drifters!”
5. “Crack Open a Can Today!”
4. “Fresh From the Vineyards of Aisle 6″
3. “Here’s to Making Bail!”
2. “Feeling Down After Being Thrown Out by Britney?”
1. “Goes Great With a 20-Dollar Hooker”

Breaking the Code

Starbucks and I have a unique relationship.

IN THE BEGINNING

For years I've managed to pretend they didn't exist and they were fine with that. I'm only an occasional coffee drinker these days. If I drink six cups of coffee a week it would surprise me, and it's always decaf.

My aversion to Starbucks, at first, had to do with price. $5 for a cup of coffee . . . really? (I'm about to show my age here, but it had to happen sooner or later.) I waited tables off and on for most of my twenties and I still remember selling a cup of coffee for forty nine cents. Even today, I can go to a dozen places and get free refills for hours (and tons of cream) for less than $2. And I never cared for those fancy coffees. Just give me a plain old coffee with something to make it sweet and some cream-like substance.

The few times I did grace the doorway of a Starbucks it was usually with co-workers. I found the menu so confusing that I usually just ordered whatever the last person had. As I've aged I've come to appreciate tastes more, the small nuances of roasted bean, the weight, the acidity.

THE MIDDLE

My friend, Charlene, took me to Starbucks a few months back and ordered me a carmel coffee drink that was OUT OF THIS world. I didn't begrudge paying $5 for it at all. The place was empty, so I didn't feel rushed or pressured. But as I've become more conscious of each calorie I consume, I've come to realize that what tasted like heaven was actually a concoction from hell. And while I enjoyed it very much - bad things always taste good - I also realized that the hidden nuances of the coffee were good on their own. So I've made a few additional trips to Starbucks over the last few months. Alone. By my self.

THE END

The first time I pulled up to the driveway - thinking, for some reason, that it would be less embarrassing to talk to a microphone than to a real person - I was once again overwhelmed by their menu.

Nothing was as it should be. There are no small, medium, or large. You can order a Short, Tall, Grande, or Venti. Then there are words like; Mocha, Latte, Machiato, Con Panna, Americano, Cappucino, Frapachino, etc. There are options on flavors - vanilla, carmel, cinnamon, dolce, and so on -, options on milk - non-fat, 2%, whole, soy -, and almost everything can come cold, as well as hot, and it doesn't always say.

No where on the damn menu does it actually say, "Coffee" or "Decaf".

After making the poor girl wait for several minutes while I wildly searched for 'coffee', I finally just told her what I really wanted.

"I just want a cup of decaf with some soy milk and artificial sweetener in it."

She gave me a drink I really enjoyed, that cost me $5. I went back a week later and said the same thing, only this time I left with an iced version that I didn't like nearly as much. And it still cost me $5 - which is a lot of money if you don't like what you leave with.

After discussing my failed attempt to remember what the girl had given me the first time, Steve reminded me it was a Latte.

So, tonight I drove up and ordered a "Grande Decaf Latte with Soy and two NutraSweets." I got what I wanted and enjoyed ever sip of it.

If you're having trouble cracking Starbucks code, you might want to check out this website I found after I figured out what I wanted: http://www.quicksilverweb.net/sbucks/sbcharts.htm

A Mix What?

I've always loved music of all kinds. In fact, it's probably easier to say what I don't like than what I do. I don't care for hard-core rapping, heavy metal, or techno. Last month, Steve installed a new stereo in my SUV and I've spent a lot of time listing to a CD the girls burned for me five or six years ago. I have truly enjoyed the mix of light rap, country, alternative, and blues.

(Naturally, Steve hates it. Every time he gets in the vehicle and it's playing he makes a noise like it's literally hurting his ears and quickly turns it off.)

The last couple of days I've come to appreciate the time put into creating the CD; picking out the songs, the variety of genres included, the order of assembly, and the cost and time to burn it. It's even clearly marked, "Mom's Mix CD." All of which make it even more special when I listen to it.

Someone going to so much trouble for me reminded me of my first steady boy friend, from my teens - and yes, I can remember that far back. He use to make me mix cassette tapes that included all of our favorite songs, or songs that 'said' something to one of the other of us.

So in my youth I received mix tapes. In my daughter's youth they received mix CDs. What will my son, Will, put together for his girlfriend in another ten years? A mix download for her cell phone? A mix DVD of photos/videos put to music?

A mix . . . what?

The Other Side

I went to a swimming party with a friend today and it was an eye opening experience. The party was held at an apartment swimming pool, and hosted by a 44 year old friend of my friends. A single woman.

There ended up being seven women and one man that attended. One woman looked to be in her late 30s, one was most likely in her early sixties, and the rest of us ranged between 44-54. The man appeared to be in his mid-fifties. Everyone, with the exception of the sixty year old, was overweight and flabby.

Other than my friend and myself, they were all single. I think everyone there had been married at least once.

So there we were in all of our bathing suit glory - which wasn't very glorified. We ended up next to the area of the pool that hosted the volley ball match. A group of about fifteen young men - all under 25 - played ball the entire time we were there. And the entire time, all the women at our party drooled over them.

I have trouble drooling over anything young enough to be my own child, so I was more than a little freaked out about this. And as I listed to the conversation among our group, I became more freaked out.

This group gets together at a different swimming pool every two weeks all summer long and has parties. They were all desperately seeking someone. In fact, one woman had to leave early for a first-date with someone she met online - something she's been doing a lot of according to the rest of the women.

Everyone drink too much, tried too hard, laughed too much - often at nothing.

The longer I was there, the more desperate and sad they all seemed. And I think the thing that bothered me most is the knowledge that in their shoes, I wouldn't even be as well off as they are. At least they have each other to hang out with a couple of times a month. At least they still get out of their house and interact with others - even if they are young enough to be their children. At least they are still trying.

I've often heard how hard it becomes to find someone to spend your life with after you hit your forties. The people I met today showed me a side of that difficulty I never thought about; the isolation.

I can't say I had a bad time. The company made me feel good in my bathing suit. I got to listen to some really old music. I watched a 55 year old woman give a 22 year old guy a boobie-shot. I had free alcohol and snacks.

It wasn't the best time I've ever had, nor the worse.

What it was, was a look at life on the other side of the coin. I was really glad to get home to husband, every mature inch of him.

Shed Those Clothes

Spending the better part of five days in a car will leave you lots of time to think . . . about everything. And once you've thought about all the normal stuff, your mind really begins to wonder.

Today I found myself embedded deeply in thought solely from a verse in a song on the radio. Oddly, I don't even recall the song, artist, or the exact lyrics that started my little thought process. It was about a woman being hurt in a relationship and then being afraid to love again.

My initial thought was, "Who hasn't?" (Keep in mind, this isn't my third marriage because it's my lucky number.)

Then I started thinking about how differently we love the first time we commit. How freely we give of ourselves before we realize we can, and probably will be, hurt. In truth, it's like we're standing there naked and vulnerable; offering all. Expecting all in return.

And each time we try again, we are a little less open. A little less naked and vulnerable. A little more clothed.

I know for a fact that even with my husband of fourteen years I am not as open or free with my emotions as I was the first time I ever fell in love. I don't know that I can be. Too much experience, too many walls.

As the thought developed, I realized that actually it's not just in love that we don protective gear. It's in all relationships we have; with our children, our co-workers, friends, siblings, parents, etc. In a sense, we are truly born naked and open and gear ourselves more and more as we grow and experience life.

It's natural.

It's also sad. Yes, we are more protected. Yes, we are less likely to get hurt. But what about that unbridled passion of giving your all? How long has it been since you felt that . . . offered that?

So I challenge you to join me. Pick a day, a 24-hour period, and strip. Shed those clothes, those layers.

• Forget every bad thing your co-worker ever said about you.
  
• Overlook every slight from your neighbor.
  
• Pretend your siblings were never mean.
  
• Erase all ill feelings toward your boss, or your job.
  
• Image this is your first date, ever.
  
• Act as if you've never been hurt.
  
• Pretend your perfect.

For one day, smile and be happy. Look forward to everything you do. Tease. Flirt. Share unconditional love and support. Enthusiastically great each adventure, each person.

Join me for one day of skinny dipping.

The Trip

As you can see, I made it safely to CO to spend time with Bonnet and my new grand daughter, B'ella. I also made it safely home.

I owe the success of the trip to my friend, Bill. He is the person that suggested I drink Monster energy drinks to keep me awake during the long days of driving. Prior to this trip, I have never been able to drive longer than 2-3 hours without falling asleep at the wheel. I had no such issues the entire trip there or back. In fact, I was wide awake and everything was extremely clear and vivid.

How liberating.

For the first time in my life, I can truly look forward to taking road trips anywhere I want to go -- given enough funds for gas and hotel rooms. (All the more reason to look for a job when Will goes to school next month.)

The trip was amazing. My nine days with Bonnet and B'ella were priceless. I remember my mother telling me when Bonnet was born that she had no idea she would love a grandchild (on sight) as much as a child she had carried for nine months. I now know exactly what she was talking about.

The opportunity to see Bonnet as a mother brought tears to my eyes. Her obvious love and devotion for B'ella -- precious. I wanted to just wrap them both in my arms and protect them from growing-up and learning to raise a child -- neither of which can be done without mistakes and a few hard knocks.

I'm so glad I made the trip. So glad I had the time with my girls. I'm even glad I took Will along and that we spent some time sight seeing on the return trip.

All I have to say in closing is that none of you are safe. I have wheels (and monsters) and I know how to use them.

Changes

I've always been a person that doesn't handle change well. I like living in my routine and slowing graduating to new phases of life. In my experience, giant changes proceed difficult times. Lost job, new baby, moving into a new house, adjusting to marriage. Not that all of those things are bad, just difficult.

In fact, most 'major changes' take the average person six months to adjust to. During that time they are more emotional, stressed, and prone to physical ailments. If you are more prone to stress or depression than normal, they are harder than that to bounce back from.

I remember the first time I flew on a plane. I was 34, on my way up the corporate ladder. I was flown to CO for a weeks worth of classes. I cried when the plane took off, scared of facing this new experience on my own. Afraid of being away from my family and home. (And, I'm afraid of heights - that didn't help.) Each additional time I've flown since has become easier. No poor stranger has had to hold my hand on takeoff since the first time.

Now I'm facing another first. Another change. And it's scary too, thought mentally I realize it shouldn't be. I'm going on my first cross-country trip alone. I've driven to Tyler, to Midland, to Ft. Worth by myself. I've never driven out of Texas on my own. Will and I are leaving Thursday morning and hope to be in CO by Friday evening.

Sure, this sounds like a totally doable thing to most people. My issue is that I seriously can't drive for more than 2-3 hours max at a time, then I start falling asleep. So, my plan is to drive until I need to stop and . . . well, stop. Oddly, it's not the thought of the driving that's bothering me. Yes, it will take me much longer than it should. But I'll have Will with me and I don't expect he'll be griping about lots of pit stops.

What's bothering me is that I've never done it before. I've never driven across states on my own. Never had to find and check into a hotel by myself. Never had to worry about how far to the next gas station or if I'd make it to another town before dark - cause believe me, no one wants me on the highway after dark.

While sharing this irrational fear with a friend over coffee tonight, Latisha said that doing 'new' things actually becomes harder to adjust to as we get older. When young, everything is new. As we get older, there are less new things to do and when we stumble across one, it rocks our world.

At least in my case, I think she's right.

So if you have any good secrets for staying awake on trips, or ideas of good stopping places on the trip to CO, be sure to share.

Oh, and here is the reason for my trip; Briella (B'ella) Riddles. Born today around 3:00 p.m. At birth, she was 7.3 pounds and 18-3/4 inches long. Not a great photo, but the first one her Grammy got to see.

Crazy Uncle Steve

My sister, Byjo, and her two children showed up for a visit yesterday. They are going to be spending a few days with us and we're very excited.

Byjo has two children, Payton who is seven and Sam who is five. Sam is actually only three weeks older than Will.

Jody, Byjo's husband, gets along well with Steve and we use to really enjoy seeing the entire family on a more regular biases.

An hour or so after Steve got home last night, Sam walks up to him and asks him a question. To be honest, I never found out what the question was because the very calm way he addresses Steve (and what he called him) was so funny.

"Hu, Crazy Uncle Steve, can . . . "

Hum, wonder where he got the idea that was Steve's official name? Gotta watch how you refer to people in your children's hearing or they will tell on you every time.

When Steve Dies

My best friend, Charlene, and I have had many conversations about what we'll do when our husbands die. Usually it revolves around things are husbands don't enjoy now: crowds, travel, certain type of arts. We've talked about having small houses next to each other in a cooler climate. We've talked about taking cruises together. About never having to 'plan' another meal. And yes, about never having to do someone else's laundry again. LOL

It's not that we don't love our husbands, it's just human nature. Our jest on living without them in our lives. Which, is a very good possibility.

I was recently telling a male friend of mine about our plans. But I shared the fact that it finally dawned on me that we, Charlene and I, would be pretty frigging old when our spouses would die. Sort of takes all the fun out of making plans.

Bill's response was that we'd just sit around and complain about the stuff we 'would' have done if they'd just died off sooner. I laughed until my side hurt . . . he's right.

Tonight, I told Steve about mine and Charlene's plans to live next to each other after his and Christian's death. He surprised, and delighted, me by telling me he already had plans for after my death. LOL

Him and his best bud, Vicky, are retiring to her 700 aches and putting up homes at opposite sides of the land. They'll meet for Sunday brunch each week. Sort of wimpy plans if you ask me, but he'll go before I do, so I'll let him dream his wimpy plans.

Velcro Rollers

As any women with terminally straight hair can tell you, there is little more dear to us than an easy, cheap, and non-harmful way to curl our hair.

Most curling methods involve heat in some form or another and tend to dry out your hair over time. My stylest, last week, recommended I try the Velcro rollers that are so popular now. One reason is that they come in very large sizes; great for adding body to long locks. Another reason was the curl tends to hold longer than a heat generated curl. Living in a place as hot and humid as Texas, most heat generated curls melt away before lunch.

I did question her about the length of time it might take to dry, as my hair takes hours to dry after a shower. She assured me that she uses the curlers and has no problems with them.

I purchased several sets of curlers. While my hair is baby fine and therefore doesn't look overly thick, there is a shit load of it. (Yeah, I did go there.) It always takes twice as many curlers as anyone expects.

I took a shower about 7:30 this evening and immediately put my hair up, using a total of 18 curlers. Three hours later I took them out so my hair can dry before I go to bed, which is still two hours away. My hair is less than 1/2 way through it's drying process.

One more item to add to my freecycle pile in the corner.

Too bad, it sounded like a great idea.

The Price of "K"

I have an old cell phone that I purchase minutes for on a need-to biases. I've had the phone for three or four years, but not many people know I have it, or the number.

I purchased it as a tool to keep in touch with my girls after they left home. Both of them had cell phones and would text, or answer texts, even when you couldn't locate them near a land-line.

Being in a generation of people unaccustomed to texting, there was a giant learning curve, on my end, to even understand half of the messages I received. But over the years I've come to understand, and/or developed the ability to at least guess, what different acronyms stand for. But there is one abbreviation that just kills me: 'k'.

I remember the first time Tori responded to a text with 'k'. I felt jipped.

"What," I responded,
"I'm not even important enough to deserve an 'o'?"

"k".

What the hell kind of text is that to send?

It bothered me when I would receive a text that contained that one letter. I'm not even sure why. The feeling of negligence, as though someone was walking away and flipping their hand at you as they did so? The impatience displayed by lacking the time or energy to type in a 'k'? The cost of receiving a text that was no longer split into words . . . but contained only a single letter?

Who the hell knows. It just bothered me.

And like most things, over time, it ceased to bother me. In fact, I send at least two to three emails a week that contain only 'k'.

I just hope I'm not irritating someone else.

A Resume?

I had the most beautiful resume you can imagine . . . six years ago. Working at a publishing firm, I had access to free editorial staff to help tweak it. I also reviewed hundreds of resumes each year so if I ever saw something that impressed me, I'd add it to mine. It really was a work of art. And now it's gone.

A few weeks back I decided to apply for a job I came across and initiated a search for my resume. We've changed computers at least twice since I was laid off, so I was not to surprised it wasn't located on our current desktop. I pulled every CD and diskette we've stored over the last fourteen years out and went through every one of them looking for my resume with no luck.

Knowing I had to at least have a paper copy of it somewhere, I took the search to an entire new level. Every drawer, file, stack of papers in the house was sorted through. Then I went into the attic and spent days going through every box a single page at a time. Still no luck.

Then I got creative and contacted the last place I worked to see if they had a copy on file. A new company bought them out and they have no employee files dating back that far. Ba Hum Bug!

I contacted the Workforce Commission to see if they had a copy of it - I was on unemployment insurance for six months after getting laid off. No luck there either.

All out of options, I have to start from scratch. And truthfully, that might be a good thing. Publishing positions are rare and I don't expect to be applying for any, so a more generic resume might be better.

In working on my new resume, the biggest obstacle has been how to present the skills I've used the last few years while building and maintaining my small business. How do you break down the hundreds of small choirs into generic words that apply to the masses? (I've never noticed before, but the majority of the masses is 'asses'? LOL)

Here is what I have so far, let me know what you think.

• Designed and maintained small commercial website.
  
• Generated graphic products and cover art utilizing Corel Draw, Adobe Acrobat, and Adobe Photoshop.
  
• Laid out detailed instructions with four-color photos in Office 07.
  
• Process orders and shipped electronic and print products.
  
• Ensure customer satisfaction.
  
• Perform full accounting cycle.
  

Coffee With a Stranger

After deciding, a few weeks back, that much of my unhappiness in life stemmed from loneliness, I've made an attempt to find new friends. I'm more direct and likely to start conversations with people I don't know. I'm trying really hard to be more cheerful and outgoing all the time; to see the positives in life.

But the big thing I've done is post several ads on local networking sites looking for a coffee drinking partner, or two. I posted only in the platonic section and asked for only female responses. The responses have been few and not very encouraging.

My first responder came across very strong; maybe a little strong. But we talked on the phone for over twenty minutes and set up a date (a few days later) to meet. The evening of the date, we had a storm that took down electricity in our area and she called to say she might still be able to make it, but she'd call me right back. I waited an hour before calling her. She didn't sound like she meant to contact me. We agreed to try again later, she never called/emailed me. Didn't respond to my emails.

The second woman and I exchanged at least ten emails and once again made plans to meet a few days later. As the time approached I tried to verify it with her, she never returned my emails. Never heard from her again.

Today, I got an email from Leticia, stating she too was a stay-at-home mom and could use a break. We agreed to meet up tonight. And we did.

It was a little awkward at first, after all, we are strangers. But she was smart, funny, and fun to hang out with. She has two girls, age four and seven. She is a civil engineer and finds being a full time stay-at-home mom stifling, as I do.

We exchanged basic information. Enjoyed our drinks. All and all, I don't think it could have gone better.

I'll keep you updated.

Mosquito Ambush

After my walk this evening, I went out to water the garden before taking a shower. Bad move. I've noticed that the hotter I am from working out the more attractive mosquitoes find me.

I was outside less than half an hour and come in with close to 50 mosquito bites on my legs alone. And that was with me constantly slapping at them and washing them off with the hose. I also got two ant bites. Throw in the sweltering heat and I have to say gardening is loosing its appeal quickly.

I have a new batch of garlic oil that has been aging for two or three weeks. Looks like tomorrow I will have to mow the grass down and spray the back yard heavily. I hope they enjoyed their Misty Du Jour, tomorrow they'll be dining on the neighbors.

The Bribe

Everyone bribes their kids: to do their homework, clean their rooms, and be nice to annoying relatives. Sure, you can call it rewarding good behavior or an 'allowance'. The truth is, it's just a bribe. It works. And I for one, don't argue with proven systems - well, once I've tried them out for myself.

Something everyone might not do though is bribe themselves, mostly because people just go out and get what they want. Whether you can buy it right now or you have to save for it; you just get it. No bribe necessary.

My major malfunction in this area is that I never want to spend 'real' money on myself. I'll nickle and dime you to death, and Steve can testify to this. But I am incapable of going out and spending hundreds on myself with out it eating away at me with guilt. And it's not because I'm a stay-at-home mom. I was the same way when I brought home the bacon.

So, when I see something I really want - and it rarely happens - I find a nearly impossible goal and make myself a deal. If I can reach this goal then I can have the whatever. I've been doing this my entire life, unbeknownst to anyone, and it works great.

In my new health kick the last few months I have managed to loose over 20 pounds. I'm very excited about it since it's not been a diet per say but more about learning what to eat, what to avoid, and what a serving size is (and it ain't Super Sized). So for the first time in my life I'm looking at actually keeping the weight down and probably continuing to drop more. If I don't self destruct along the way.

I chose a weight that is still 35 pounds lower than where I currently stand. The weight will be harder to loose as I get closer to the milestone I picked. The longer it takes to reach the additional 35 pound weight loss the more the chance I'll just give it up and go with the flow. After all, how long can I keep Steve from bringing in cookies, pies, or cakes . . . and avoid them when he does?

So if, dare I say when, I loose an additional 35 pounds, I am going to . . . what? I've been thinking about this for weeks, trying to come up with the perfect bribe. Something worth fighting for. The only thing I could think of was another tattoo. I love mine and I'd probably like another. The issue there isn't so much the money as overcoming Steve's objections. Mr. "That would make a nice lampshade", doesn't like tattoos.

Then, today, we stopped at Allen's Boots in Austin and I fell in love with an entire line of cowboy boots: The Old Gringo. They are fun, flirty, bright, outgoing. They are everything BUT the boots your dad use to wear. I can't say I have a set that I'm more crazy about than the others, I'd wear them all. And wouldn't you know it, the cheapest sets run about $350 - more than I would ever spend on something for myself. Or would I?

Yep! A pair of Old Gringo cowgirl boots has officially slipped into the vacant slot as my reward for loosing an additional 35 pounds. I have no idea how long it will take me, so I'm not lusting over any one pair in particular. But I spent hours today on line drooling . . . and I took an extra long walk.

When I Grow Up

I've always been impressed with people who know early in life exactly what they want to do as adults. Whether that is become a doctor, a stay-at-home mom, work on cars, or fly planes. It's even more awe inspiring when you see these people take every right step in getting where they need to be. When you see them reach their goals and how fulfilled they are.

Of coarse, I hate them a little too. Okay, a lot.

How is it that one person can know from childhood exactly what they are destined to become and the child sitting next to them ever day in school has no clue. Has no clue in elementary school. No clue in Junior High or High School. Hell, how many people go off to college with no clue of what they want to be when they graduate?

I'm a no-clue person. I've always joked that I wanted to be a writer. And if there was a great sign in my life, it was that of writing. I wrote poems, novels, songs, short stories; all through school. I like to blame a lack of encouragement (or even freaking expectation) for my failure to pursue a dream. But maybe it was simply the lack of a dream.

After Becky, my sister, committed suicide a few years back I decided life was to short for "when I grow ups", so in the month of November I wrote an entire novel. Then I spent over a year working on it. At best, I'd say it's half way ready to be shown to a publisher. And I haven't touched it in six months.

My living sister (and yes, that is really how she comes up in conversation), Byjo, says that I have a fear of success. She swears that I seem to blindly go through life stumbling over great opportunities, or making my own, then as soon as it starts looking like it's going to take off I sabotage it. But, according to her, one day I will succeed despite myself. We'll see.

Even thought I love writing, any type of writing feels the need to create for me. The instructions I produce and sell on my website, the blogs I post here. I consider it all writing and it does feel natural. Comfortable. But I still wouldn't swear it was what I was meant to be when I grew up.

Will tells me on a daily biases that he wants to be a fireman and a doctor. He's been saying the same thing for over a year - which is a long time to a five year old. I'm left to wonder if he'll want to be an astronaut, race car driver, scientist, etc, as the years pass. Or, will he grow up and be a fireman and a doctor?

Then I think back to my child hood and realize even as a child I had no dreams. Part of it was that life was just tough. I did well to concentrate on making it day-to-day. Part of it was also that my parents, teachers, and relatives had no expectation that I'd grow up and be anything.

I prefer to think I just missed the big sign. The one-way arrow on the flashing neon billboard, pointing out Misty's destiny.

The good news is I'm not a quitter and I'm not dead. I'll figure it out. In the mean time, I'm still pissed at all of you that caught a glimpse at your signs in childhood.

Conflicting Parenting Styles?

When the girls came to live with Steve and I on a full-time bases, the adjustment was rocky for all of us. It wasn't the finance or space issue. Not the rescheduling to make sure someone was available as needed. It was that the girls had grown up to a certain parenting style; one employed by not only myself, but their father and grandparents. Steve's parenting style was at the opposite end of the pole. Conflict was going to happen and did, often.

The resulting strife nearly tore Steve and I apart and definitely damaged his relationship with the girls. My thought at the time was that they were mainly raised, they were use to a certain way of dealing with authority figures. It worked. They were not bad girls. They worked hard in school. Besides, Steve had never been a parent . . . so I figured it was just something he didn't understand.

When we talked of having a child together, I realized I would have to back up off my "this is our way" and allow Steve's child to be raised more as Steve saw fit. And I have. (Although, I doubt he thinks so.)

For five and a half years I have been the main parental figure in Will's life. I do the best I can. With my background and experiences, my main goal is to see that he enjoys childhood. I set guidelines (though not as many as Steve thinks he needs), and when I think Will needs it, I discipline him (just not as often as his dad would like).

A lot of things Will does, I see -- as a parent of multiple children -- as stages of growth and development. Yes, they are irritating, but if you just hang on for a few months they grow out of them.

Today, Steve and I didn't do too well as parents. Steve spent all day laying into Will for one thing after another - constantly. And his voice would raise each time. I left the room twice because I did not want to physically be a part of the conversation. And I want to point out that in each instance I totally understood why Steve was irate with Will. I just think you need to pick your battles. If you fight ever scrimmage, your kid will either never listen to you or you'll get so blinded by the trees in your way you'll miss the forest fire until it's to late.

After Will was in bed, Steve and I talked. He things I don't discipline Will, that I allow him to walk all over me. That hurt - as much I am sure, as what I told him.

I left him in bed and came to the computer, feeling doomed. Will is only five. How are we going to make a relationship, with this type of growing strain, last through his teenage years?

Searching the Internet for answers (and God, don't you love that you can do that?), I found that there are four basic types of parenting styles, and as you would expect, Steve and I have different ones.

The type of parent Steve is often results in well trained little soldier type children. They follow directions, do well in school, find a job. BUT, they are not happy, don't deal with with people, and are prone to depression - sounds a lot like my loving husband.

The type of parent I am often results in happy children with less depression, but no appreciation for authority figures or desire to exceed at anything. (Boy, I loved reading that.)

The surprisingly good news is that having conflicting parenting styles can actually be very beneficial for a child. They grow up feeling loved and supported, regardless of their behavior or accomplishments, but doing well in education and with choosing and sticking to a career.

But the parents have to learn to compromise. To never over step each other at the time of discipline. To discuss things outside of their children's hearing range.

Good for the child, hard on the parents.

Flax Whaaaat?

When you use the same grocery store for years you know where everything is located. Well, until you start eating things you've never eaten before. (Or, ever heard of.)

With my determination to improve my health and establish better eating habbits for Will, I've done a lot of research on the type of things we should include in our diet.

Side Note: I hate that word - diet. In this instance it was used to mean the food we partake of, not a restrictive way to loose a few pounds that will be back next month.

For the first time in my life the change in eating habits isn't about reducing so much as changing the quality of my life and the lives of my family. I'm learning to make smart choices and say 'no' to things I'll regret half an hour later. It's also a change I plan on making permanent. There is no goal-weight or event that I'm working towards.

I've been scouring the Internet for healthy recipes and information on eating better. I also purchased a new cookbook based upon the same concept. After spending hours determining this weeks menus and preparing a shopping list, Will and I were off to HEB.

Not only was our list long, but it was filled with things I've never purchased before. Things like flax seed. After my research I knew how good it was for me and I knew how to use it in my meals and snacks. What I didn't know was where the hell to find it; or even what it looked like.

I figured it was a seed, right? So I expected to find it with the baking stuff. Nope. Then I checked with snacks. Nope. I finally located it with the healthy bars - I still think that was an odd place for it. Then to top it off, you can't buy a small bag/box of flaxseed to try out. It only comes in 'choke-an-elephant' size and cost me nearly $10. I just hope I can choke it down.

Will and I spent almost two hours walking, rewalking, and rewalking a store I thought I knew by heart. I now know where egg beaters, soy milk, Kashi cereal, plain yogurt, turkey bacon, crepes, and melba toast(just to name a few things I've never purchased before today) are kept. And they weren't always in logical locations.

I also figured out that if your buying nearly every vegetable and fruit in produce, instead of the head of lettuce and token tomato, you really should save that department for last.

We walked the entire store a minimum of four times trying to find everything on my list. And asking for help? Useless. They had no better idea than I did where (or what) I was looking for.

I came home so exhausted I didn't take my walk to night.

All I can do now, is hope it was worth it.

Priceless

Yesterday was a great day!

It started with Will and I making Steve homemade strawberry pancakes and sausage and taking it to him in bed. Then Will and I went for a walk.

My best friend, Charlene, picked me up about eleven and we stopped by a new coffee shop. Then we hit Micheal's. They were having a great sale on children's activities sets and I stocked up for the summer. We had lunch at Soup or Salad and for the first time in weeks I ate until I was full - and still felt good about my choices. Then we hit a school supply store and half price books.

Took Will to Mc Donald's to play in the afternoon as it was over 100 degrees outside. Had a simple dinner and then had friends over for cards, drinks, and snacks. We had a blast.

I'd have to say it was one of the best days I've had in years.

Nothing exceptional happened. I didn't meet any celebrities. Won no money.

Just a pleasant day with people that matter to me. Priceless.

"Not brown, Momma."

I debated publishing this post as I hate to be seen as prejudice against any race. I grew up experiencing prejudice of many natures: That of being illegitimate in a time when it wasn't acceptable, of being from a family with a bad reputation, of having a mixed race family before that became the norm, of being poor.

While life was tough as a child, as an adult I can thank all the experiences and prejudice I faced for my complete and open nature to almost anything. I care not one whit about your race, religion, native language, sexual preference (unless it involves minors), or political calling.

However, this last year with Will in a prominently Hispanic school has tested my beliefs. Will was the only non-Hispanic child in his class. One of only ten non-Hispanic children in their entire pre-k program of over 160 children.

Most of the family notes were sent home in Spanish. Most of the time they would include a version in English, but you could tell it wasn't translated by a native English speaker. Sometimes an English version wasn't even offered. There were programs and classes offered that were only in Spanish. Now, each time it happened, a note was attached saying that if enough parents requested the class in English they would offer it. As there were only ten of us, it never happened.

Every time Steve and I attended a school party or function, no one spoke to us. Most of the parents would sit aside from us and speak in Spanish. Often, the teacher would join them. It is impossible to list the many ways in which we were slighted and left out through out the school year, but it was significant.

The only draw back I've noticed on Will's part is that a few months ago he started speaking Spanish. Only, not really. He just breaks out in weird noises like, "Sato mayi keppa toldo sepa." Then he translates it for me. He must just hear it a lot.

This afternoon I was tanning in the back yard while Will rested in his room. He came out and found me and asked what I was doing. "I'm trying to get a tan," I respond. To his 'why' I replied, "So I can be brown instead of white."

"No, Momma!" he cried, becoming very upset. "Please stay white. Don't turn brown, Momma."

It took me nearly half an hour to calm him down. Through out the entire afternoon and evening he'd randomly repeat his request that I stay white and not become brown.

Breaks my heart.

My First On-Line Date

I am very excited. Tomorrow night at nine, I will meet a complete stranger I hooked up with online at IHOP for coffee and a chance to get to know each other. She (and yes it's a female) called tonight and we talked for twenty minutes. We have a ton of things in common.

We're hoping to hit it off well enough to spend some time together every week; with and without our children.

Several weeks ago, it dawned on me exactly how isolated I had become over the years and I decided to do something about it. First, I looked for free classes or lessons in my area I might be interested in. Didn't find anything. Then I looked for groups that were near by that I could join. Nothing that interested me. (Well, some of the were interesting. Just not for me.)

Then I peaked in the platonic section of our local craigslist. It was a disappointment too. Every ad I looked at was about sex or hooking up. However, reading them became addictive - the shit some people will say. LOL

I finally posted my own ad and I was extremely descriptive in what I wanted.

I'm an overweight,
stay-at-home mom that just needs
to get out of the house.

Would love to find local female in same boat
who'd like to meet up for coffee
a night or two a week.

And I included my age and location. Three days later I got a response. After a few emails, she called. Tomorrow night, coffee at IHOP.

Oh, what should I wear?

The Mirror at Mom's House

I noticed an odd phenomenon about five years after I moved out of my mother's home. Each time I would return for a visit and happen to walk by a mirror, I was always pleased with my reflection. This was odd because I am never pleased with my reflection in any other mirrors - or any photos taken for that matter.

At first I just thought I looked nice that day. Maybe I wore makeup or had on a nice shirt. It took nearly twenty years, two husbands, three children, and ten houses later to realize that it didn't matter. I could have been working in cut-offs in her garden all day; covered in mud and sweaty. No makeup. My hair not fixed. And I still liked what I looked like in mom's mirror.

That was when I realized what I saw when I looked in mom's mirror was the choices I'd made since leaving home. The temptations I'd bypassed. The principles I lived by. How far I'd gone to improve my life and the life of my children. When I looked in mom's mirror I saw the inner me. And, I like me.

I guess when all is said in done, only at our mother's house do we truly feel judged upon what's on the inside.

It's been nearly four years since the last time I looked in the mirror at mom's house. I miss it.

Yesterday, I had an Apple Turnover

I've eaten flavored yogurt all of my adult life. More times than not, the low fat variety. I'll eat them off-and-on for months and then not at all for the next year or so. Then I'd be back on them. They are good for me, low in fat and calories, and cheap and easy (something my husband accuses me of occasionally). What's not to like?

Since my last yogurt feast, my favorite brand, Yoplait, has come up with some great new varieties. For months I've been watching one commercial after another from their Outsmart Temptation ad series. The flavors sounded to good to be true: Apple Turnover, Banana Cream Pie, Boston Cream Pie, Key Lime Pie, Pineapple Upside Down Cake, Raspberry Cheesecake, Red Velvet Cake, White Chocolate Covered Strawberries. The list goes on and on.

So I've been counting calories for the last few weeks and have once again returned to my old friend yogurt. I excitedly loaded my basket with every delicious sounding option my store carried. And each day I eagerly tried a new decadent desert. I've made it through all the flavors and have drawn the following conclusion.

None of the flavors stand out as awesome or amazing. In fact, they taste a lot like the fruit flavors. It tastes like they took Pineapple Yogurt and renamed it Pineapple Upside Down Cake. Banana became Banana Cream Pie, and so on. It makes sense. Who wants to eat something that sounds like a fruit (which you can have on ANY diet) when you can eat something that sounds like desert (which you can NEVER have without guilt).

Overall, it taste pretty much the same.

Oh, I'll keep buying them - as opposed to their appropriately named fruit counterparts. I like the idea of telling someone,

"My diet?
Well, yesterday I had an Apple Turnover."

Mine Enemy: Sleep

I can't remember a time in my life when sleep came easy.

As a child with a bad family life, you were your most vulnerable at night. I'd lay awake listening to every shift of the house, every squeak of the floorboard. Straining hard enough I could hear family members breathing two or three rooms away. Hear the dogs outside scratching. Each car as it slowly drove past.

When the children came, none of them slept well. No eight hour sleep patterns for my babies until they were well over a year old.

As a classic Type A personality, I've always gone for the stressful job. Worked where there was no way my responsibilities could be completed on time. And I asked for more.

But even over the last few years, with no job (per say) and William old enough to sleep most nights, I still don't sleep. I manage, on average, 4-6 hours of sleep in a 24-hour period. Always have. And it's beginning to look like I always will.

I manage to function, but it's not healthy. A lack of sleep cuts down on my natural serotonin levels; making it easier to become blue or depressed. A lack of sleep makes it harder to loose weight, gives you bags under your eyes, and leaves you fatigued all day.

The flip side of my problem is that I fall asleep at the drop of a hat in certain circumstances. Like in a car. Take me for a ride in a car and I'll be asleep in half an hour. If I'm driving, two hours max. When I drove up to see Paul for his birthday recently, I had to stop an hour in and pull over for a few minutes shut eye.

I don't even try to go to sleep until about one in the morning, knowing I'll just lay there if I do. And sometimes I still lay there. I toss all night long, though a little less in my new bed. I change positions constantly. Half the time I'll get back out of bed during the night. I'm usually up by six (by alarm when Will goes to school), or by seven thirty when left on my own.

I use to take pills to help me sleep but stopped when I was expecting Will. I've never gotten back on them because Will still needs me some nights. I also can't hear everything that goes on in the house if I take pills.

I fear that until Will is old enough to defend himself, I'll just have to live with mine enemy - sleep.

The Morning in Hell

If you've been keeping up with my blog this year, you know I'm not real pleased with Will's school. They are disorganized, don't involve parents in what they should, and send home fund-raising items several times a month - just to name a few of my pet peaves.

First, I was sick all night. Probably didn't sleep more than two hours. It was hard to wake up and since I had to be at Will's school by 8:00, I couldn't go back to sleep. Ready in plenty of time, I went to pick up my camera in the computer room and it wasn't there. I spent way to long looking for it and couldn't find it. Stopping at Walmart for a throw-away camera put me at school just in time to see Will's group walk out of the building and into the fenced in area.

I had to park right by the fence as I was late. Then I had to walk almost two blocks to the main office to get a visitor badge. While there were only three people in line in front of me, it took thirteen minutes to get through - yes, I counted them.

Then I walked two blocks to get back to where I started - just the opposite side of the fence. I was suprised to see an information booth set up for parents. I stopped by to see if they could help me locate where Will's class was - there were literally thousands of children on the field. They couldn't. They didn't even know what they had on the table; some sort of print out. But they didn't know what it was and if it was theirs or to be handed out. I was told to look for a group of small children in -- "What color was your son wearing today? Oh, green. Yeah, just look for a group of small children in green."

As it turned out they were at the furtherest corner you could find; about two blocks through sweaty bodies, 90 degree tempertures, and no shade.

When I finally reached him I was impressed with the smooth operation of the events. The coach was in charge and they were at drawn lanes doing several events. There are six classes of pre-k children and each class was in it's own lane. The first event I watched was hurdles. The coach would signal about every 30 seconds and the next batch would run off and jump the hurdles. It was cute.

The next race was the chicken throw. The coach had a bucket of plucked colored chickens that were about twelve inches long. Each child was suppose to throw their chicken as far as possible, run up to it, and throw it again until they passed the end. This didn't work quite as well with the 30 second batch thing as some children took four or five minutes to complete the course. You had children getting hit by flying chickens all over the place. It was funny.

When that was completed, and it only took about twenty minutes, things went to hell in a handbasket.

They walked us all over to the opposite side of the field only to realize we were early, so then we walked all the way to near my car and allowed the kids to play at the playscape. When it was time, we went back across the field to the pitching events. Only, there was no coach and no one to organize it. None of the teachers even had an idea of what the events were suppose to be.

Eventually they lined all the kids up in 12 lines and just gave them whatever assorted balls were laying around; crocket, backetball, football, baseball. But no one took charge of the event and timing. So you had children throwing balls (some very hard) constantly and others running in the middle of the meyham to retrieve their throws. Every parent on the sideline was wincing and complaining.

Fifteen minutes later we take the kids to their classrooms for a snack. I helped those at the table with Will open their packages and drinks. After the break, we were lead all the way through the school and out the opposite side to the bouncy houses. The teachers instructed the children to remove their shoes, leave on their socks, and then climb in. Of corse, they had to walk through about twenty-five feet of burs and stickers to get there. They were only allowed to bounce about three minutes when someone realized there was a mix up on the schedule and we weren't supose to be there. I helped pull stickers and burs off of four different pairs of socks and put shoes on small sweaty feet. Then we walked through the entire school and back out the other side to play on the playground again.

We were told due to the mixup the children would play on the playground for an hour, then participate in a tug-of-way. At this point, it's 97 outside. There is still no shade and I've had it. I tell Will bye, and head out.

As I walked through the school, and back to my car, I checked how many photos I'd taken to see if I should drop off the camera on the way home. I took nine. And if I remember correctly, one of those was an accidental photo of the hot cracked ground.

I'm a 65

It's official, I'm in love with my sleep number bed.

Steve and I paid almost $2,000 five years ago for a special mattress set that was going to last a while. We both have back issues and trouble sleeping, so it seemed like a sound investment. From the DAY it was delivered it was a nightmare. Since it was purchased at a furniture store and not at a mattress store, they would not take it back. We were stuck.

Five days ago Steve picked up a king size sleep number bed and brought it home. It has two separate mattresses so we can each set our own comfort level. (He's a 100.) It also comes with a zipped in pillow top that is about four inches thick.

I put it up the next morning and we have slept in it for four nights now. It took me a few days to settle on a number, but I knew the first night it was going to work out. I just needed to tweak it.

We kept our old bed on hand until we were sure we were keeping the sleep number bed. We're sure. The old bed was hauled to San Marcos and donated to Tori.

I know a lot of people are either totally for or against a sleep number bed. I love the ability to have different settings per person. It's cut down on how often I roll over or reposition myself at night. Made a significant difference in how loud and often Steve snores (and probably myself as well). And, I no longer wake up with aching joints.

I really have only noticed two cons; 1) it sits really low to the floor, and 2) if your numbers are significantly different you need to keep rigorous activity to one side only - don't ask.

Open Marriages

Steve and I were watching House this evening and the episode revolved around two different married couples who had open marriages. It disturbed me so much that I could hardly watch the show. In both marriages shown, one person wanted to play the field and their spouse agreed because they loved them and didn't want to loose them. When one wife decided she couldn't do it, her husband lied to her about it and continued to carry on his affair.

I just don't get it. How can you possibly have the trust and respect necessary to create a strong relationship in an open marriage? When I was searching for a photo to accompany this blog I was shocked at how many couples online are admitting to open marriages. I did find one site that came closer to helping me understand the concept. Basically they said there are two different type of people. (A)Those who go into a marriage with the concept it is until death and is a bond that shouldn't be broken - those who would never consider an open marriage. (B) Those that enter a marriage as a business transaction to gain security, ranking, or releave loneliness.

Consider me an A.

As we watched the show this evening, I couldn't help but wonder how the original conversation progressed when having an open marriage was brought up. Do you pick days that you can screw around? Should you notify each other first? If you have kids, do you swap out weekends when Mommy or Daddy get to go out alone? What's the procedure when you return from a romp? Do you head directly to the shower? Do you shower before you come home and act like nothing happened? Do you hop in bed with your spouse and go for round 2 (or 3)?

As a tie in to this issue, I've been searching for a group nearby that I can join to meet new people. Some place where I can alleviate some of the loneliness that has haunted me for the last five years. I'm also thinking of volunteering, but that comes with it's own issues. Mainly time constraints and Will.

When I did a search for lonely mothers in Austin in Yahoo Groups. I found at least ten groups for lonely mothers to hook up with men on the side. When I searched for lonely married people in Austin I found just as many groups for spouse swaps. Each group had hundreds, if not thousands, of members. I did find 3 groups for women who found being at home very lonely and isolated - just what I was looking for. All of them were inactive and had been for years.

It's a sad statement on today's society that a lonely married woman can find places to commit adultery, but no companionship.

Oddly, if you search for companionship you get a bunch of pet groups.

Go figure.

You Get What You Pay For

Will has hard to manage hair. There are three hard to control cow licks. Two towards the back which mandate the hair on top of his head remain long. And one toward the front that won't allow things to lay flat. Add to the fact his hair is baby fine and straight as a board and it's all kinds of fun finding someone to cut his hair.

I've tried doing it myself. I've tried barbers. I even tried the cheap walk-in places. I finally found one place that consistently does a good job, for $13.95. Not bad really. But as I cut Steve's hair myself, and my hair only gets cut twice a year, paying to get Will's hair cut every 6 weeks seems obscene. So I put it off each time as long as possible.

Apparently, I put it off to long.

Steve made some comment about Will's hair being to long last night and I was like, "Yeah. I need to get it cut." After I put Will in bed for the night, Steve asks for some scissors. I give him my heavy duty sewing scissors. Then, a man who has NEVER cut hair, took those bulky scissors, a sleepy 5-year old, and went into the bathroom to trim the hair out of his eyes.

As you can see from the photo above he did achieve his goal, there is no hair in Will's eyes. Nor, will there be for 2-3 months. I'm hoping it grows back out to normal before he starts his new school next fall. LOL

It's not that it's a bad haircut, and let me tell you it is much worse than the photo shows - he cut half the hair of both sideburns as well. It's that as I child I had those same bangs all through elementary. We even had a name for them; Norma Bangs. Named after an eighty year old woman that wore her bangs about an inch long.

I told Steve that he was not allowed near my son with a pair of scissors ever again.

I've had this same talk with all of my children in the past . . . just never one of my husbands.

No. No. Bad Daddy!