Some Say Shaken Up, I Say PTSD

Do you remember last year I made the mistake of my life and bought a dog?  Well I topped that mistake.  Ready. Set. Guess.  WRONG.  I didn't buy another dog.  I lost the one we had.  FAIL.  And I've gone through exhaustive efforts trying to find him.  In my defense, I didn't really LOSE the dog.  He went missing from our back door.  Literally scratching at the door waiting to be let in, while I decided I would wait for a commercial to let him in.  We think it was a coyote.  They are not uncommon in our area.  So so so so sad.  We went searching for him that night, then I began driving around.  I saw a police officer, so I flashed my lights to signal him to pull over.  When he did and asked what he could do, I replied, "our dog went missing"  I started sobbing and said, "I didn't even like him!!!"  Officer responded, "Ma'am, did you say that you don't even like your dog?"  "yes!"  And so it goes, the dog that has literally left me in a heap of tears of frustration has now left me in a heap of desperation.  I've called every police station in the area, flyers, put out our blankets with Mr Incredible's cologne on it (because he was more partial to him than me.  I have no idea why.), visited every shelter, SPCA, craiglist, etc.  No luck.  It's been about 5 weeks now.  AND for all you who think that he ran away.   Peppy never runs away.  A) his electric (controversy!) collar was on B) his breed is known for always following around their owners, and never leaving their side.  C) he always always always comes when he's called (only thing he was *moderately* trained at D) he hates the rain and will do anything to get inside.

turns out Peppy and I had quite the love story, since every lost love country song has left me in a mess of tears.  cue sara evans.  Let's take a moment:

aw baby puppy when we first brought him home

This picture is like I had intuition that he would go missing.  It's very milk carton-esque.

That was a Hell of a Hump

Wowzers those last few posts (apart from the Koreans) left this blog in ill standing.  Well to me, anyway.  I really have no interest in reading the last few posts.  Actually I never have any interest in reading any of the previous posts.  They make my blush and feel nauseous.  Don't know why I'm the author of a blog.

I'm on the up and up, finally.  I've overcome my quick bout of Depersonalization Disorder (thank you Kim Iverson and Casey Anthony for putting a name to my mind/body disconnect.)  I can once again formulate thoughts, articulate feelings, and listen to people without feeling like I'm in an underwater dream.

And then come apologies.  Please excuse me, friends and family for the repeated questions, nonsensical answers, and overall DPD.  I'm sorry to my faithful readers for nary an update, and I apologize to myself for losing about 20 followers and all my readers along the way.

So let's get back to the good ol' days.  Nothing says I'm back to my old self like a few obscure linkups (trying to open my own Etsy shop, here.  Gotta use benefactors where I can find them.)

We're getting a new roof soon, with the lowest estimate at $10,000.  Ten thousand dollars.  ching chong rashem.  Homesecurity greatfalls can be a b$&%^.  But since there always is that silver lining, we can think, ha!  maybe we'll get cable!  www.localtv-satellite.com  If they'll be on the roof anyway we might as well get some sort of entertainment out of it.  (doubt it.  I'd rather shop with the extra $90 a month.)

Other than that, I don't know what to update you with.  But let me leave you with this, my fellow blog people.  I'm gaining weight and for once in my life I don't care.  Dare I say, I'm embracing it.  We'll talk more about that later.  But for now, I have freshly baked cookies awaiting me.

anxiety dream

This is probably tmi.


You know those anxiety dreams that you're standing around your elementary school in just your white underwear?  I tend to have a million different versions of them.  Particularly when I'm anxious.  Last night I had that dream in miscarriage form:

I was visiting at a friend's house (a very laid back friend, at that) and went to her basement to find G, my 17 month old.  When I found her I found black stuff all around her mouth. I searched around for what she had eaten, then saw a bottle of rat poison in G's hand.  I went ballistic and began searching for a number for poison control or the hospital, meanwhile my friend wiped the evidence off G's face and reassured me that "now she's fine!"  After precious long minutes of finding the number, dialing wrong numbers, poison control not answering, hospital lines busy, I finally got ahold of someone on poison control.  They told me that she can take ipecac (the medicine that makes you throw up) but it will be "violent" throwing up, and it may do her more harm than good since she is so little.  .....  woke up in a sweat. ....

I then realized that I'm anxious.  Tomorrow (St. Patty's Day) I have to go to my doctor to take medicine.  I haven't technically "miscarried," there was just no sign of life at my last appointment.  I had three choices- wait it out, take medicine, or get surgery.  Waiting it out was risky and didn't seem to be happening.  The DNC (surgery) seemed invasive and reminded me of abortions, which thoroughly depressed me.  The option I was left with was taking the medicine.

Here are the parallels, just in case they are not as clear to you as they are to me:  My baby= my baby.  Rat poison= medicine to be taken tomorrow.  Friend= "everyone goes through it"/ the unknown.  No medical assistance= I take the medicine, go home and wait.  "Violent" throwing up= Doctor saying that it's worse than a period, not as bad as labor.

I'm nervous.

This ain't last year's St Patty's Day.  <-- real link to my blog from last year.  Have I scarred you all with all those sketchy links?  Sorry.

By the way, if I haven't made it around to your blog yet to personally thank you, I want to let everyone know how much I appreciated the support and kind words through this bad Bad time.  Thanks for not being awkward, thanks for just letting me write what I had to write.  a) it was a lot of emotion b) I'm a terrible story teller :)  and furthermore, thanks for showing me so much virtual love!

On Grief

Everything was a little too appropriate today.  It's a grey, gloomy, rainy spring day, there's not a cloud in the sky or a sliver of sunlight.  I was even dressed appropriately for the occasion.  Big clunky boots, jeans, a grey shirt with a navy blue cardigan and a summer scarf.  Hair down with just cherry chapstick.  All of the glimmerings of new life, hidden under all the sure signs of the dead of winter.  I dropped the girls off at my mom's house so I could go to my 12 weeks appointment.  When I first got there I did the routine weigh in.  I gained one pound.  Normally by my 12 week appointment I'm far into about 12-16 pounds.  Nurse asks if I had any concerns, as normal, and as normal I think of something that they reply as "well, every pregnancy is different!"  This month's concern is that my morning sickness literally stopped overnight ("like all my hormones just went away!") and, "why have I only gained one pound?"  This cues the nurse to joke that that should be the least of my concerns, and it's because my selective memory only remembers the times I come in and gain six pounds at a time.

If there's one thing that I remember well, it's my weight.  When, where, why, what number, what size.  I've been wondering lately why I'm still wearing my regular clothes.  By this point in the game, I usually am in the awkward two sizes up, crotch too low, legs too long, but still a muffin top.  Typically I throw in the towel and wear sweats from here on out.

Doctor goes through the routine first trimester questions; each of my previous births, when? full terms?  weight?  Then goes through the routine: heart disease, high blood pressure, depression?  I answer no to all of them, "although, sometime I do get a bit down," when she replies, "Kiera, eveybody gets a little down all the time, but you are the happiest person I've ever met."  She notes that my belly hasn't grown.  She skips the doppler (the machine used to hear the heart) and goes right to sonogram.  Last appointment all the nurses were impressed that the baby had already begun moving.  His little arms and legs were going the entire time.  This time there was nothing.  No heart beat, no sweet limbs flailing.

Couple mothers' guilt and Irish guilt and my mind starts racing, even though it probably had nothing to do with me.  Was it the days I forgot to take my vitamin?  Zumba class?  When I got the flu two weeks ago?  Was it just too much for the little baby to handle?

The doctor has to send me to "make it official," to the imaging floor of the hospital.  The scene must've been set by a director.  I finally saw the hospital through a new lens, and I realized why people feared it.  Full of death and sorrow.  I had to walk down too many dimly lit hallways, with shiny floors, and the smell of bleach.  For the first time I realized that the hospital is just kind of dank.  I couldn't pull my knit cardigan tight enough around me.  I waited in chairs, while listening to news full of more destruction, and read a times magazine through blurry eyes.  Then I was simply called in, got a quick, bit too harsh, efficient sonogram, with the tech saying, "yep, I'm just confirming what they already told you."  And I was cattled out like any other patient that found out grief worthy news.

I've always loved the hospital, I loved the smell of the cleanliness, the soap, the squeak of shoes.  When I think of the hospital I think of unlimited cranberry juice and Lorna Doones on beckon call.  I think of clean white sheets, with the tv on low in the background, while I sit Indian style with my new sweet baby wrapped up sitting in my lap.  (While I eat hospital meatloaf and buttered corn, topping it off with jello.)  I love smelling my baby's sweet head and choosing which outfit to put on her.  A white tshirt with a diaper or a yellow tshirt with a diaper?  It seems all of these things I was so looking forward to in September is just gone.

This all may seem a little dramatic.  I've experienced miscarriages second hand, and I still had no grasp of how devastating it is.  In the book of etiquette, you're supposed to never say, "maybe there was something wrong with it," or "you'll have another baby soon," or "at least you have other kids!"  All of these things are true, but there is something so earth shatteringly unique about this baby.  This hope, this dream.  What this baby was going to offer to the world.  What I was going to offer to this baby.

The thaw is setting in my bones, and I'm just getting achier.  Hopefully the nurses and doctors understand that I was in complete shock when I said, "well there's always a silver lining, and now I can drink beer on St Patty's day!"  Because that's not really how I feel.  I would give up anything for any amount of time for my children.  sl;fsdf;lasjdlasfkhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Working off the Ramen Noodles, One Hip Swivel at a Time

I'm two steps behind, bringing up the caboose, a straggler, trend follower. Call it as you may, but I finally took my first Zumba class. My friend invited me to go with her, and as we were walking in, I said, "well since you've done this already, I can rest assured that it's not going to be sexy Brazilian moves." She casually replied, "no it is!" OH. I'm Irish and have tacked on a few or more extra pounds. I was nervous I'd have to zoom-ba right outta there.

It was amazing to a fault. As in, I want to be a Zumba instructor. The biggest problem was the mirrors. Those freakin mirrored walls will get you every. time. I was bouncing around feeling so good, feeling like I had the Brazilian Rhythm (how hard is that word to spell, seriously. I just googled it three times.) Then I would catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror (and the lady behind me staring at my underwear lines in my spandex) and I realized that probably the closest thing to me becoming brazilian is my dark hair and pear shaped body. But honey, that di'nt stop this dancin' machine.

l

I looked less like the girl in the foreground, more like the lady in the teal in the background. With spandex, to boot.

What failed me in the mirrors was quickly rebuttaled in the class of ladies. (Friend not included) There was a big chested lady of about 6'1, a 220 pound man, an anorexic looking teenager with oversized feet, and better yet, the instructor was funky, cute, but she was not necessarily Rio de Janeiro ready either. AND to top it all off, her cool down music was just as amazing as the Brazilian rap. No sarcasm: (thanks, Pearls, for the hint)

Foodie Unleashed

I am a true blood foodie.  This isn't a condition, this is me.  It's as innate as survival to me, not just a too comfortable marriage, a backfired eating disorder, or stress.  I love food.  Really any food, apart from mussels or cannolis.  When I was a tender age around three or four and someone asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, I replied, "eat nutritious foods!"  And that is as to the core as I can get.

beef barley soup and oranges, more accurately

Now imagine a foodie unleashed via pregnancy.  Yes, imagine.  We're talking Hostess cupcakes and spaghetti with butter and cheese and squash with brown sugar and grapefruit! and ginger ale with maraschino cherries! chicken, (so gross), elbow noodles (never mention that word again), bologna! salad with bacon and bleu cheese and pickled onions (for realz), mango coleslaw (do it) (ps that is a link on my own accord.  First time in a while, I know.  It will actually lead you to a real website, not San Diego car repair or Minneapolis real estate.  heh.).  You get the picture.  But that's only in the evenings.


Did you see this past weeks Glee about drinking awareness?  And all of the students and Mr Schuester come to school wiht sunglasses on because of their hangovers?  And Mr Schue mentions that the principal's cologne is so strong?  This is what my morning are like every morning.  My body wash makes me nauseous.  The smell of coffee, nauseating.  The idea of a Reese's egg is literally vomit inducing.  The foodie in me is nonexistent, and I feel like a sassy and picky fourth grader.  But that hasn't stopped me from  outgrowing my pants.  So soon.  And it's all because of the glorious 1pm-on eating.

The best part about it is when I hit the 50 pound weight gain mark and have the baby, by then I'm burnt out on eating so much junk and all the time.  (knock on wood- chances are just because I'm saying it means this time I won't lose it)  So unlike Giselle, who claims that it is a shame that some pregnant women think of themselves as a garbage disposal, I will eat to my content in preparation for labor.  Because (this is my ultimate fallback excuse) did you know that calorically speaking, going through labor and delivery is equivalent to participating in a triathlon?  Bring it on.  I've got some carbo loading to do.

Bus driver

For most of my elementary years I had this one Bus Driver.  Her name was something along the lines or Diana or Tracy or Nancy.  She was really cool.  Really cool until she got pregnant, and to my young and innocent mind she was more or less a bunny rabbit.  (Pot calling the kettle black, whatevs.)  When she was not pregnant she was simply a highlighted haired, slim lady with crayolaed pictures of her favorite little riders and a love note from her husband hanging on the dash.  When she was pregnant, she really turned into a downright monster.  We'd literally tiptoe on the bus.  If we made it on the bus, anyway.  Because she was not unknown to drive right past you, jsut for kicks or some authority, I'm assuming.  Not pregnant, on holidays she would give us our favorite candies and erasers and maybe a construction papered craft that she'd done the night before.  When she was pregnant we would tiptoe on the bus and before even making it to the second step she would bark, "DIABETES OR ALLERGIES?" then toss a bag of candy corn at us.

After her maternity leave she would come back radiant and beaming, showing us new picture of her ugly (you know they are) newborn.  She would practically hand cigars out to the boys.  It was very jarring for us, and took us the full rest of the year to recover and realize she was not a maniacal monster.  But then every fall we'd come back and she'd announce the dreadful-to-us news: she was pregnant.  Again.

It hit me like a mac truck today, that I am Tracy, Diana, Nancy.  I have rage that cannot be tamed.  Take, for example, yesterday, my round four to get a license at the dmv.  By round four red flags should probably be going up in NYS with quotes like, "slow!" "does not respond well to direction!" "does not read direction!" "unworthy of driving if she can't do this right!"  Instead, after a long line and my kids running in and out of rooms, the lady at the desk calmly told me that my proof of address didn't qualify because it's an insurance bill.  Red pen circling, "it's right here under the list of unacceptable."  I could've climbed over the counter and strangled her with my own hands.  I understand this is irrational and unreasonable, but hormones are hormones and I was seeing red.  RED.

Or, take for example today, when my washing machine broke for the second time in 6 weeks.  I nearly fell on the floor weeping.  I called service and they told me that they could come on Friday.  Friday?  I have clothes that are locked in my washer, my husband WORKS THERE and this just happened a few weeks ago.  Friday my ass, ma'am.  Again, I realized this was irrational and the whole shebang, but my rage cup was overfloweth.  At least today I channeled my adrenaline into efficiency and sorted all of my laundry into garbage bags and brought it to the local laundromat.  (That's what she said.)  SIXTEEN loads I got done in two hours.  Frankly, I don't even know why I own a da*n washing machine.

So friends, if you, too ever run into a Tracy, Nancy, Diana, don't judge, don't hate, don't think they are angry because they're pregnant, because they're not.  You'll just never know when it's going to hit them (or you).  It may be in a scrub store, (Mr Incredible needs medical scrubs, what can I say?) when you or her are buying scrubs, maybe when you're even buying scrubs online.  YOu just don't know.  Just the progesterone, OH! the progesterone.  It's a downright drug.  It basically causes severe narcolepsy, rage and hunger.  All at once.  All day, for approximately 13 weeks.  Don't hate, don't love, just give me my way then get out of the way.

Which is taller, a square or a rectangle?

If you read my other blog, you know that I have this looming Christmas (sans alcohol, I might add) party coming up.  There is little to dread, much to look forward to, but if you read my last post, the former becomes what I look forward to and the latter is what I dread.  The Irish in me, again.  Fall back excuse.

Right now my dread is that I don't have hot shoes.  This is muy, muy bothersome for me.  First of all, I had a group of 10 or so people tell me the other day that they think I'm taller than Mr Incredible (a rectangle always looks taller than a square).  This does not fly with me.  I used to very confidently wear heels with him (we are both 5'9).  Now I feel as though I'm going to be stuck wearing- what?  Flats and dress with tights?  That, too, does not fly with me.  (and if you're wondering, my "hot shoes" that I had suddenly started making my legs feel less Sarah, more Bristol-esque.  In other words, salvationarmy.)  I know I could get away with boots, but flat boots are cazh.

So what's a girl to do?  My best advice to you is to stay tuned.  Because I'm at a loss.

kiwi

versus Mr Inc.  Who looks taller to YOU

   

Crossing Fingers

Today will be the moment of truth.

Remember how the van bit the dust?  Yes, well it has been sitting at the car shop since then until we could decide what to do with it.  Much is involved in that decision.  First we have to clear everything out, which in itself will be epic.  I have everything from sunscreen to boots that don't fit anyone to my my marriage certificate.  ha.  Really.  Then we have to decide where to dump it.  Did you know that there is a fine to bring it to a dumpster???  Absurd.

Procrastination patience always prevails.  My dad just so happened to run into the Car Dealer and he delivered good news.  If we can drive the van to the lot, and they can find something wrong with our right axel (it's been recalled) then they will give us either a rental car until we buy a new car, or they will give us money towards a new car.

I didn't want us not having a car to be a family affair, but my dad and Mr Incredible are going to try try try to make the van drive from the shop to the store.  My Dad following Mr Inc in case the car breaks down.  When I told my dad that I would follow him so my Dad didn't have to be involved, he looked at me as though I was asking him to direct me toward the best dating sites or to give me internet fax reviews.  In other words, he thought it was absurd for me to risk waiting on the side of the road with the girls in tow, while we waited for the tow truck.

So everyone silently at your computers say a little "vroom baby vroom" for me.  And the monstrosity called minivan.

The Grandiosity of Assisted Living

I went to college to become an Occupational Therapist.  Mainly because I love LOVE helping people.  I don't know why, it's in my bones.  It's probably because I come from a family of Health Care people.  Nurses, mainly.

If I've ever told you anything about my work ethic, we all know... what work ethic?  Zero.  It's embarrassing and shameful that a person like me can really make Denny's have a hard time ticking.   There are two jobs, however, that I positively loved.  Enough to finish my shift and not call in sick once a week.  (I don't know why these jobs kept me around.  I must have the kavorka.)  The first one is a group home.  I LOVED these people.  (Not the workers, though.  Isn't there always one named Kathy The Smoker who hates the world, her ex husband and her daughter that won't move out of the house at age 37?)  One of the residents was always yelling.  HI KIERAAAAA.  MAYBE DA NEXT TIME I CAN SEE YOUR BABYYYYYYYYY.  WHO FREW DAT AT MEEE?  She was also very strong with behavioral issues.  In other words, she could snap your neck if you didn't watch your back.

Then there was the public masturbator.  This is no lie.  This one time I brought him to a baseball game.....

Then there was Doug, who was obsessive compulsive and obsessed over (including but not limited to) my dad, jack fm, me, other workers, anesthesia (my dad's a nurse anethsetist).

Job number two was an assisted living home.  I was a "dietary aide" aka lunch lady.  Then I was promoted (demoted?)  (moted?) to "residential aide" aka the dirty work.  Where I had to scrub just about anything and anyone in the building.  And give medicine!  and put on pressure stockings!  and lotion in unreachable places!  buuut ilovedit.

So maybe I like having "rewarding" jobs, but I think what it really boils down to is shower stools, double shower heads and floral bath towels.  It's like a taste of luxury.  Or is it a taste of what's to come?

New blog

I'm sure if I add anymore blogs to your reading list you'll need some major saline solution or a travel time machine.  Maybe you'll just need some FreshLook Contacts in case you work your eyes to the nub.  (Although a friend's experience tell me to only soak contacts in a sterile saline solution for contacts- or else you'll do your eyes more harm than good.)  TANGENT.

But have you heard?  I've started a new blog with a bad idea.  90 sans alcohol.  As suggested, and as strong as it sounds, maybe, um, recommended to me.  You'll have to go read it to know what I'm talking about, because I'm not going to label myself with a "drinking problem" on two blogs.  That's too much for my fragile self. 

Speaking of fragile self, I am sick like whooooaaaa today.  Sick as in if I told you anything about it I would be giving you TMI.  But I think it's probably the flu (hopefully 24 hours seeing as though I haven't ralphed in 5 hours.)  Little triumphs, here, little triumphs.  

But at least we all know it's not a hangover I'm nursing.

The Problem with No Wheels

So here I am on day three (four?) with no wheels.  I'm actually really really loving it.  ie My excuse to exercise.  However there is just one teensy problem with no wheels.

When I was born my 7 year old at the time sister asked if I was Italian.  Because I came out with SO MUCH dark, thick hair.  We're Irish and German, no we're not Italian, no I'm not the post man's daughter, I just got the only strand of hairy dna in my entire ancestry.  So if you're anything like me there is no doubt to the question 'If you could have only one thing while stranded on a deserted island what would it be?'  umtweezersduh.  Not that I'm prideful, but more that my rescuers wouldn't mistake me for a gorilla.  AND if you're anything like me then you know there is no light like natural light.  Not even halogens.  So basic "if and only if" math says 'if you are hairy and only if natural light is suitable to do a thorough job then you tweeze in the car.'  No doubt.

these are the things I learned in college.  ie to be super woman

Unfortunately I didn't think of that when Jamie the tow man towed my car and all 4 sets of tweezers away.  To it's final destination.  Well, no, actually just the car shop.  But 4 days for my face is final destination.


Yesterday emerging from the shower my two year old said, "Peppy pooooped."  This sort of um, shit, throws me over the edge.  So I went into our family room to find it.  No where to be found.  No where.  But it stunk to the high heavens.  Then I saw it: smears on the couch.  I nearly lost my head and Peppy nearly lost his life when I decided that some fresh air would do us good.  (after wooliting the um, shit, out of our couches and scrubbing them.)  So we walked to Walgreens.  On the way I realized Peppy was covered in fecal matter.  We dropped Peppy off at the groomer to get bathed.  Then picked up 2 sets of tweezers at Walgreens.  Then went to Pizza Hut for dinner.  Then walked home.

So friends, I'm happy to report that our house smells fresh, Peppy's ass is fresh, my face is fresh and I'm a new woman.  All with out a car.

thank you Duquesne.  For making yesterday possible. 

DUNH DUHN DUNH another one bites the dust.

And so the day has come.  As inevitable as taxes.  My Ford Windstar with two hubcaps has bit the dust.  After thousands of dollars and hundreds of thousands of miles, here we are, homebound.  I really don't mind being homebound, it's kind of a nice excuse to stay home and rearrange rooms.  

But remember how we refinanced?  Well we can't get a new car until our refinancing goes through.  Probably in a few weeks. But why not go a few weeks more and cushion some money if we already have to wait?  So here we'll be.  Unless we cram ourselves into Mr Incredible's tiny tiny car.

And what type of car should we get?  I would love a Traverse.  But that's out of the budget.  (what budget?)  It's probably between a Swagger Wagon and a Honda Odyssey.  Or really anything big.

So let's all take a moment of silence for big green van.

Thank you.

Caffeine

I'm 14,000 times overjoyed.  But in all reality, it probably boils down to the excessive amounts of caffeine in me.  My BFFFFFFFFF in reality and virtual reality started a blog.  Friends, she is my BESTFRIEND4EVA.  I've been trying to get her to blog since I began blogging.  She's stubborn as an ass and likes things on her own terms, so 1.5 year later here she is.

And people, this is the start of something good.  Not only is it a buzz in itself, I am a new blogger and we are going to conquer blogger one post at a time.  Starting with soap.com.  ahem.  Anyway.  You really ought to go follower her.  She's desperate.  Yes she's desperate.  Words that she wouldn't dare say, but I'll most def say for her.  Stay tuned.  And go check out my better third (Mr Incredible could not be excluded from that.  But there's nothing weird going on, either.)

strangely we have next to no pictures together.  she has really fast blink reflexes.

Mustard's never tasted so good

You know how discouraging it is when you just can't shake those last 5, 7, 10 pounds?  Me too.  Especially since I haven't been working out, the weight that I'm at looks even heavier because it's not lean muscle.  It's fatty fat.

My perfectly fitting jeans are fitting very imperfectly, and I'm always tugging at my clothes so they don't ride up, ride down, get bunched in the wrong places.  Such a frustrating place to be in.  The biggest problem of it all seems to be my appetite and love of all food/drink.  That plus no self control has ground moving effects.  Quite literally.

Poor Mr Incredible could hardly stand one more three-lettered question or comment.  Clue: ends in t, starts with f and has a vowel in between.  And 'fit' is not the correct answer.  My poor children, even though they have not expressed in so many (or any at all) words, could barely stand one more day of me jumping for dear life into my jeans, red faced and sweating, and anxiously albeit politely asking them to leave my room so they could not watch in horror the spectacle I was creating.

So I'm taking some very sound advice and trying to go no carb for 2 weeks.  14 days.  No big deal.  Really what I should be doing is sleeping with a plastic bag over my head.  Because that's easy to do for 14 days too.

It's 1pm on my second day of no carbs.  I politely declined a Tim Hortons egg, cheese and sausage biscuit and a donut of any sort.  And then when I came home shaking from the effects of too much coffee and no carbs (carbs=food) I downed 2 ninety seven percent fat free hot dogs.  I was licking the ketchup and mustard off of my plate as fiercely as I would've licked chocolate icing off of an unsuspecting two year old's birthday cake.

It's that bad.  But only twelve and a half more days to go.

Have you done any no carbs?  How did you survive it?

This post brought to you by Bristol Palin and Oh! Calcutta

Ugh this pic doesn't even do them justice

When I heard today that Bristol Palin is going to be on Dancing With the Stars, I knew I had to honor the Palins immediately.  I needed to find an occasion to wear those shoes.

  I'm 5'9.  And so is Mr Incredible (height may or may not be his only un incredible characteristic.)  And what better place would I have to wear these than an Indian restaurant?  Where I can one up small Indian men two times with 1) my height 2) my thick (er?) Buffalo accent?  I bet Bristol felt like me, too.

Bristol are you feeling self conscious than your leg is bigger than his head?  Very relatable tonight, Bristol.  Very relatable.

Sarah, why do your legs look so much hotter than mine?:

and this pic DOES NOT DO MY LEGS JUSTICE.

One Oh! Calcutta martini (two parts liquor to one part pineapple juice to one part Indian cologne)

Indian waiter, "you get rose he get beel."

Do I have loose ends not tied up?  Have I made a complete thought throughout this whole post?  Sorry.  Oh! Calcutta.  and mr incredible's left over beer.  good. night.

Miley has it wrong. It was a party in Can-AH-da

I'm back!  What?  you didn't miss me?  Oh, it's because I was on a long weekend.  Not a vacation.  There it's been clarified.

What I look like on vacation.  no for real.

I'll begin at the beginning and the end.  We went to Blue Mountain in Canada.  It's a ski resort only it was summertime.  So it was a summer resort on a mountain.  It was ah!mazing.  It's an hour and a half past Toronto.  If you're thinking, "ooo I love big cities!" redirect your thinking to, "note to self: never go on vacation when you have to drive through a ginormous city."  Unless you super fluffy heart traffic jams, of course.

Did you know that if Toronto were in the US (tomato tomahto, ay?) it would be the third largest city after nyc and la?  Approaching the big city, I thought, 'Ikeas! skinny people (maybe even famous)!, musicals! and Asians!'  Round number two:  Approaching the city I thought, 'Please God don't let there be more traffic jams that creep up so fast on you that I'll get whip lash and more importantly, will let the kids wake up."

I won't get into all the wonderful nitty gritty details of it.  But this much I'll say:  Starbucks under our hotel room.  Tim Hortons in Canada.  Pool.  Beach.  Mountain.  Someone else washing all of our dirty towels.  Beer.  Martinis.  Wine.  Live music.  Need I say more, friends??  Need I say more.

Front: capri sun. Back: cranberry lime martini.  It's not everyday that I have martinis. (garnished with limes, that is.)

I think I'm ready

Whoa now that was one heck of a hiatus.

Hi!  I'm back and I might even be ready to commit.  Fingers crossed.

For a while there I just kinda lost my mind.  I'm busy being bored.  Bored as in Mr Incredible is home 6 hours a night and I need. to. fill. the. days.  So I shop.  I shop for food, I shop for me, I shop for Mr I, I shop for my family, I shop for birthdays that will occur in November.  Expensive habit, I know.

I've also been busy being American.  Because if you're not busy in July then you're not American and your passport should be revoked immediately.  Many a hotdog's been ate and an icecream cone been slurped (lie I don't like cones).  Beaches have been tread upon and pool's a peed in.

The whole gardening spiel that I wrote about?  Niet.  Too sticky, too many bugs.  And it only looks okay.  Which, if you think you know me, means that my towel is just about thrown in.  For this year anyway.

See you tomorrow?

Hello, I've missed you (kinda) but the break was worth it

You know how the longer it is you go with out calling an old friend, the longer the conversation is going to be, which puts off the call further?  Helllllllo blog.  So where to begin, old friend?

My basement:  turns out it's not sewage, might not even be a foundation problem.  Might be Roto Rooter are just this side of "professional plumbers."

What I've been doing:  remember how I've said I can only really deal with one creative outlet at a time?  Well I am a full fledged gardener (maybe.)  I've transplanted (!!!!) a bush, I'm planting so many perennials I could have a mini nursery (not true).  I've been weeding, watering, planting, Miracle growing, planting, planting.  Weeding.  I super puffy fluffy heart gardening.  I'm already bracing myself for the loss I'll have to endure during the winter.  Unfortch, once I take the winter break from it, come next spring I'll have no idea what the h I got myself into.  Maybe not, we'll see.  Carpe diem.

For a while I really felt like I had nothing much to say that was anything less than a Jewel song from her Spirit album.  I was consumed in serious thought full of angst about the world we live in and what will become of me and who? who? is it that I love so much who will die first?  Was that  a run on sentence?  sorry.  Orange you glad I didn't blog these past couple weeks?  I was pretty much zero fun.  I completely delighted in my dread because it was a feeling of hopelessness it was just something to think about.

I totally have to get some pics up on this drab blog.  I'll take some of my garden.  And maybe the big pile of carpet that we ripped up from our basement before we found out it wasn't sewage.  Maybe I'll tell you what I've been buying these days.  (recovery of a somber mood = retail therapy.)

this makes me happy sad.  watch it.  happy sad as in why did i eat all those cookies last night.

Throwing in the proverbial towel. Or at least wanting to.

I'm stuck.  Winnie the Pooh stuck.  If I just don't eat the damn honey I can get out of what I started.  But I love honey.  And so it goes with blogging.

I went out for a delightful wonderful time with my good friends tonight.  In absolute passing they mentioned how my blog is scratch your eyes out uppity.  Of course this is what stuck with me for the rest of the night.  That I don't let on to my true self, feelings, etc.  Other people have said the same thing to me.  And a friend's friend read my blog (once) and thought I'm super perfect.  (wait, okay, I just flattered myself a million times over, but that's along the lines of what people were saying).  I do try to take a positive spin on my blog.  a) who wants to read people's woes? (answer: a lot of people.  so they can "relate.") b) what if ex boyfriends are reading this (answer: yes, I'm that vain) c) why the h would I want to air my dirty laundry (answer: at least my dirty laundry is smeared bananas on the shoulders of shirts)

But honestly, I've had a pretty shitty week.  Then again, "shitty" is relative.  I could not think of a life that I'd rather have.  Because I love my life.  So I guess this all is the viscous cycle of am I acting cheerful or AM i cheerful?  TBD.

Mr Incredible and I have been at each other's throats.  I (still) haven't printed one picture since my 8 month old was born.  I've hung nary a picture on our wall to decorate the house.  When I asked Mr Incredible if my love handles were coming back he answered that "maybe I should just start walking some more." (no, that's not emotionally abusive or insensitive, I expect him to answer those types of questions in honesty)  My kids, particularly the eldest, are painfully shy and it can be so frustrating sometimes because people cannot see all that she has to offer.  Sometimes I feel like in wanting to please everyone I please no one.

But really?  That's really what I have to complain about?  I have a good life.  I suppose it is a cheery life, full of life, love and more love.  But I do fight with my husband, yell at my kids, make a fool out of myself, and have elephants and cougars and a mirrored wall in our bedroom.  I'm fiery and emotional and sometimes feel not good enough.  It's not perfect, but what is?

Maybe 'Imperfect Daisies; The Tale of a Real American Housewife' should be more like The Tale of a Cheerful American Housewife; or Sarcastic American Housewife; High Strung, Low Energy American Housewife; Disregarding American Housewife

SUGGESTIONS?  you know I love your opinions.