Nesting Round 4

I'm really tired and really overwhelmed.  Which should tell you one thing: frantic.  When I'm feeling this way I start setting absurd and unattainable goals, such as needing to look like I live in a Martha Stewart home, make Martha Stewart sort of money (pre bankruptcy), and have Martha Stewart looking dinners and Martha Stewart craft times with my kids.  And I'll be damned if I don't make the Martha Stewart Walnut wreath before the end of November.  I'm damned.  MarthaIloveandhateyourdaily5emailstome.

Oh wait.  I forgot to mention.  I'm nesting.  And above paragraph has nothing to do with nesting.  Above paragraph is added to already innately nesting maternal crazies.  Heh.  I'm posting things on craigslist, making weekly trips to the SPCA, arranging Amvets pickups, dropping off at Salvation Army, and arranging junk removal with Shenandoah Junk Removal.  Because I. gots. junk.  And the house is still trashed.  Because I'm about one notch above motivated, and striking neither a negative score nor positive with discipline.  None better said than by Hitler, "Mein Kampf."  (I'm not sure how that becomes applicable in so many aspects of my life.) (Oh wait, yes I do know why, maybe I'm dramatic.)

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!

Impractical Net.

With the help of a friend, today, I realized that I'm in survival mode.  Survival mode really can be intense, but thankfully for me I do a wonderful job at not realizing things/ignoring them.  I just had a million friends unfriend me on facebook.  Now that's serious.  And Mr Incredible has no idea what he'll be doing for job(s) in the next two months.  And I have a serious dilemma going on with sending my 4 year old to school next year.  And, are we moving relatively soon?  Are we going to be having a pay cut?  Will Peppy live to see next year?  Crisis mode.

Impractical enough.  I hope you see the parallel.

Relatively speaking, this all looks just fine.  Things work out.  Thankfully my marriage is not failing, my children are healthy, and my dog doesn't have lock jaw.  And he's little enough that the one and half year can restrain him if need be.  There has never been a need, but the little comforts in life are the ones we emotionally fall back on, no?  And there is always Mr Incredible to fall back on, too.  He's painfully practical, with a tiny streak of idealism in him.  Like, for instance, when we recently bought our new van, he confidently yet carelessly threw the "valet key" in the glove compartment.  When a wrinkle formed between my brows and I asked him what he was doing, he replied, "it's a valet key!"  As though we're going to need valet parking.  Ever.  Maybe once a year we go somewhere with valet parking, but even still we get there approximately 4.5 hours before the rush.  Like 4pm not 830pm.  Ideal thinking, eh?  In reality we will need that key within the first month of owning the car, because the kids will lose the other keys, and the doors will be locked, and then we'll realize that the "valet key" is in the glovebox.  Then we'll really be SOL.  But sometimes his tiny proton of idealism is just so comforting.  Valet key when we're about to experience pay cut.  Tell me you don't want it.

I'm expecting Mr Incredible to come home tomorrow, and tell me that he's purchased Burial insurance.  Or, in the midst of all of his exams, papers, work, Peppy walks, kissing the girls goodbye, I'll find him on the computer looking up Medigap Insurance.  I'm 24.  But seriously, what's not to love about the impractical idealist side of him?  One has to rein the other in.  We've got it under control.  Kind of.  Thank God for my recent burial insurance for senior citizens.

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.

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.

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. 

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?

There's a fungus among us (but I decided to blog about something else)

I'm tired.  Have I ever mentioned that before?  I don't complete full sentences, thoughts, really anything other than appetite, when I'm this tired.

Have you ever read design interior blogs when you're tired?  Gone to TJMaxx when you're tired?  Tried ordering off the dollar menu?  Decided between an ice cream sandwich and York mint patty?  (I ate both plus another york mint patty.  the big ones.)  Gone to AAA to rent a van with all four hubcaps?  DMV?

So now I'm tired an anxiety ridden.  I'm not good enough and AAA and DMV employees have successfully made me feel inadequate and have left me wondering if my children are in fact comparable to ferrets.  (So I didn't brush their hair today!!!!!)  Most importantly, I'm frantically calling, emailing, scouring craigslist for a dresser like this:
(mind you I'm not trying to get a new bedroom furniture sets.  This is for our living room/den)

to turn into this:

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and I want to turn this:

 

into this:

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Oh the list could go on.  

Thank GOD I'M GOING ON VACATION TOMORROW.

Hopefully I'll come back Monday (oh, whatever, it's a long weekend.  I call them vacations) with wonderful pictures and stories and the best Irish tan you ever did see.  

See you thennnnnnn.  <3 <3 <3  

(the mere thought of vacation and my fingers just typed 790 words per minute.)

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.

My spring cleaning is more thorough than you-ourrrrrs

Did anyone else get those torrential down pouring (more like side pouring) rains a few days ago?  We did.  And boy, was it shitty.  Pun intended.  Lot's of pun intended.

Rain is like an erratic teenager.  So much potential to be so good, but even more potential to be devastating.    So much good comes from it, yet so much damage can be done.  Mama don't know whether to love im or hate im.

Last month we got a notable amount of rain and our sump pump went kaput on us.  There was flooding in our basement, we had to throw out some of the girls' toys, but really the dehumidifier took care of us.  Probably not the correct way to go about a mini flood, but it turned out fine.  $500 dollars later and a new sump, I thought we were in the clear.  I was wrong.

Most of the rain that came (in our most recent storm) was during the night.  When I woke up first thing in the morning to get Mr Incredible's scrubs out of the drier, there was ankle deep water in about half of out basement.  Psh, a little rain water never hurt anyone.  So I waded through it, shook off my wet feet, went back upstairs to tell Mr Incredible that we were flooded.  again. and worse.  Hung up my pants to dry because why would I wash them?  just a little rain water on the bottoms.  We called the plumbers again, thinking maybe?? it was a faulty sump, even though I could hear it still running still.  The plumber came (8 hours after they estimated) and couldn't figure it out.  Next morning they sent another plumber to figure it out.  I was (still) barefoot and was (still) wearing these:

the said pants that air dried then I slept nice and cozy in bed with them the next night.

K, really bad picture from two years ago.  But they're wonderful girly dandelions blowing in the breeze pajamas.  sigh.  So glorious.

So I'm downstairs in the basement with the plumber and I picked up a few toys off the ground to put them on a shelf as he was saying something along the lines of "eureka! I've got it."  .....  "don't pick up anything else without gloves on, k?"  ....  "You're basement has been flooding with sewage.  Your town is notorious for this."  .....

me: "you mean I'm stepping in my...."

him: "and your neighbors..."

ARE THE DOT DOT DOTS AS LOUD TO YOU AS THEY ARE TO ME TYPING THEM?  

All my dominoes fell into place and it made sense.  My basement was smelling like a bad gastric blowout that you find only on porta potty walls.  The first day I went into the basement I was sliding around.  Ya know, the same feeling as stepping on the bottom of a duck infested pooped pond.  All my white to-be-washed pile of towels developed brown rings around them. 

ARE YOU NAUSEOUS YET?  ARE YOU NAUSEOUS YET?  My jaw is tight just typing this.  My toes were squishing in not just our OWN fecal matter, but my geriatric neighbors, too.  Prune juice, laxatives and grapefruit.

So this is what I've been doing, friends.  Double gloving it, throwing out anything that cannot handle concentrated bleach, moving furniture, washing washing washing, Xacto knifing our carpet, bringing dripping poop laden carpets, toys, garbage upstairs.  This is what I'm doing.

Please don't never return back to my blog because I wrote a poop post.  This was such an exception and I pray that I'll never have write anything as nauseating again.

Did I mention that to get this fixed is an estimate $1,800??  As in I have a van with missing hubcaps can't we please start saving for a new one?  No, we need to make sure poop will never backwash into my house again.  Me thinks I need to learn the bus route.

I'm human again.

I've only known one person in my entire life who actually thrives with very minimal sleep.  3 to 4 hours a night, precisely.  The thought of that makes my legs achey and my eyelids heavy.  I know other people who are just fine when they don't get enough.  That is commendable to me.  Me, however, is an exception. I generally try not think of myself as 'the exception' and more 'the rule.' (<- elizabethtown)  Because I'm not exceptional, I am just the same as everyone else.  Except when it comes to sleep.  I take after my mom and grandmother (okay, so we're back to square one.  I'm not exceptional.  Even with sleep).  They can sleep anytime.  Anywhere.  My grandmother says she could sleep on a clothesline (I think that's how it goes, I'm so terrible with sayings).  So I can sleep no matter what.

The problem is without sleep I am a monster.  And that's only a slight exaggeration.  For realz.

My babies tend not to sleep all of their seventh month of life.  Not sure why.  So all night long I'm tossing and turning and just trying to get this baby to sleep.  (She's in bed with us because that's how we roll.  Literally)  Needless to say, I've been a little bit edgy, foggy, grumpy, pissed, confused, hungry hungry hungry (why? why? does it always go back to food for me!?)

Until last night.  She slept again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AKA pancakes and David Gray for breakfast, shopping, visitors, cleaning, hotdogs for lunch, no nap while my kids are napping which equals blogging and cookie dough.  Because when I'm happy I eat, too.

So I think I'll go tie up the loose ends of my life right now and maybe even work out.  Because I have energy again.  relief.

There their or they're.

There are some words that actually make me crazy.  Some crazy to say, some to hear, and most when people say them wrong.  For instance.  I am to the point where I can barely stand to use a stapler anymore and will succumb to only paperclips.  For the rest of the day after the use of a stapler I have to use much restraint to not smash my face into a window just thinking of the word.  Stap-ler.  That is how it's spelled and that's how my brain feels it should be said.  Instead of staple-r.  A stap LER?  That makes me so mad I lose my peripheral vision.

There is this other word that I've been trying to remember all morning and day and night that I cannot stand hearing or saying.  It's actually literally making me crazy.  It's a common word and either starts with a 'd' or and 'f' and has one 'r' but everyone automatically adds an extra one where it doesn't belong including me and I loathe it.  It's something like 'friendly' or 'framework' and there is really very little choice but to use the word because it is so common.  But I can't think of it.  I've been picking my brain all day to remember it and my brain is raw.

This post is getting painfully boring.

Do me a favor:

• library, not lie-berry
• across, not acrossed
• especially, not expecially

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Let's be honest.  How painful is spelling sandwich.  Sandwitch?  Sandwhich?  That one gets me every time.

Help! I need somebody. Help! Not just anybody

I need a computer dweeb, quick.  Dweeb is not offensive, it's endearing.  Now someone go get me a computer dweeb.

If you've been obsessively checking my blog in the past 24 hours like I obsessively check some of yours, you know that the blog templates have been beaten and thrown to the ground.  Then rebeaten then trampled on.  And guess what?  Naught without labor.  Or naught with labor.  Because it's NOT doing what I tell it to and shabbyblog I swear to the stars if you don't let me take your backgrounds off my blog I will singlehandedly html you until you cry.

So.  Can someone help me?  I'm a technological idiot.  Or can you direct me to where to go!?  I'm pulling out my hair when I should be writing sweet posts about doll heads and iced coffee.
kthanks.

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What's black and red and all over my house?

Oh, just the bane of my existence.  Called ladybugs.  Everywhere.

If you think this is cute, or funny, or you're just apathetic, you're wrong wrong wrong.  And I think you need to go to therapy because that is MESSED up if you don't mind ladybugs crawling everywhere.  I'll tell you where they are-  they're on the chair I'm sitting in and they're on our backdoor and windows and walls walls walls (sorry if this is turning into a children's book book book)

I've always hated bugs.  Any. sort. of. bug.  But imagine the day that I found out that not only do ladybugs crawl around and have antennae, but they FLY too?  That took away the 9% in me that might've been able to stand them.

And THEN imagine me in high school wondering why it was so dark in the hallways, just to realize that it was because ladybugs were infesting the windows to such a degree that it wouldn't let light in.  Sick Sick Sick.

To make matters that much worse, imagine having three girls (one of which does not care) and the other two scared of the damn insects and wanting ME to take care of the problem.  I'm not sure what's worse- having bugs around or trying to smush them.

"I don't want the ladybugs to get me"
"ladybugs won't get you"
"I sceered of ladybugs"
"No reason to be scared of ladybu... EEHHAHHHHHHHH!" as a ladybug flies towards my face.

what's the secret to ridding these nasty (but cute looking) creatures?

eh, at least they're not centipedes.

i won't disgrace you with a nasty picture. 

What I love about Sundays

For a while now, I've wanted to do this post "what I love about Sundays."  I decided last night that I was finally going to do it.  I love Sundays.


But then today happened and it was not as it was planned.  So I'll explain to you why I typically love Sundays and why today was not a typical Sunday.


On Sundays I am totally inspired by everything.  I think this is for three reasons.  First of all, we go to a big church downtown.  The priests are really old and say mass really really fast (that has nothing to do with why I love Sundays.)  At the closing of mass, my favorite priest always always always says, "now let's sing a verse of 'God Bless America.' "  (this is an early mass, so there is no instrument accompaniment)  Now, have you ever heard a bunch of Catholics singing?  Catholics are notoriously bad singers.  It's terrible.  There is homeless man I call "McGoo" there singing (kinda).  Then there is the 90 year old Italian couple behind us.  There is always the overweight father with a comb over and his son with a comb over that sits at 11 o'clock from us.  In the front there is Maggie (who claims she has kids the exact same ages as mine, but I've yet to see them), a nun, another homeless man and his wife decked out in Bills gear, and some more elderly people.  And the priest.  And the lector whose voice cracks more often than it does not.  Oh, and, of course, Mr Incredible, who loves LOVES to sing.

God Bless America,
Land that I love.
Stand beside her, and guide her
Thru the night with a light from above.
From the mountains, to the prairies,
To the oceans, white with foam
God bless America, My home sweet home

I'm quite sure that our voices hit the huge church's cold air and shatters to the floor.  But I absolutely love it.  There is something so beautiful about this crazy variety of people singing God Bless America.  All day every day on Sunday I'm belching out Goood Blesss Americaaaaa land that I looooooove around the house, in the car, singing my kids to sleep.

Today, go figure, my favorite priest said "let's sing a verse of 'Holy God We Praise Thy Name.' "  Somehow this did now leave me with the feeling that America was on the upswing.  Strike one.

Second reason I love Sundays:  Mr Incredible and I and the girls always go to one of our two favorite coffee spots together.  Sometimes it's with friends, sometimes it's not.  I love getting my favorite frittata, he gets a cinnamon bun and the girls get a bagel.  We both drink coffee to our hearts' content, then we drop him off at work (he works most Sundays).  By the time I get home, the girls are tired and I'm inspired from all the coffee.  

Today, all of my coffee gave meanxiety.  LikeI'monE.  Not fun.  Shaky.  Shoving my face in hopes that protein bars will absorb all this caffeine.  Niet.  Strike two.

The last reason I love Sundays is because actually do try to relax all day.  This in turn, takes the pressure off of getting things done, and I normally get more done because I feel so chill about it.  And why do you think this did not work out today?  Right.  I'm strung out on coffee.  With a headache.  You're out.

I feel like I'm blog-cool enough to do this

I used to think that bloggers that made general apologies on their blogs were a tad bit cocky.  So big deal, I'm cocky.  I have 54 followers now, you know.  (wassup to Cara, Tracie, and Angelia my most recent 3 followers.) (what?  I like to acknowledge my readers.  don't hate.)


So remember that cold that was being passed around Incredible land?  ...
I realized I'm not invincible today.  I think I got the damn thing.  Which means the following:  I haven't read any blogs.  (Not that I'm obligated to.  I love it.  Just sayin'.  Sorry if I haven't been around your parts of the virtual world lately.)   Nor have I checked any emails.  Well, I've checked some.  But some doesn't cut it, I know.  
I barely have even checked my comments.  If I have, I don't remember them because my head feels like it's been submerged in water for the past 11 hours. 
 Lastly, if I do blog, it will probably be about my head cold, and I may even tell you the verdict about whether or not Vick's Vapor rub works on adults' feet as well.  


In summary:  This is a general apology.  I'm sorry for being the worst virtual friend ever.

If you stare at this long enough you'll get a glimpse into my head-submerged-in-water-type-feeling.

We're gonna keep this real short.

All the little kiddies in this house have been sick for days.  Instead of 2 year olds' birthday party at the pool, we brought all of the girls into the doctor's office, 8am.  We came to discover 5 out of 6 ear infections.  Yay.  

Anyway.  Store this in your random file, because it WORKS:

When your kids have a persistent cough in the middle of the night that keeps waking you up and makes you want to shove your face through the wall, what do you do?  Put Vick's Vapor Rub on their feet with socks over it.  Cough no more.  

The end.  

Sorry gots to go celebrate a birthday.  Happy Monday!

Took a breather and now able to talk some more

As you may know, I'm doing p90x.  Moreover, I'm on day 18.  Day 18 of I'm-better-than-you-workouts.  The p90x kit comes with 12 different DVDs to promote "muscle confusion" and a book to tell you what workouts to do on which day.  It also comes with a nutrition guide book.  This includes recipes, suggestions, or you can straight up follow exactly what it says every day for 90 days.  It also tells you how much of each food group to eat everyday, and tells you every food and which food group it belongs.  Since I do NOT have a niche for explaining myself well, just know that it is NOT as hard as I just made it seem.  People involved with p90x, feel free to put an appropriate summary in the comments section below.


I've been doing Weight Watchers since I was 6 weeks post partum with this babe.  So when we decided to do p90x, I thought I would couple the nutrition guide with counting points.  I felt a bit leery because if I do something I want to do it right, however, I know that WW works.  I was afraid that I wouldn't lose any weight doing p90x.  In retrospect that is absolutely absurd.  Of course you'll lose weight if you're eating right and working out hardcore.  


The first 10 days I did well with eating my points and p90x nutrition guide.  I was a little overwhelming because I didn't prepare myself for cooking.  I felt like I was cooking all day everyday, hence my house was getting destroyed and I was getting frazzled.


Part of the nutrition that was for me allowed one complex carb a day, which is like a camel that is allowed to store as much water as he pleases without a hump.  I live on simple carbs.  Very simple carbs.  As in cookies.  Anyway, on day 10 I started to notice that I was smelling like cat pee.  I thought this was a great excuse to start eating my carbs again.  You know, just one extra complex carb.  

Have I ever told you that I am all or nothing?  Well I am.  And one extra carb turned into a binge session.  But just one binge session.  "Tomorrow is a new day," me thought. 


Come weigh in a Weight Watchers the next day.  I gained 1.4 pounds.  (re read that 4 times over, because that's what I want to keep typing but am noting that it is becoming a bad habit)  This, my friends, put me in a downward spiral.  I was so confused and so discouraged (I know many of you are going to say it was because I binged the day previous, but I do that before (and after) my weigh ins all the time, and I most often lose).  I felt like I had been working my ass of (literally) and I gained a pound.  My.Life.Was.Over.  (I'm the epitome of "weighty issues.")(no, I don't have an eating disorder. I'm just a disordered person)


Needless to say, I stocked up on SmartOnes desserts and destroyed them.  Every day was Binge Thursday for me last week.  


"I guess," chocolate eclairs hanging out of my mouth, "I'm just gonna be 20 pounds overweight for the rest of my life, Mr Incredible" shoveling a cookie dough ice cream cake into my mouth.  


"Oh, will you stop, Kiera?  I think you look great and I can see improvements already!" 


 Me, shoving reduced fat tortilla chips in my mouth (to counter balance all those sweets) "That's a lie.  I measured and I haven't lost any inches.  Except for 1/4 inch in my left leg."  He rolls his eyes, because I always insist on leaving him speechless then get annoyed that he doesn't have anything to say.


But I stuck with the workouts.  


Today at weigh in I lost three pounds!  So it just took a while for my body to catch up to what I was doing.


To wrap this up, I've decided that I'm quitting Weight Watchers and quitting the scale for a while.  I really do need to focus first on the inches that I'm losing doing p90x, and then of course (so obvious to me now) any extra weight will come off, granted I'm eating right.  So starting tomorrow today (there was one SmartOnes Eclair left, what was I supposed to do?) I'm back on the p90x nutrition.  Onward and upward from here.

At my 30 day pics I may not look like this, though.  Because, I kinda put myself 12 days behind.  Or this (again, I know, I'm obsessing Shandal.)

??

anyone else's monday as SHITTY AS MINE?  please don't comment how good yours is.  tell me how fat you feel.  


that's the kind of mood i'm in.  and no i will not use the shift key unless a swear word is involved.