Shutterfly Cards for Christmas!

I'm not exactly in my 20's anymore.

I can't ignore my monthly bills.

I don't go outside without lathering on the SPF 30. (Yes, I actually think about those type of things, now.)

And I can't leave the house without wearing a bra (most of the time.)

But, most importantly, I can no longer ignore the fact that it's high time that the hubs and I sent out a proper Christmas Card to our friends and family.

Just like grown-ups in the real world do.

It's high time I broke out the big guns.

This is where Shutterfly.com steps in and kicks some butt.

Shutterfly.com has made Christmas Card's personal and easy at the same time.

Basically, I get to do all the fun stuff, like upload pics of my adorable kids and they do all the hard part, like designing the card.

Then my fam gets the easy part, opening the mail.

And I get all the credit.

Who knew!

I mean, I have definitely attempted Christmas pictures over the past 16 years and some have been more successful than others.

This year I want to make things easier on myself.

Besides, look how cute these shutterly.com pics are:

** See how you can add all the fabulous things you did down the right side!

*Find this (and other cards) here!

**This one is cute, too.

* Find this card here!

**Or, I may just go with this one, tho. I mean, being a simple girl and all, it gets straight to the point.

*Find this card here!

Now for the hard part....

Getting hubs to put up the Christmas Tree BEFORE Thanksgiving and the even harder part... Getting all 4 kids to pose sweetly for a proper picture!

*************************************************************

Raise your hand if you think I can have these ordered, printed, stamped and mailed before Valentine's Day!

New Blog

I am not going to post on this blog anymore because Nakia Mitchell is logging on to it constantly. I will post a link to the new one on facebook. I think making everything private is the best solution. She dosent need means of inerjecting herself in our lives.

Facebook Face-off

So I made my facebook private... AGAIN.

If I could figure out how to make this private, I would do so, as well. In fact, I will probably have to delete this blog and start a new one with a secret link and here is why....

Apparently people look at my facebook (and blog) and report back to my ex. Some of these people have never even met me and I do not even know they existed, but they look at my page, nonetheless. And they look at it a lot. And they read into it things they should not. Then they call the ex and confront him and repeat things and he calls me and tells me and quite frankly, I am tired of hearing about it.

But I continue to ask him (and myself) this question... "What kind of woman will look at a complete strangers facebook, then call a man and confront him about what she sees?" That makes them look like a total creeper. Wouldnt it be better to keep your trap shut so...

#1. You wouldnt look ridiculous in the eyes of this man; and

#2. You can continue to look?

Mike and I have a good relationship. In fact, we are the exception when it comes to divorced people. We genuinely like each other and talk on a daily basis. He is going to repeat to me the idiotic things these "women" say. I don't know why it bothers me. But today, the creepiness just pushed me over the public facebook edge.

And Im sure everyone wonders why I am always going on about Nakia Mitchell, but something about an adult woman acting so desperate just rubs me the wrong way. The fact that she openly pursued a married man while she was married urks me (it doesnt help that that married man was my husband at the time.) It also bothers me that she is so nonchalant about it. When I confronted her for naming her child Jayden (which is my sons name) instead of being ashamed, she challenged my to a dual! Yes, thats right, she told me to come over to her house and fight her. In her yard. Because I questioned her. HELLO? I found out you have been sleeping with my ex BEFORE HE WAS MY EX, I know you have brought your kid around my children. I know that you named your baby my child's name and you are trying to trick Mike into thinking your kids are his... I have every right to ask questions! I am not going to let my kids get tangled up in that. And Im sure as heck not gonna let her try to move in on my child support! Hello!

Did I mention she told me to "Let Mike move on." I could care less if Mike moves on... unless it is with her and I will tell you why... She. Is. Married. And, even better... Her husband is a COP! A cop that is already a little unstable, from what I understand. Hello, he carries a gun.

I also found out that she has alleged her oldest son, Brandon, is Mikes. Which is ludicrous. Mike won't even entertain such nonesense. But for her to stoop to that level in order to make him talk to her is really creepy on her part. Such desperation. She is willing to totally screw up her kids life to try to get a man to pay attention to her. Its just plain disgusting. Besides, if she thinks

#1 that Mike will want her because of it or;

#2 that she is gonna cut into my child support

Shes got another thing coming. Shannon already thought having a kid would "trap him" and you see where that got her... and that child really was his. Pinning an 18 year old on him REALLY isn't going to work.

Shes a sad, pathetic person. And she doesnt need to look at my facebook.

*I will clarify, Nakia is not the only person that is looking at my page and reporting back. Their are others. And they don't need to see my page, either. If you are guilty of this and think it could be you I am reffering too, you are probably right. And, yes, I know who you are!

Teenagers These Days

The parks in my town serve as designated meeting places for several groups of people. In the middle of any given weekday, you will find moms with toddlers and young children, grandparents sporting fanny packs power walking and truant teenagers from the alternative high school.

Last week, we ventured out to a park with a large tubular slide. Beatle climbed up the ladder and then climbed back down.

"Why didn't you go down the slide?" I asked him.

"I tried," he explained, "But it's clogged."

I stuck my head up the bottom end far enough to see a couple making out.
"GET OUT OF THERE NOW!" I yelled (my voice echoing about 8 times.)

A few seconds later, a teenage boy wearing skintight jeans and shoes without laces exited the tunnel. A few more seconds later, his equally well-dressed lady friend followed. Without a backward glance at the picnic table full of evil-eyed moms, the couple sauntered off hand in hand.

The next day, we tried a different park, one with no enclosed spaces and no public bathrooms. Within a few minutes, a compact car pulled into the parking lot, blaring uplifting music. Five teenagers piled out and made their way to a picnic table at the far end of the park. All of the moms stopped discussing the merits and pitfalls of the current Friends & Family coupon promotion at Gymboree and watched the group suspiciously. I crouched behind the see-saw and to get a closer look just as the sweet aroma of marijuana wafted onto the playground.

"Mmmmm!" said Mikey. "Someone is cooking something good." He scanned the park for open barbecue pits. Finding none, he shrugged his shoulders and ran off.

"One of us should say something to them," said one of the moms, scanning the group. "Or call the cops."

Since I broke up the lovebirds the day before, I was off the hook. Before any lots could be cast, the teenagers finished their drugs and walked off into the woods.

The risks of getting mugged and acquiring a deer tick with Lyme Disease outweighed my desire to find out what five teenagers were doing together behind a large tree.

If it doesn't rain, later this afternoon we're headed to a park that is across the street from a grocery store and behind the cemetery. Included on its grounds are the ruins of an old schoolhouse, a duck pond/ drainage ditch, and a crumbling gazebo overrun with weeds... in other words, a school-skipping teenager's dream.

Wish me luck.

Dress Barn? Really?

Church is always a place of deep soul searching, inspiration, and personal reflection and revelation. This morning was no exception.

Before service a woman from my congregation, who just happens to be good friends with my grandmother, approached me with some exciting news. She had been shopping earlier that week at Dress Barn and had found several outfits that had my name written all over them.

This news concerned me for a number of reasons, the least of which was its source: a woman twice my age. What bothered me most about the woman's comment was the fact that it had the words "Dress Barn" in it. I have seen Dress Barns (from afar) in strip malls across the country, but I have never actually been inside one. I'm sure that the clothing that they sell there is perfectly nice, but on principle I refuse to shop at a store whose title is linked by word association to the terms udder, trough, and manure.

Aside from my personal opinions about a specific clothing store, my conversation with the women at church on Sunday got me thinking:

At what point in a woman's life does it become advisable, and even mandatory that she shop at a place like Dress Barn?

While I can't imagine how signing a credit card slip with the words "Dress Barn" printed across the top doesn't result in the loss of some personal dignity, I have started to realize that the stores that I frequent may very well signal that I've already lost it.

Lured by the promise of its moniker, I went to "Forever 21" the other day looking for some summer blouses. I was extremely disturbed to discover, however, that the shirts that fit and looked the best had "L's" and "XL's" stamped onto their collars. I could only wonder if this happens to be because:

#1 I am not 21
#2 I do not have the body of one either.

The hipless salesgirl didn't need to tell me where I belonged; the parade of mom-jeans wearing ladies with sensible, no-mess hair styles and comfortable, low-heel shoes power walking furiously toward the clearance rack at Ann Taylor Loft said it for her.

I have been in Ann Taylor Loft enough times to know that it is magical place where size 8's wear 4's and everyone is "petite." The cleanliness, orderliness, and overall classiness of this store and its relatives (Banana Republic, The Limited, etc) is, however, partly what scares me about them. You are what you wear, and I don't know if I'm ready to commit at this point in my life to being a clean, orderly, classy person.

The day that I lay my Charlotte Russe wardrobe to rest will also be the day, I fear, when I agree to not let my hair grow past my shoulders. Like clothing style, hair-length is an irreversible decision. Once you cut it, there's no going back. In fact, once you join the legion of middle-aged women who "go short," you're on the fast track to the Little Orphan Annie perm sported by every grandmother in America. At least that's what I fear.

I'm not looking forward to that day, but fortunately, I don't have to make that decision by myself. I've enlisted the help of my twenty-nine- year-old super stylish girlfriend to tell me when I've pushed the teen envelope too far. She says that I have a year or two at most. By then, though, she'll be my age and most likely will be in the midst of her own mid-life crisis. I may not be able to trust her judgment.

Thanks for Nothing, Tooth Fairy

The Tooth Fairy is in big trouble at my house. Last Week, Mikey lost a tooth. When he woke up the next morning, his tooth was still under his pillow. Bursting into our bedroom at the crack of dawn he cried, "The Tooth Fairy didn't come!"

I looked accusingly at hubs who grimaced and put a pillow over his head.

I told my son that the Tooth Fairy probably got lost in the city or bit by the raccoon/wolverine that has recently taken up residence behind our back fence.

"She'll come tonight," I promised.

Just to make sure, Mikey wrote the Tooth Fairy a note, specifying where to place the crisp dollar he was expected to bring.

The next morning, he came into our bedroom in disgust and a rising level of resentment.

Hubs told him that the Tooth Fairy was vacationing in Hawaii. The truth was that she spent the night watching red box DVD's and drinking wine in her room with her husband and dozed off without paying up.

While my son ate breakfast, I slipped into his room and shoved two dollars plus interest under his mattress. A few minutes later, I casually suggested that he try to look for the money again, just in case the tooth fairy was done lying on the beach with the Easter bunny.

My child was not at all surprised to find the bills in an odd place.

"I don't think that Tooth Fairy is very smart," he announced as he counted her bills.

I would have to say that I agree.

*****
Anyone else have a child who the Tooth Fairy forgot?

Please? Anyone?

Laundy doesnt wash itself!

I was very young when I learned about the laundry fairy.

Whenever my sweet twelve-year-old self would ask my mom what she did all day while I was at school, she would count to ten and say through gritted teeth, "Who do you think washes your clothes...the laundry fairy?"

As a result, I've grown up looking for evidence that the laundry fairy has paid me a visit.

Today, after spending the day away from home with my grandma, I found it.

Specifically, my massive laundry pile was half as tall as usual. Upon closer examination, I realized that the missing clothes belonged to my two youngest children. I clapped my hands with excitement over the fact that someone other than myself had to make hard decisions about the fate of skid marked underpants.

I was too busy celebrating my unexpected good fortune to notice that Beatle was wearing the same outfit as he did the day before. Mikey's stiff blue shirt sleeve forced me to take off my rose-colored glasses.

"That shirt has a giant fruit punch stain on its sleeve," I pointed out as he passed me in the hall.

"It's all I have!" he yelled.

After rolling my eyes a sufficient number of times to let everyone know what I thought of his excuse, I stomped into their room (sighing loudly the whole way) to have a look for myself.

"Have you been putting dirty clothes back in your drawer?" I asked my sons, pointing to the filthy contents of their dresser.

Stupid questions require stupid answers.

"I don't know," Mikey replied.

Needless to say, my belief in the laundry fairy has been shaken.

P.S. Do you how hard it is to find a picture of a non-trampy fairy on the Internet? Since when do fairies wear pasties and g-strings?!

Dear Bladder, Why Do You Fail Me?

Anyone who has spent any amount of time with me knows I have a teeny-weeny bladder. I can't so much as drink a can of coke before having to high-tail it to the bathroom within minutes of finishing it. Anytime hubs and I have to go more than 5 miles in the car, he gives me a warning reminder before take-off "Honey, did you need to use the bathroom before we drive to my moms/starbucks/the neighbors two blocks over?" Normally, I do, indeed, need to go and will do so before we leave, however, I have no problem asking him to pull over, should the urge strike me, 2 miles down the interstate.

My body always seems to fail me when we take a trip to the lakehouse, which is about 90 minutes away. Lucky for me, we hit bumper-to-bumper traffic at precicely the same time my body realized the biggie size sprite I drank 30 minutes before reached my bladder. By the time we got to the nearest facilities just outside Frost, TX, ( which happened to be a seedy McDonald's in the middle of no where) I was starting to perspire and re-cross my legs over and over in the passenger seat. While the parking lot was overflowing with cars and mobile homes, the restaurant itself was virtually empty.

"That's strange," I thought.

I didn't have to wonder where all of the cars' occupants were for very long: I found half of the state of Texas in line for the women's restroom.

As I took my place at the end of the seventeen-person line, I tried very hard to block out the faint sound of the soda fountain dispensing liquid. I tried to be discreet in my suffering, but the woman in line in front of me (who was wearing purple knickers and a green t-shirt with lizards on it) noticed that I was uncomfortable. After unabashedly staring at me for several minutes, the woman stepped up to offer her support and encouragement. Turning to me she said, "I'm so glad that I wasn't as desperate as you to use the bathroom when we stopped." At that moment, the lone bathroom stall swung open and the woman pranced into it.

While the woman (by her own admission) wasn't desperate to use the bathroom, she was in no hurry to get out of it once inside. She stayed inside the stall for at least eight minutes, plenty of time for the lady behind me (who had heard what the woman said) to tell the ladies behind her, who, in turn, told the ladies behind them. By the look on the ladies' faces, it was clear that by the time that the story reached the end of the line, the woman holed up in the bathroom stall had not only called me a "drama queen," but vowed to stay glued to the toilet seat until I peed my panties.

I didn't see what happened to the bathroom hogger, as I practically dove into the stall the instant that the woman emerged, but I did hear "reports" from several ladies still in line when I was on my way out.

"I'm so sorry about what that woman said to you," said Number 8. Her eyes were basically welling up with tears.

"We all made ugly faces when she passed by us," said Number 13. I felt strangely touched.

I also felt bad for the bathroom hogger. I hope that she had enough sense to stave off the lizards for a few miles before feeding them some french fries. If I was her, I would have been desperate to get back on the road.

Let Me Sell Your House!

My neighbor has been trying to sell her house for almost a year. We're all a little perplexed why it's not moving: it's less than 10 years old, brick (and not just on the front, but on all four sides - wow!), is fancy (the master bathroom has a garden bathtub!), is in a crappy school district (although Temple Christian and Nolan are a hop, skip and a jump away) it doesn't back up to nightclub or freeway off ramp (always a concern, in my opinion), and is priced right.

To add to our confusion, over the past couple of months, several other homes in our neighborhood have been put on the market, many priced higher and with far fewer features. One house that backed up to the food court at the mall just sold last week.

After pressing her realtor for some insight as to why her house isn't selling, she received the bad news that her house has, as several prospective buyers put it, "bad feng shui."

Immediately after hanging up with her realtor, she came over, distraught and looking for advice from yours truly. Although I am one of the smartest people on earth, I was forced to admit that I was not exactly sure what bad feng shui was, though I suspected that it had something to do with the gigantic picture of Jesus hanging in her foyer.... on the cross, looking miserable, no less.

After consulting the Internet and an old psychology book I still have from college, I suggested that we replace the picture of Christ with a picture of her holding a giant cardboard check from the Texas lotto made out for 23 million dollars.

"But I didn't win the lottery," she said, confused. I told her that according to Lupe Soto, an Antelope Valley, CA realtor who appears to have plagiarized an article by Kathryn Weber, all houses have histories and that the fortunes, good or bad, of the previous owners have the potential to be passed down to the new owners.

"That strikes me as slightly dishonest," she said.

While I did not succeed in getting her to let me hang a photo of a fake check on her wall, I did talk her into moving the picture of Christ to a less conspicuous place in the family room, where He wouldn't disrupt the equilibrium of the elements.

"What if we display some wedding photographs here?" I suggested, pointing to the bare entryway wall. "Marriage is a sign of prosperity," I added.

For example, look at my foyer, I have a pic of hubs and I looking happy in all our wedded-bliss-ness and people are always telling me I have a beautiful house and they love it. Maybe I'm on to something here!

(Or it could be my candles, floral pic and the little sign Jerm's dad made us for a wedding present, that does the trick in the foyer... who knows)

However, it was quickly apparent that she was not too keen on this idea, either.

"I was 20 lbs heavier on my wedding day." She stated with a look of disgust on her face.

"I'm not doing it. Nope. Huh-ugh." And with that, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and shook her head.

I figured drastic times called for drastic measures. So, I took matters into my own hands and downloaded some color pictures of beaming brides and grooms from an online bridal magazine.

"Wa la!" I said, cutting out the pictures and shoving them into gilded frames.

I have no idea who these people are, but they look fabulous and hey, if they bring good luck, I'm all for it!

I was very pleased with my creativity and quick thinking. My neighbor, not so much.

"I don't know how I feel about this," she said. "I'm going to have to think about it for a few days."

In the end, she decided not to pass off a stranger's wedding pictures as her own. Although, just having the pictures in the house (they were shoved into the kitchen knife drawer) must have done something to alter the house's feng shui because the next afternoon, they got an offer. Granted, it was $8,000 lower than her asking price, but still, it was an offer.

I'm thinking about quitting this blog and becoming a feng shui realtor. I'm just that talented.

I've Still Got It

Should hubs ever lose his mind and decide to up and leave me, I take great comfort in knowing that despite being 34 28, I'm still desirable in the eyes of certain members of the opposite sex; namely, men who are in their late forties and aren't playing with a full deck.

My list of current suitors include:

1. Rodney, the supervising manager of Chipotle. Last Week, he gave me an extra scoop of chicken after I complimented him on his handsome Southwestern-themed bollo tie.

2. Jed, the cart collector at Sams. Despite not being absolutely sure which state houses Georgetown University, he is a die-hard Hoya's fan. The last time I saw him, he shouted pleasantries about my alma mater across the parking lot (I didnt correct him by telling him that it was, in fact, my BROTHER who was a Georgetown graduate. I didnt want to crush him when he learned I got a measley psych degree from (grasp) a little ole' Baptist college named Liberty University.)

Anyhoo.... after being plagued with instant remorse for cursing out a faithful customer, Jed then proceeded to abandon his collection of shopping carts and chase me down before I got to the front door. After apologizing that I had overheard his tyrade, he offered to buy me an all-beef hot dog or slice of pizza (my choice!) from the food court.

3. Demond, the butcher at Albertsons. Reaching almost to my shoulder blades, Demond is the smallest of my potential boyfriends and also the one most obsessed with my fertility. Using adjectives typically reserved for the animal products with which he works, I have overheard him describe me (more than once) as having good "baby making hips" to his co-workers. (When I repeated this to hubs that night as we got ready for bed, he promptly asked me to "stand up" so he could check. He then proceeded to tell me my hips were "meh, so-so" and I could use a little more "junk" in the butt department, but all-in-all, Demond was "right on target" in his assesment.)

When I didn't see Demond for six weeks, I thought that he had been fired or took a job with the neighborhood slaughterhouse. I was about ready to look for a new beau when out of nowhere Demond suddenly reappeared.

"You've probably been wondering where I've been," Demond said, as he wiped his bloody hands on his already soiled apron. I really didn't want to know where Demond spends his time outside the deli, but he felt compelled to tell me (and the elderly couple standing behind me) anyway.

"I was in jail," he said, before giving me a wink and licking his lips. "Now I'm on house arrest. I'm allowed to go to work and that's it."

"Where were you at?" asked the guy who just happened to be passing by. "Did you happen to be at the Green Bay facility off 35?"

After comparing notes, the two men figured out that they had an incarcerated friend in common.

Before handing me my bag of sliced brisket, Demond told me that he had been arrested for a DUI. He described his arrest, his court date, and his jail term as if they were rides at an amusement park. He ended his tale with a flattering proposal. "If you want to holla at me sometime," he said with a knowing wink, "You'll have to drive because the punk a** judge done took my license again!"

I turned down the invitation on the grounds that next to mass murderers, drunk drivers are my least favorite group of people to ride with.

When I returned home, I crossed Demonds name off my "Summer Fling" list.

"Down one already?" hubs observed with a wry smile.

I was in no mood for his mockery. After he left the room, I began mourning my loss.

A good man is hard to find.

Skinny Jeans

I could barely sleep on Friday night, due to the excitement and anticipation of Saturday's sale at JC Penney. Although hubs vetoed my proposal that we camp out in the parking lot the night before like all the true savvy shoppers do.

I paid dearly because of this.

By the time I made it to JC Penney (several hours after opening), all of the jeans in the store were piled into a mound the size of King Tut's pyramid in the middle of the store. Completely covering this eighth Wonder of the World was a swarm of treasure hunting soccer moms wearing bicycle shorts, ball caps, and t-shirts with tweety bird on them. The store employees--all of whom will be returning to college this month --were standing around the perimeter of the excavation site, mouths agape in fascination and horror.

"Do you have any jr. girls' flare leg jeans, size 12?" I asked a teenage worker named Misty.

Misty was a lot smarter than she looked. Without taking her eyes off the treasure hunters, she decided that she would rather forgo her summer bonus than risk becoming a human sacrifice.

"Um, I seriously doubt it," she told me as she walked away.

Forced to fend for myself, I walked slowly around the perimeter of the mound and tried to find the safest point of entry. I said a little prayer to myself before I closed my eyes and jumped in. What I found once inside was terribly disappointing. Instead of the five-pocket treasures advertised in the circular that I received in the mail, all I found was a heap of bleached denim and black skinny jeans.

Since any treasure is better than no treasure, I snatched whatever I could get my hands on and followed the other treasure hunters up to the cashier. As I heaved my merchandise onto the counter, a young man named Greg, who weighed approximately 50 pounds less than me, told me that I was only allowed to purchase 3 pairs of jeans at the sale price. This was bad news since I had 9 pairs of jeans.

"But I didn't know that." I told him.

Greg failed to see how this information was relevant.

Realizing that appealing to reason and rationality was going to get me nowhere, I resorted to another strategy to get what I wanted. Specifically, I stared into Greg's eyes until his level of discomfort reached the point where he was able to come up with the idea that he could ring up my jeans in three separate purchases.

"Come look what I got!" I shouted when I returned home.

With that level of enthusiasm, my family expected a puppy or at least a Cherry Slurpee.

"These are jeans?" hubs asked, holding up a pair of the skinnies.

"That's all they had!" I said defensively.

"They're not even the right sizes," he pointed out.

Carried away by the thrill of the hunt, I seemed to have overlooked the small detail of sizing, resulting in the purchase of two pairs of girls' size 10 jeans, one size 8and a 7 slim.

"If I didn't buy them, someone else would have!" I cried.

husb failed to see why this was a problem. Rather than explain to him how a rational mind works, I left him alone in his ignorance. As I marched out of the room, I couldn't help but wonder what my family would do without a fountain of reason such as myself in their midst.

They wouldn't have 9 pairs of skinny jeans in an assortment of sizes, that's for sure.

Hubs & I 3 Years Later

Three years ago today, Hubs and I met.

And I can assure you I don't think my life was complete without a big, tall, blonde, blue eyed man to buy me fattening food and tell me I'm pretty.

(Seriously.)

I've learned so much about marriage and myself in these last three years.

I've learned what it's like to have someone on your side and by your side, no matter what happens. I've learned that not everyone just gives up when things get hard, and that I can lean and lean and lean and he'll never let me fall. And what it feels like to have a man that is only yours. That is manogomous.

I've learned that I am a huge pain in the butt, but he can, apparantly, live with that. That OCCASIONALLY I have to admit that I'm wrong, and that I will often irritate him to no end, but he won't hold a grudge.

(I mean, not for very long, anyway.)

Three years ago today, I met a man and fell head over heels in love. And 6 months later he would ask me to take a leap of faith with him, even though I had a bad track record and more baggage than a Louis Vuitton sample sale. He asked me to take a chance on a life together. And I said "Yes."

Three years ago I met a man who still tells me today that I can talk to him about everything. He tells me that all the time. And he means it. And I talk to him. A lot. And he genuinely appears to enjoy it. And he soaks in what I say. And gives me feedback.

And he says this to me:

"You can always come to me. I'm always going to be here. I'm always going to listen."

I didn't always have that.

I didn't always have that, I didn't always have the closeness, the comfort, the assurance someone is always going to be ON my side and BY my side, through all the crazy and the neuroses and the crackhead insomnia and the mismatched baggage that I seem to accumulate wherever I go like I'm a professional flea market shopper with an unlimited budget.

I had a tumultuous first marriage that ended with an anticlimactic divorce and the overwhelming sense that THIS WASN'T HOW THINGS WERE SUPPOSED TO TURN OUT, DAMNIT, and the sinking sinking always sinking drowning feeling that woke me up in the middle of the night gasping for air and wondering where the hell I'd go from here.

But I couldn't dwell, not then, because it hurt too much and I couldn't make sense of anything. I couldn't catch my breath and I couldn't stop and wonder and second-guess because if I did I might've just stayed in bed and my kids would have been forced to eat dry cereal day in and day out.

I didn't, because I wanted more than that, and I was DETERMINED to make lemonade with this crap pile of lemons I'd been given instead of just rubbing them over my raw skin.

And thank God I did, because it's the best thing I've ever done. It propelled me to where I was on August 2, 2007. And brought us together:

And we do this a lot:

And he makes me really happy:

Time heals all wounds. I'm living proof.


Happy Anniversary, hubs. I love you more than chocolate.

I can't wait for the next three years. And the three after that...and three more after those...

Kiddie Pagents and other Ramblings

I’m starting to freak myself out.

Honestly, the thoughts in my own head are driving me certifiably insane.

Take, for instance, an issue I’ve been pondering for the last two days:

"Who, exactly, are these psycho people who put their 18-month-old toddlers in pageants, and why haven’t I ever met one...besides my mother?

I mean, I live in the South - the unofficial home of childhood pageantry. And, yet, I’ve never met a real pageant mom, except for my mom. And I most definetely would NOT consider her a pagent mom anymore. Far from it. And really, she wasn't much of one before, although I was in a couple of child pagents in my day... And won. Yes, thats a shameless plug (I should be totally ashamed of myself for even bragging about something like that.)

**See, they actually hand out crap like this! I had trophies and ribbons somewhere, but I have no clue where they are...which just goes to show how "un-pagent-like mom" my mom is, or else she would still have this junk prominently displayed so I could relive my glory days 30 years later!

But anyhoo... pagent moms... they must exist. After all, they make entire T.V. series about these crazies.

So where are they hiding? Are they strolling by me in Nordstrom, totally blending in with the rest of us non-pageant folk? Or do they stay out of the public eye, for fear of some kind of JonBenet-like scandal?

And if I did meet one, would I have the nerve to ask them about their poor parenting choices? I mean, they seem a little scary. But, honestly, how the heck do you put your baby in a beauty pageant? Who can pick the prettiest baby of the bunch anyways? That's just cruel! Seriously, those people are freaks! But why have I never met one before out here in real life?

That, my friends, is exactly what I asked myself while I was making lunch yesterday. Over and over and over again.

Seriously. I pondered kiddie pageants for at least 20 minutes.

Granted, I didn't do so out loud - not that I know of, anyway - but I definitely pondered it extensively in my own brain.

Not that The Crazy stops there.

Oooh, boy. Not by a long shot.

You see, because I was thinking all Toddler and Tiara-esque, I then began to ponder other TLC television shows, like Cake Boss.

Which inevitably led me to wonder about how much a custom cake from one of those famous T.V. bakeries would run you.

Not that I'm in the market for a life-size cake replica of myself or my dog or a 2008Nissan.

But I'm just curious how much a to-scale cake of a town's local water tower costs a city council.

Which then led me to wonder if I'd ever have such an event in my life that warranted a to-scale replica cake of, say, my new patio furniture? No, No I have not. The closest I have come to an expensive cake was this:

And that cake was only $425.00 which is a drop in the bucket compared to the gazillion dollars a replica of the New York skyline must cost. But I do love how cute my wedding cake was.

**Seriously, is that not just oh so cute?

But, moving right along. When could I buy a cake from Cake Boss? Perhaps a vow renewal? A baby shower?

A birth?

A child's first birthday party?

And just like that, I was off. My toddler-less state aside, I began to plan - out loud, this time - a first birthday party for a one-year-old daughter that I don't have.

I picked out a color scheme, the perfect 1-year-old party dress, and the theme:

Cupcakes.

I decided I'd do a 1-Year-Old's Cupcake Birthday Bash. Oh, how fun would that be!

I was positively beside myself, giddy with cupcake party plans for the child I don't have.

Which then reminded me that just this past Saturday, my daughter and I had baked cupcakes with cream cheese frosting.

At the time, I proceeded to eat four cupcakes. It was, undoubtedly, the bright spot of my weekend, which then led me to fondly reminisce:

Ooooh, cream cheese frosting, I thought. That was so good. Think I can eat this lunch quickly and then head to the store and pick up another round of cupcakes from the Albertson's bakery today?

Would it make me a total fatty if I ate six this time? Heck, would it make me a total fatty if I ventured down there period?

Oh, what am I saying? Who cares if it makes me a fatty? They're cupcakes!

Which then reminded me that, cupcakes aside, we had no clean cups because no one had ran the dishwasher yet today.

Ahh, yes, the dishwasher. My favorite household appliance.

Dishwasher's are God's gift to the American wife, and I can't have it any other way. Anything less is unacceptable. I will never serve time behind a sink of soapy water. I will always have a dishwasher for my kids to load! Heaven forbid this one breaks! They'd be lost! I thought.

And then I was off all the more, worrying about the dishwasher breaking, which would be almost as bad as the AC breaking, I told myself, which in this 106-degree humidity would be downright inhumane.

So, with fear in my heart, I pondered the state of our air conditioner, wondering when hubs needed to change out the filter and considering if I should remind him to go buy a filter, just in case, or maybe I should get one when I go to the store to buy cupcakes, which reminded me that I had no idea what filter to buy, which made me want to call my husband, which I did, until I heard his phone ring in the other room, which means he'd left his phone at home, which is one of my huge pet peeves, and made me almost unplug the Crock-pot chicken I was cooking for his dinner, out of spite, but then I didn't, because then I realized I'd be punishing not only him but myself, since it was dinner for the kids, too, which means I'd have to think of better ways than starvation to communicate to the hubs how much it annoys me when he doesn't have his phone on him.

Which stumped me. And, being thus stumped, I stopped thinking aloud and realized how tired I was.

Then, I remembered that I had been planning to take a little nap and hadn't done so yet.

Which meant my to-do list was incomplete. Which bugs me more than anything.

Which meant I needed to go to sleep pronto.

So, high-tailing it into our bedroom, I lay down and began to think about how much I love my bed and my pillow, and wondered if someone in the world had actually invented The Pillow, or if it was just natural instinct to prop one's head up on something soft when sleeping, which meant that, most likely, companies like Bed, Bath, & Beyond are simply making money off natural human sleep instinct, which is just so like a big, American corporation, taking advantage of the little guy who just wants a nice nap...

***

At this point, I think I dozed off. I can't be sure. I got so hot about "The Man," formerly known as Bed, Bath & Beyond, that I actually had to turn on my bedside radio to drown out the thoughts in my own head.

So, are you scared yet?

Ready to call the authorities and have me committed?

Worried about the safety of my husband and kids?

I can't say I blame you. The way I prattle on in my own thoughts freaks even me out.

Which is exactly why I'm always afraid to do a stream-of-consciousness post, because, honestly, I'm all over the place with my thoughts, and, if let loose via the World Wide Web, I worry that at some point this obsession I have with thought tangents and erratic, ADD-like thought patterns will come back to bite me in the butt, which reminds me....

***

Dear Evening Rachael,

I know we've never met, seeing as how I run with the early-hours crowd and you hang out alone at night, so allow me to introduce myself.

I am Morning Rachael. We inhabit the same body, but that's about all we have in common.

You see, I rise early and am in charge of getting our body out of bed to face the day. I take care of hubs, four kids and a house that has an over flowing laundry room and lots of junk food that you can't resist eating that keeps you at a sugar-induced high at 4 in the afternoon.

I ingest a healthy breakfast of several glasses of some carbonated beverage, all carefully designed to keep our body going throughout the day, making sure we have enough energy to do what we need to do.

I do this, all of this, even though I live a fairly miserable existence. When I am forced to awaken at 10 a.m., I am groggy and tired and pretty much hate the fact that I have to get up. My only happy thought is: "Don't worry, Morning Rachael. You will be able to get back into this bed in a mere 16-17 hours. Just fight through the day, and you can return to your pillow and blanket."

But see, the thing is, Evening Rachael, you've been robbing me of my sole consolation prize lately. You, frankly, have been functioning so selfishly that, when I arise, I can't even muster up the courage to count down the hours until I get into bed again.

For Lord knows what reason, you get a second wind when you take over at around 8 p.m., Evening Rachael. While I've been dragging us through the day, miserable, tired and wishing/hoping/dreaming of a good night's sleep, you get the ridiculous idea that your time, the night time, is prime time.

You read blogs. You watch movies. You eat snacks. You cuddle with the hubs. You hang with the kids. You start projects that you never finish. You read books. You sift through magazines. You eat, again!

You do everything but take a hot shower and put us to bed!

Why, Evening Rachael, why?

Why do you think it's a good idea to "just read one more chapter," or "scan over my Sony Reader one more time, real quick," or watch "just one more episode of The Office marathon. What's 22 minutes, plus commercials?"

I'll tell you what it is, Evening Rachael. That's 22 minutes out of our sleep time! That's 22 minutes I need if I'm going to continue to get our rumpus out of bed again in what often becomes less than six hours!

Where does your energy come from, Evening Rachael? How can you stay awake till 3am when I so clearly can't function in the morning?

Oh, wait, I know. It's all the crud you insist on ingesting at around 7:30 p.m!

Sure. Popcorn is high in fiber, but must you eat the whole bowl? And don't think I didn't see the huge bowl of chicken salad you ate last night. And yes, I also saw that scoop of vanilla ice cream the chocolate syrup was so "cleverly" hiding. It's like you don't even care about all the careful consideration I gave every morsel I put in our mouth earlier that day. You will blow it all away for a night-time apple-cinnamon muffin!

Evening Rachael, listen to me. Put down the late-night Chex Mix and listen to me.

I've had enough. I can no longer function after you go off on your constant late-night solo parties with your books, blogs, and DVDs.

We have to sleep a little.

Now, wait a minute. I'm not asking for the moon. I'm not even asking for nine hours of sleep. I'll take eight, or heck, I'll take five.

Please, just remember me when you get your second wind and get inspired to do all the things you didn't have time to do during the day because you were to busy facebooking. Think about your pillow and blanket.

Think about your dog. Yes, the dog is on my side. See him staring at you from the hallway, looking back and forth between you and the bedroom? He knows it's time for bed! Why don't you?

I appreciate you taking the time to read this, Evening Rachael. I know your time is short, what with all the blogs and books you want to read. I'm sorry if I was too blunt; I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I just ask that you take this into consideration the next time your Sony Reader calls to you.

Until we meet again (you know, when Afternoon Rachael decides to take one of the two naps she takes every year).

He Had You at 'Sup

Events in my life have prompted me to ponder the age-old question: Can people change? And more importantly, should you count on it?

I've always thought (mostly in the background but occasionally in the perceptive forefront of my mind) that what you see is what you get with most people, so you shouldn't expect much change (aside from the superficial points of clothing, style, art/music, etc, in which case horzions can be broadened), lest you become very disappointed.

Obviously, this theory is very rarely applied when in the process of selecting a potential boyfriend. I am currently standing on the sidelines watching friends and even the daughters of my friends whining and complaining about their boyfrieds and in some circumstances, baby daddy. (eeekkk... why has it gotten so chick to have a worthless "baby daddy" now?) It's ridiculous. Buy a Coach bag if you want something expensive to lug around on your shoulder. It doesn't cry and stays small and cute forever!

But anyhoo... ladies, let me break it down for you from someone who has been there/ done that. This is how you look, from someone older wiser:

"Hi I'm a fixer. I will be everything you need me to be and more and I will fix your Wounded-Bird-Boy soul. Because I am the only one that can save you. And I will. Just like in the movies. And although I know scores of other girls have tried, I will be the one who triumphs, and we will live happily ever after."

Right. That never works. Here's what actually happens, or some variation

Your eyes meet across a crowded party/bar/club/soup-kitchen-where-you-are-volunteering-and-he-is-eating. He looks troubled/funny/smart. You love that. He looks brooding/dreamy/sarcastic. You love that too. He ditches whatever skank is currently making your mistake and comes toward you. You love his cocky (and COKEy, let's not be naive) but shy attitude. He has you at "'Sup."

You are a free spirit, just like him. Suddenly, corporate America, bills, family, and other responsibilities cease to exist. There is no one else in the world like the two of you. You are the wild children, the Pied Pipers of talented (enter in whatever artistic medium he's currently pursuing at this minute) leading the other aspiring artists/musicians/rappers/actors/comedians/writers and you'll change the world, without compromising any of your lofty but unresearched and unsupported ideals. Or making any money.

Occasionally, Wounded-Bird-Boy will fall into the depths of dispair, where life isn't worth living anymore and he cannot bring himself to pick up a guitar/paintbrush/pencil/restaurant-check. But he sure can pick up that bong/mirror/beer. You will do everything you can to bring him out of his funk. Shopping sprees (with your debit card, no less), idealistic promises focusing on his goals (Goals? Yeah, you used to have those. Now your goals are his goals!), gifts you can't afford, reassurances that you will not insist he get counseling/a-real-job/a-clue/a-life/-the-eff-out.

Eventually, when you cannot feign interest in his ridiculous video-games/friends/quasi-career/level-of-poverty/complete-disinterest-in-you anymore, you'll wake up and look around your probably small and untidy apartment and wonder what happened to the good old days when the lovin was great and you were heady with desire for Wounded-Bird-Boy, when his talent impressed you, when the brooding/sarcasm/deeply-concealed-intelligence was enough.

You'll wish for the early days when you'd make plans and promises to each other, the days when he knew he had to say amazing things to keep you, the days he cared about your feelings and made you feel special, like you were the one he chose out of the crowd because you dazzled him, not the one he knew would care for him the best.

He has always known what you just realized. He knows about smoke and mirrors. He's done this before. He knows how to get you and how to keep you. At least for awhile. He also knows when to let go, because he probably has a #2 (probably not the best idea to flatter yourself thinking you were #1, but we'll go with it) waiting in the wings. So he tells you he can't hold you back any longer, and he wants more for you than what he can give. And he sends you packing (emotionally, that is) with some rockin' "goodbye, but lets still be friends cause I really do care about you" talk. And in some unfortunate circumstances, a baby (or two) on your hip.

And when your heart shuts the door and stands on the stoop, you think "Yeah, I'd so do that again."

So you date a few more just like him. But you are a little bit wiser, and are just along for the ride, cuz you knew he wasn't going to change. His type never do.

My point is this: I think, on some level, people can change, but they have to really want to, and BEYOND THAT, they have to know what about them needs to. And most people just can't see it.

But if you insist on "fixing him", YOU will be the one that changes. And not usually for the better.

So when it comes to relationships, save your money for a Move-In Ready As Is, rather than a Fixer-Upper. It might take some compromise, but at least you'll know what you're getting.

Feminist? I Think Not

I love being a girl. I love makeup, clothes, the color pink, stiletto heels, and not having to worry about getting my junk caught in pants zippers.

Superficial? Sure. But anyone who says that men and women should be equal in every way should have their heads examined. Here's my main issue with the feminism soapbox (and it is often a soapbox, ladies and gentlemen, be not confused): Too often, it's misconstrued as anti-man, rather than pro-woman.

Before you either cheer or wish me death, hear me out.

Do I think that women are as smart as men? Absolutely. Do I think women can do anything that men can do? Absolutely not. And why would they want to?

You know what total equality is? It's signing up for Selective Service at 18. It's the end of "women and children first." It's real push-ups and shorter maternity leave. And most certainly, it's not happening any time soon. And you can be sure it will NEVER happen at my house!

In many aspects of this world, men come out ahead, just as they have for the last...I dunno, trillion years. And while, to a career gal (which I was for the better part of my adult life) that is pretty crummy. However, there are many advantages to being a woman that are sadly overlooked.

My husband has, since our very first encounter, opened doors for me (car, house, whatever.) He opens doors and then shuts them after I am comfortably inside. He is teaching my boys to do the same. I never pay for drinks, and I always have a seat. My husband and his friends are the epitome of the Chivalry Club, circa 1950. They will carry you down the street if you ask them to, go to blows over you in 1.5 seconds (and he has, oh he sure has) and never, ever, would they let the lady pick up the tab.

Archaic? Maybe. Barbaric? Depends. And are all men like that? Of course not. But damnit, why are some girls so hell-bent on letting chivalry die? At the tender age of... well, anyhoo... I'm old enough to know that being a girl has some advantages, no matter your race or sexual orientation.

I'm still pro-woman. However, I'm not willing to sacrifice femininity for feminism. So even if I made more money than my husband (which I don't, but hypothetically) I'll still let him take out the trash. And kill spiders.

Besides, who would want to carry this:

When they could carry this:

**Did I mention I really, really reallyreallyreally want this purse?

And wear these:

When they could wear these:

**Why, yes, those are mine. You think they are lovely? Thanks.

So ladies? Work it. And men? Don't worry, there's still plenty of things that are all yours. After all, it's you guys who get drafted and have to pee standing up. Suckers.

Reality TV Heaven!

Yep. Thats was me last night. In complete and total Reality T.V. bliss. It was pretty much the best night ever because of two things: I'm Pregnant And _______ & Teen Mom.

In case you havent ever watched I'M Pregnant and _________ , get with the program (literally!) This show comes on Discovery Health and is pretty much the best show ever. Ever week the powers that be (or more like the exes at Discovery) fill in the black with some wacky subject such as "homeless" or "Bi-polar" or "starving myself til I pass out." Last week it was "I'm Pregnant and Having a Dwarf" which filled me with glee because I love a good reality show about dope fiends and midgets. Throw pregnancy in the mix and it will almost push me over the edge.

So last night, "I'm Pregnant and a Drug Dealer" started at 8pm and "Teen Mom" follwed immediately after. Since these two shows were both coming on and I was still obligated to feed hubs and the minions that live here, I bought frozen pizzas and was done with it. At 7:45 I made sure hubs was settled into his man cave and let my two little ones eat pizza in the living room while watching Disney XD (they loved it!)

The drug dealer show was just fabulous, but the real action happened on Teen Mom. Oh my goodness the drama. Oh the drama! Whew! It was good stuff and I hate to admit it, but I watched it AGAIN when it re-played at 11 P.M.

But then something peculiar happened. Inspiration hit, and here I am!

While watching a clip of MTV's Engaged and Underage, I realized that I missed my chance. I could've been on this show when I had my first wedding. Damn it!

We would've been the greatest Engaged and Underage couple ever. We had all of the qualifications.

Ridiculously young and naive? Check!

Facing doubts from our well-meaning families? Check!

Dubious means of supporting ourselves? Check!

Numerous break-up type fights? Check!

What we thought was a "grown up" wedding? Check!

Adamant refusal to acknowledge the potential disaster of the situation? Check!

Tears and hurt feelings abound? Check!

I can't believe I missed out on that situation. Granted we were technically of legal age when we actaully said "I DO" (although, just barely.)

If you watch the show, you know you can go to MTV online to see how the couples are doing post-honeymoon. I'd like to nominate the idea of a show that catches up with them a couple years later to see who is still together.

We could take bets.

(Not that I'm pessimistic or anything.)

(Although, I am a big proponent of the starter-husband. Seriously. A must have for every young girl who wants to get it right eventually. Yes, a little awkward post-divorce, but you're a pro the second time around.)

(AND it's fun to joke with Hubs about how I turn 'em and burn 'em. Keeps him on his toes.)

Le sigh. I guess I'll just have to wait for another opportunity to be on TV.

Maybe Hubs and I could be on Family Feud! Or Deal or No Deal!

Sucks for you, MTV!!

You have no idea what you missed!

Jon and Kate plus Hate

First of all, it's entirely possible that everyone else in the world has already jumbled up the name of this show and called it what I used as this post title. But I don't care, because it makes me feel clever.)

(And duh, that's the whole premise behind this blog of mine, so I'm just going to go with it.)

(On with the show.)

Even if you never watched Jon & Kate Plus Eight, you might be living under a rock if you haven't seen them splashed all over the tabloids as of late.

J&K+8 was a show about a young couple who have a set of twins and a set of sextuplets, just trying to cope with life in the big bad world and having it all taped for us couch-lounging, freedom-having, highchair-free-zoned people relaxing in our lazy households and never spending one minute worrying about how much it costs to buy eight pairs of sneakers every month.

If you watched the show, you've seen Kate stressed to the max, trying to keep her brood in line and her easy-going hubby Jon focused. You've also seen her go completely batshit crazy when he forgot to use a coupon, take out the trash, or expediently dress a toddler.

(And when I say "batshit crazy", I mean "you'd better hide under a table because her head might literally explode.")

Now, the point of this post is not to judge her. (well maybe just a little.) Seriously. I cannot imagine what it is like to raise double the amount of children I already have, not to mention the fact that I've never had a camera crew in my home documenting all of my shame and distributing it to the masses.

(Hey Hubs, if we had a reality show, would you stop leaving your clothes on the floor of our bedroom? No? So that means I don't have to take my pajamas off before 5pm? Sweet.)

I didn't watch the show that much. For the most part, I thought it was a little redundant. Although, the sextuplets are adorable and I love them. I appreciate Jon and Kate's constant fighting and believe it makes for some good reality TV, but since the show does not include midgets or dope fiends, I have other shows to watch. Better ones.

But, and here is the clincher. Life is a little different these days for JK+8 since their show skyrocketed in popularity. They're very exposed, but they've been able to offer their children TONS of opportunities that they'd never have access to if they didn't have their show.

The drawback to all of this is the haters. There are ALWAYS complete strangers willing to tell you exactly what you're doing wrong in your life and offer their completely unsolicited helpful suggestions.

Was Kate uptight? Sure. Does Jon need to get with the program? Probably. Should Kate have belittled him on national television? No. Is Jon treated unfairly? Sometimes.

Really, though, that's none of our business, and even though it was a common thread throughout the show, it was really supposed to be about the KIDS.

Now they are divorced. The cheating rumors ran rampant. Kate was supposedly sleeping with her bodyguard. Jon had an affair with a young elementary school teacher. Are these things true? Maybe, maybe not. The bottom line is: it is not easy to be married. It is not easy to raise a family. Even with all of the money in the world.

They have a reality show, so some people say they asked for it. The attention. The whole "there's no bad publicity" thing. You have to be prepared for whatever comes. Ignore it, don't take it personally, weather the storm.

I don't know what will happen with Jon & Kate. I feel sorry for them, and their kids, if there was no truth to the rumors that became the downfall of this family. And even sorrier if there is.

If we've learned anything from Brangelina, it's that it's REALLY EFFING HARD to have a foreshadowed and extremely public breakup. And if we've learned anything from Mel Gibson or Christian Bale, it's that you should never let a camera record you completely losing your mind.

(Also, I've learned from P!nk that I'm still a rock star and Christina Aguilera taught me that I am beautiful no matter what they say. But those are stories for another day.)

(Not to mention that Tyra taught me I was dead inside unless I could smile with my eyes. Still, another day.)

If they had lived closer to me I would have offered to babysit their kids one day so they could have "alone time." They probably needed it.

(And when I say "offer to babysit", I mean hire a professional and then accompany him/her and bestow ice cream and kisses to the children like a fairy godmother while she/he had to do all of the effort-y stuff like disciplining.)

Ah, who am I kidding? If I lived closer to them I'd send Hubs over there to observe and then when he came back I'd be like "SEE HOW EASY YOUR LIFE IS?"

It's Outta There

Part of growing up is moving out of your parents house and embarking on a life of your own.

It's a really exciting time in a young girl's life because it means you can do things YOUR way. Women are nesters. We like to have our own decor, our own methods of storage, and our own kitchens.

(Even if we don't cook in them.)

I moved out of my mom's house when I was barely 18 years old. Since then, I've lived with Trish, the ex, hubs, and lots of kids.

I've never lived alone. Although, I have managed to, in my day, own a pink couch, have a picture of Audrey Hepburn hang above my bathtub, and refuse to empty the dishwasher. So, really, I'm doing pretty well, all things considered.

However, when you live with someone else, there's compromise. Pink couch gives way to brown/ earth tones. My stuffed animal collection found it's home in the closet, and hubs framed sports car glossy prints & employee of the month/year/millenium/whatever awards are proudly displayed in the man cave.

(He's under the false impression that there will someday be a picture of a shiny Corvette in our living room. Naive, silly, sweet man. That will SO never happen.)

Having lived in the same home for the past seven years, stuff can quickly accumulate in my home and I must purge it on fairly regular basis. Every year I faithfully throw out have good intentions to do MAJOR closet organization with every intention of donating bags and bags of stuff to Goodwill. It never happens.

I think the majority of women have things in their closet that they haven't worn in 5+ years. We keep things in there for a couple reasons.

#1) We're hoping we'll fit into it again. (These items are usually pants, or that amazing strapless shirt that you spent too much on and only fits you once a year when you have the stomach flu.)

#2) We know we won't ever fit into it again but we like to be reminded that we used to be able to wear it. (I recently got rid of a pair of jeans that I wore the summer between 8th and 9th grade. Never mind they were acid wash Girbauds!)

Whatever the reasons for keeping your unwearable clothes, I don't begrudge anyone for having a stack of them. It's good to have goals.

But seriously? Those Girbauds HAD to go. They were from a time before hips (and multiple babies) and they were giving me a complex.

My husband doesn't feel the same way about cleaning his closets. In fact, he doesn't like to get rid of anything of his. When I asked him to get rid of a few things so I could have a little extra room for my recently purchased summer items I picked up for a great price, no less, he freaked out. It went like this:

ME: (deep in our extra closet, unearthing who knows what) Do you need this sweatshirt? You have another blue one just like it. I've never even seen you wear this.

HUBS: (alarmed) What? What are you doing? Stop touching my stuff!

ME: (cheerfully) I'm getting ready to donate stuff to people that don't have clothes! This closet is full of clothes we never wear.

HUBS: That's my stuff!

**comes into closet to investigate**

ME: (patiently) I know. But in the three years we've been together, I've never seen you wear any of this stuff...so I thought...

HUBS: Damn it, Rachael! That's a perfectly good sweatshirt!

ME: Right! Someone without clothes will love it!

HUBS: It's MINE!

ME: (now realizing he's freaking out, and not being able to resist egging him on) Okay, so I'll put it in the donation pile.

HUBS: No! Hang that back up!

ME: (innocently) But why? You don't wear it.

HUBS: (bellowing) GET RID OF YOUR OWN STUFF!

ME: I'll just add this jacket too. And I'm pretty sure this shirt doesn't fit you.

HUBS: NOOOO! Harry (His grandma's 70ish husband) gave that to me!

I'm not sure why Hubs has such a hard time getting rid of stuff that he barely even knows he has. I mean, the man definetely doesnt want for anything, I can tell you that. He's not completely spoiled, but he certainly isn't deprived either. Besides, he has a wife that loves to shop and will, on occassion, buy him clothes. (We should all be so lucky.)

I mean, the man has nice things. He's not forced to eat Spaghetti-0s out of the can because we can't afford food and we are not forced to pay our mortgage with already over-extended credit card. He loves to buy gifts for people and is always generous with his money and his time.

But for some reason, he has a hard time parting with possessions. It's like he doesn't think he'll ever get another sweatshirt. Or that he doesn't have 10 hanging in his closet already. It's weird.

Since I am a helper, and I like to help Hubs get over his ailments and idiosyncrasies, I ruthlessly badger him until he caves and lets me do whatever it was that I was planning on doing before he got all bajiggity. See? Helping.

I think the main problem is that Hubs has failed to learn what every woman is born knowing:

If you get rid of stuff, you have room to buy more.

And according to my calculations, Christmas is only 151 days away.

I Nominate Hubs!

With the network shows gearing up in full force for the fall season, it is once again illustrated just how different Hubs' and my taste in TV really is.

We agree on a very tiny percentage of our overall programming.

(That may or may not be because I watch shows mainly consisting of rich, unrealistic teenagers and gay farmers. Allegedly.)

Our small amount of common ground is made up of family guy (because it comes on late and I am too tired to complain) and The Office. One of the other shows we manage to watch together on lazy Sunday evenings is "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition." (as long as it's not one of those 2 hour marathons that cuts into The Real L Word, cause I certainly can't miss that!)

However, we watch for different reasons. I watch for the heartwarming stories and the ideas for home decor. Hubs watches for the demolition, the renovation techniques, and the opportunity for non-stop verbal abuse of one Mr. Ty Pennington.

The root of this is jealousy. Hubs has stated on MANY occasions that he wants Ty's job. So, in typical male fashion, he expresses his envy with attacks on poor Ty's character, wardrobe, and workmanship.

You must admit, Ty has it pretty good. He gets paid to build awesome things for deserving people. He's a handyman with a heart. He carries that show. His job matters. There is no Extreme Makeover: Home Edition without Ty Pennington.

Hubs has a pipe dream to overthrow Ty's reign. While I am usually supportive of my husband's hopes and dreams (you know, within reason), I cannot say that I fully agree with the idea that he could do the job better than Ty. And here's why.

Top Five Reasons Why Hubs is No Ty Pennington:

1) Ty is friendly.

Hubs? Not so much. He's a little prickly on the outside. He is polite and kind, but reserved until you get to know him. He's not the sort of guy a perfect stranger would run up to and bear-hug. I make fun of him all the time for thinking things are "ridiculous" and "getting a little out of hand." (Particularly when it involves me leaving the house without fixing him a snack.) His favorite expression is "What the heck is going on around here" when he is forced to dig through the clean clothes basket to find a tank top that he feels should already be folded and put away in his drawer. Did I mention he fancies sticking his lower jaw out in a bulldog-esque grimace when he's irritated, and his normal facial expression resides somewhere between "bemused" and "I don't like you."

2) Ty is not afraid to act silly.

There is absolutely no way that Hubs would do the on-the-job clowning and hamming it up that is Ty's TV persona. Hubs does not dance around (unless he is trying to get my attention in the comfort of our own home when no one else is looking... oh wow, I feel a new blog coming on, with his "hand dances" as the topic.) Also, hubs does not wear funny outfits. He does not do cartoon-ish voices. At best, he baby-talks on occasion, but we will keep that to ourselves because, trust me, if I filmed that and put it on national television, well, you'd be more likely to see Hubs starring on an episode of America's Most Wanted instead.

*This is as close to "dressing up" as hubs is gonna get. (And it's only because OSHA requires him to.)

*And here you see Ty Pennington goofing around and being funny at work.

3) Ty is a heartthrob.

This is up for debate, obviously. I happen to find Ty Pennington very handsome. Of course, I also think that Hubs is one fine male specimen, but in a completely different way. Hubs does not artfully spike his hair, he runs his hand thru it and it stands wherever he wants, but I can assure you, hubs does not use mousse, or agonize over his hair, or think about it once he leaves the bathroom. Hubs does not accessorize with large amounts of man-jewelry. He does not spray tan. And, after a long day's work, Hubs ACTUALLY LOOKS DIRTY. VERY dirty.

*OK, who am I kidding, hubs is a freakin heart throb, I must say. But this pic wasn't taken while he was busy building something. He really isn't all that friendly when he's working.

4) Ty is a team player.

While Ty might be the team LEADER, he very much appreciates the input and efforts of his design team. He lets them do their separate projects, and lavishes praise on the final products. Hubs is the typical do-it-yourself-er. He likes to work alone, and takes pride in what he does. (Plus, I also think he likes to be able to guilt trip me about how I don't help him.) But, hubs has also been foreman of very large construction sites for many years and well, plainly put, hes an alpha male and is, at times, bossy. (Oh who am I kidding, hubs is always bossy.) He gives orders, he doesn't take them, or compromise, or ask for anyone's input. And if he was expected to play paddy-cake with his inferiors by asking their opinion he would most def think things were "ridiculous", "getting out of hand" and wonder "what the heck is going on around here." Just sayin.

*hubs getting things done at work and looking all scary boss while he's at it!

5) Ty could sell lumber to a beaver.

Extreme Makeover operates largely due to retail sponsorship. Home goods stores and companies donate to the cause in exchange for a tiny bit of advertising time during the build. Ty fully supports this and plugs different businesses left and right with ease. Hubs would have HUGE boots to fill and NUMEROUS asses to kiss. I don't know if he's up for the additional challenge. Oh no. Hubs is better left whipping out the company credit card and paying for his supplies, cause he is not gonna chase some wall paper exec around town with a little umbrella (sans Bentley Farnsworth.)

*Ty the butt kisser

My husband is a handy dude. Make no mistake. I will never go homeless or cold because I think hubs could build a house in a week. And he can make just about anything light up and turn on (no pun intended.) And I have full confidence. It's everything ELSE that goes along with the job that I'm worried about.

So, if anyone would be interested in an Extreme Makeover: Home Edition episode where there is no Ty Pennington, no design team, and no blatant advertising, Hubs would be the perfect host.

Just so long as you're aware of what you'd be watching: a show about a big dirty sweaty guy who builds you a beautiful house while running around yelling at people and being scowly.

I'd tune in for sure. He gets pretty creative with the profanities.

The Price of Fame

So it goes, folks, so it goes....

I logged into Blogger Friday thinking maybe I'd have 1 or 2 hits on my day old post about how "Stupid People Upset Me."

I had 96. I kid you not.

So I think to myself "What the....? This must be a mistake." But no, my friends, it wasn't. And I couldn't figure out how I suddenly became so popular (aside from the possibility of my witty and adorable bloggy-ness FINALLY getting the recognition it deserved in some sort of light-up-the-bat-signal kind of way.)

Then I glanced at my cell phone (still on silent and plugged into the wall from the night before) blinking furiously that I had new messages (both voice and text.)

Hmmmm.... should I be concerned?

Now, I have no delusions about the fact that anyone can randomly click on my blog and read it. But, that many? Wow. So after pondering this for a few minutes and scratching my head I checked my voice mail. Ughhh oh.

Color me surprised.

At this point, I learn that fame sometimes deals you a tough hand. It's not for everyone, the spotlight. No sir. Not for the faint of heart. Sometimes, people want to flatter them self and, in the process, get a little too convinced you are blogging about them. Oh, and then they call your ex husband. And cuss at him. And tell him he needs to (and I quote) "MAKE YOUR EX WIFE STOP WRITING BLOGS!"

*gasp shock horror*

So there you have it. Apparently my blog caused my ex husband to get cussed out by a woman whom he has never met. A woman he has never met but has apparently developed a fondness for him. Ok, now the 96 clicks is making a little more sense. Keep in mind the ex is not by any means interested in my blog and probably never would have known it existed had his sister this woman's friend not seen it and emailed it to the elusive woman, whom in turn brought his attention to it, but boy did she ever. Apparently she was hopping mad and the ex had to pay for it. And I must admit, I was enjoying it to no end. Random readers and scorned women, I think you are fabulous and you are solely to blame for my narcissist personality, oh yes, you sure are.

But here is the thing that I must make clear... Never, in the 35 years the ex has been alive, has he been able to keep me from doing something. Oh no. He's tried, oh has he ever, but succeeded in putting a muzzle on me? IT. WILL. NEVER. HAPPEN. Bless his heart. But, the ex accepts this. And laughs when someone asks him too. And shakes his head. And calls me and says "Girl, what am I gonna do wit ya mouth. It gets me in more trouble than a lil bit." And then he hangs up and does something really productive, like loading up his laundry for Chloe' to wash in my machine when I'm not looking.

However, the story gets better, oh, its the gift that keeps on giving.

Apparently, the woman whom the ex has never met, but apparently has developed a fondness for him, also decided she would tattle to hubs. Yes, you heard right. Did hubs get hit up on his facebook? Why yes, yes he did. Here is an expert that he so kindly forwarded to me:

"I don't know what is going on but your wife is so utterly obsessed with blogging about me"

(bla, bla, bla, silly stuff, bla, bla, bla,)

"it has gotten to the point where she is posting my name all over the net. I would appreciate it if you take care of this matter for me. Thank you and have a blessed day."

Huh? Let me go back and read "Stupid People Upset Me." In fact, lets all do so....

Here's the link so you don't have to go search my blog....

**side note: Pay special attention to #5 at the bottom of the blog, because I feel like that is more than likely what riled her into a frenzy. Just a hunch, mind you, but I'm going with it....

http://inmyhiheels.blogspot.com/2010/07/stupid-people-upset-me.html


Do I ever mention anyone by name or even a specific person? No, no I do not. Apparently someone has a guilty conscience and took offense. Should I be blamed? No, no I should not.

So hubs responds and tells this woman he is not sure what she is talking about but sees nothing that mentions her. Did she give up there? Oh no. Theres more. Here goes some of the highlights of her next response to hubs (also a man whom she has never met and who, has no desire to receive messages from):

**excuse the spelling, by the way, because this yahoo's spelling is ALL OVER THE PLACE....

"Trust me she just erased it. I don't go on her page at all I was notified by phone calls about them. I have the blog in my mail just can't forward it at the moment. Anyways thanks for talking to her about it and I am sure that although she denied it..."

(bla, bla, yawn, more bla, bla)

"Sad I had to reach out to you yet I don't know her but she has made me her daily bread. As for reading anyones pages I don't do any of that if she wouldn't have ever posted my name no one would've ever known She is tahking time on the net to try to cause problems and my children as well as family and coworkerd read it. Thanks for having a talk with her. Have a blessed day. I appreciate it."

(More Bla, bla, this is getting redundant, bla bla, silly girl that doesn't like my blog, bla, bla )

"Thank you and have a nice day. I don't look at her page and could care less. You guys have a nice life and goodluck. As for Mike I could care less because I don't know him either. Take care and goodbye. Once again thanks"

Hmmmm.... erased my blog? Nope. Its still there.

Made her my daily bread? What does that even mean? I mean, it kinda sounds like something you would hear at church. It also makes me a little hungry for something starchy. But yea, ummm, unless you come bearing expensive gifts for me or look like Johnny Depp, I'm not interested in making you the focus of my day.

She could care less about Mike and doesn't know him?" Hmmm.... now that's a tricky one, but since I only have one ex... hmmmm.... so confusing, this lady.

Anyhoo....

Raise your hand if you think hubs "had a talk with me" and/or has any desire to entertain this woman's low self esteem?

Nope. Didn't happen. Did he ask if I was writing about her? Yep. Did he glance over my blog? Sure did. Did he walk off mumbling under his breath about stupid women and why she was contacting him (all the while opening up a new bag of pistachios and settling in his recliner to watch some stupid nascar documentary?) Yes, yes he did.

So hear is the lowdown people, I fancy myself a writer. (In my own way. I'm no Sylvia Plath, I realize.) I am my own editor. (Aside from spellcheck, which at times I could just kiss. Especially after a couple glasses of wine on Drunk Mondays.) I am my own publisher. And the Internet is my bookstore. Library? Whatever.

Point is? Don't like reading my blog? You can stop anytime. Everyone else? Hope you like what you read. I do it for free.

Oh, and I do it for me. If you don't like it, call my ex husband and complain. I'm sure that will get you far.

Sometimes

Once upon a time, oh in say 2008, I stumbled upon a poem a long ago ex-girlfriend of hubs wrote about him AFTER he was married to me. Some of you may remember me ranting and fuming about it for hours days after. Well, being the savvy wife-who-never-forgets-a-thing kinda girl that I am, I stumbled upon this literary trainwreck she called a poem in some long forgotten computer file of mine I had of-so-cleverly named "nonsense from Ugly Betty" (Yea, yea, I know.)

Anyhoo...

While her "poem" titled "Sometimes" was all about losing that one perfect man that no other will ever measure up to (obviously she was seeing hubs thru rose tinted glasses, cause let me tell you, he's not oh-so-perfect like she seems to think. Have I ever mentioned that putting dirty laundry in the hamper goes against everything hubs stands for?) The poem painfully lurks along whining about how she probably can not go on (LIES! Shes still around) because she handed her fragile heart to hubs only to have him toss it aside for yours truly. (Did I mention I met him FOUR YEARS after he unceremoniously dumped her like a bad habit for catching her in a state of undress with another man?) Moving right along...

Her sentences that don't rhyme poem made me start to think. No, not about how hubs is perfect, *giggling to myself about that one** but about what I would write if I decided to make a blog entitled "Sometimes" using sentences that didn't rhyme. Here goes....

"Sometimes"

Sometimes, I wait days before I fold my clean laundry.

Sometimes, I order take-out instead of going to the grocery store.

Sometimes, I dream about telling certain people what I really think of them to their face.

And instead I put it in a blog that they may or may not read.

But I'm not stopping there.

Sometimes, I go to bed hungry. Because hubs made an off handed remark earlier in the day about my "big ole butt" right before slapping it.

Sometimes, or rather, quite often, I go shopping. Because it makes me feel better about a bad day.

And every now and again, I don't like my life. Because my kids drive me crazy and I daydream of being on an island. A deserted one.

Scared yet?

I am. A little.

But I'm still not done.

Sometimes More often than not, my purse is more cluttered than most diaper bags.

And sometimes I skip shaving my legs for days and have to sneak off and do it real quick when hubs comes home from work and can't seem to stop following me around the house looking for attention only a wife can give him.

And, I'm not even going to say "sometimes" on this one.... because I never vacuum under my furniture.

Actually, I don't vacuum. Ever. I pay two ladies that are far older than me and probably way more over worked and tired than I am to do it.

Sometimes, I feel like I am wrong for that.

I'm afraid of needles, not sometimes, but always.

Sometimes I have little patience.

I let hubs hang a really big T.V. in my bedroom, when I really wanted it to be a quiet sanctuary. And sometimes I wish I hadn't

Sometimes I wear ugly underwear, because the sexy lace ones just seem less than comfortable.

Sometimes I think married couples who brag about being "overly sexually active" are lying.

Sometimes my socks don't match and I could care less.

I don't know how to cook and sometimes I feel like I should make an effort to learn.

Sometimes I mentally balance my checkbook in church.

You still with me? Still wanna know what the heck is going on around here?

Here's the thing: I've been emboldened.

I've been bolstered by the seeming obscurity of the world wide web and doubt anyone is interested in what I say, so why not be open, brutal, nitty-gritty and sometimes-painfully honesty?

You see, blogging has created an outlet where I can just say what comes to my mind. And then I can turn off the computer and wander off to watch the Oxygen Channel.

And why not?

Sometimes, you just have to say what's on your mind, even if no one is home to hear you.

And guess what else.

Sometimes, I crave chicken wings and hot dogs more than I crave salads.

And sometimes, I wear old, ratty sweatpants to bed, even though my husband hates them.

And yet, I don't know if you all know that.

I don't know if you all know that sometimes, I cry when I find out one of you is pregnant, because I am so happy.

I don't know if you all know that sometimes, I spend a lot of money on cute designer clothes when I probably should put extra money on my student loans.

And sometimes, I look around and wonder how I got here. And if my kids will be screwed up because I divorced their dad.

Maybe I'm self-censoring. Maybe I'm playing my own version of "Keeping Up With The Joneses." And maybe I should just put my full-on reality out there for you all to see.

Because really, while I want my girlfriends to come to my blog and find laughs and love, I also want you all to come here and find truth.

My truth. All of our truths.

And not just because we all need to say them, but because sometimes, we all need to hear them.

We need to hear that we all are self-conscious; that we all drink too much coffee; that we all are too tired to humor our husbands sometimes.

Sometimes we need to hear it.

To know we're not alone. To know that in all honesty, there's nothing wrong with any of us. To know that any blog "rant" or "vent" will be accepted and forgiven if necessary.

Because we're all human.

And we're not perfect. And neither are our husbands, no matter what some obsolete ex-girlfriend might choose to believe.

Never Leave Hubs Home Alone

Last week my grandpa got sick and went into the hospital. Obviously I went to visit him (two days in a row) and hubs did not accompany me. Further, my brother is visiting from Virginia (where he is finishing up law school) and we have much alcohol to drink catching up to do at Chilis. Between these two happenings, I have been preoccupied with things other than seeing that hubs eats properly five times a day. (Imagine that!)

If hubs were one to keep track, (he is, oh let me tell you, he sure is) this is not the first time (recently) that I have ventured out of the house alone and left Hubs to his own devices, and let me tell you, it's wearing on him. He doesn't do "alone time" well.

I'm the kind of person who enjoys a little time to herself for introspective purposes, i.e. shopping without having to hide purchases in the trunk of the car (which he seems to find when he accompanys me to Target), unlimited Bravo channel watching, and Pei Wei dinners for one.

Hubs? Not so much. If I'm not around, he usually heads over to his mothers house to lament about how I'm gone again and no one loves him and he's neglected and discriminated against and potentially will never make a full recovery from this unprecedented magnitude of betrayal.

(Translation: He sulks around on her couch and watches TV. JUST LIKE HE COULD DO AT HOME.)

Also, time seems to stop or at least stand still while I'm gone. I know this because I come home and all of the lights are on and all of the cabinet doors in the kitchen are open, as though someone was in the middle of a well-lit ransack of our house and suddenly got called away to attend to something extremely important.

(Probably some random muscle car race on cable.)

It is because of this virtual space-time continuum problem that when I do finally arrive home hubs makes it impossible for me to sleep because at 12:15 am hubs has now remembered he did not eat while I was out and is now ravishingly food depraved. Unfortunately, a hot meal is not currently available to him and wasn't 5 hours earlier, either, since it in now apparant that food cannot be cooked while I am gone or even purchased from a drive-thru on the way home from his mother's.

And since hubs is spoiled above and beyond belief, he is struggling to comprehend a world where a midnight snack isn't readily available, thus leading him to toss and turn and mumble about how life is not fair and my evenings away from home are getting both "out of hand" and "quite ridiculous" in his opinion.

The reality of this is: the hubs ate 1/2 a bag of hot fries, a handful of pistachios, 2 peices of sliced cheese and 2 twinkies 3 hours ago and will eat again at 9 am when I am forced to drag myself out of bed to warm him up 2 Jimmy Dean sausage biscuts in an exhausted stupor because he kept me up half the night whining. Oh, and because he claims he is unsure how to work the microwave, what with all the buttons and such. (Did I mention he is an electician that has, in his day, WIRED MICROWAVE OVENS INTO HOMES AND BEEN PAID GOOD MONEY TO DO IT?)

Anyhoo...

On the flip side of all of this, I AM glad to be home. And I'm hoping that this week will bring new and exciting opportunities for me to leave the house and traumatize the hubs.

Goals, folks. IT'S ALL ABOUT GOALS.