Buffets

Okay, maybe Satan doesn't live in the Dollar Spot. Maybe he resides at buffets. Like a serpent telling you to eat an apple, but now it's things like deep-fried egg rolls.
As I've said, I have issues. I don't like my food to touch. I eat one thing at a time. (Yes, I am an adult.) I have texture problems with some things. (Has anyone else ever noticed tapioca pudding has little boogers in it?) Anyway, one day last week, my daughter and I were indulging ourselves at a Chinese Super Buffet AKA a Chinese trough. I'm watching people as they walk past with their plates. Most people have about six or seven different things on their plate. (These are the normal people who can stand to have their food touching.) Then you see the people who load their plate like my Uncle did as I was growing up. Just a giant pile of food all piled on top of each other into one disgusting looking heap. (I told you I have issues.)
I mean how lazy can you get? It's not enough that you can gorge yourself until you're about to explode, but you can't even get up off your butt to get another plate? Seriously!! Personally, I consider it exercise to get up and get a new plate. I generally have four things on each plate. That leaves at least 3/4 to an inch between foods. Okay, I may get up three times to refill, but at least I have the exercise of standing, picking up a new plate, lifting the plate while I add more weight to it, lugging it back to my table, then lifting each individual bite into my mouth. Whew!! What a workout! I broke into a sweat just writing it!
Obviously I have fallen off the weight loss wagon, but I do plan to get back on. I just decided logically, Christmas is not the time to try to lose weight, so I am putting it off until after Christmas. (She says as she stuffs another piece of fudge in her mouth.)
My mantra for the new year is "No Buffet Line In 2009!!" Wish me luck!

Worst Christmas gifts ever

Okay. I have been giving it some thought and I am going to start with my top three worst gifts. As you read, you can add horrible gifts of your own.

3) A poop scoop. (I mean seriously, any gift that requires shoveling sh...tuff is a truly crappy gift. Pun most definitely intended!!)

2) An STD. (Okay, I guess any horrible disease would count. I'm all for the gift that keeps on giving, but really...there's a limit.)

1) A cemetery plot, coffin, urn, headstone, etc. (Any gift that requires your taking a dirt nap to use it is just rude. Seriously! And the old, "You didn't use what I gave you last year," excuse is not cool.)

Dry, Dry, Dry

Sorry about the long "dry spell." I could say I have been very busy, which is true, but I am also having a bit of a block. Open to suggestions for future blogs. (By the way, the straws are there because I SUCK!!)

Thanksgiving

I already have my pants picked out for Thanksgiving. They are elastic waist, yet black to give the optical illusion that I am actually thin. (Hey, I can tell myself that if I want. If I choose to remain dillusional, leave me be!!)
How wonderful is it that we have a holiday dedicated solely to eating yourself silly? I have made a few observations about Thanksgivings past, however.
1) Men don't worry about what pants they wear. When their jeans become tight, they merely undo the button on their jeans and/or unzip them. I really can't think of any women who undo their pants. (That's why we plan to wear sweats or some other elastic waisted britches.)
2) No one asks me to host Thanksgiving dinner. Don't get me wrong. Even if they asked, I would come up with a plethora of excuses why no one can come. I am happy to NEVER host a Thanksgiving or Christmas meal. Not just happy, elated!! I will never move to a larger house specifically for this reason.
3) I never have to cook anything for holiday dinners. (Ok, so this is probably for the safety of everyone.) I always bring something, just nothing that requires any kind of culinary skill. (Green bean casserole? Hot rolls? I'm the one for the job. Turkey? Not unless you want to learn a whole new meaning to turkey trot.)
Anyway, I truly love Thanksgiving. It gives you a chance to reflect on your blessings, stuff your face and avoid the scales for several months.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

There's a Reason I Don't Cook

DINNER'S READY!!!
I may write a cooking column, but that doesn't mean I have any culinary talent.
You know, there really is a reason I don't cook. I used to think it was just because I am a lazy bum, but now, I have realized, it goes back much farther than that. It goes clear back to when I was a child and dinosaurs roamed the Earth.
First and foremost, I love eating out. That, too, goes back to when I was a kid. We didn't eat out very often, but every once in a while, my daddy would go to a little hole-in-the-wall burger joint to pick up hamburgers and french fries. The entire building was about the size of a bedroom (and not the bedrooms on trading spaces or extreme makeover; normal sized bedrooms.) There was a little sign on the cash register that read, "Stop throwing your cigarette butts on the floor. Our cockroaches are dying of cancer!" By the time you got home, the bags were all soaked with grease. Man, were those the best hamburgers and fries or what?
Plus, eating at home meant eating my mom's meatloaf, and that was not a pretty sight. My mom would come out with the meatloaf in a clear pyrex loaf pan. The meat would be floating in three inches of its own grease and the bottom was ALWAYS black. Somehow, despite floating in three inches of its own fluids, the meatloaf was still dry as a bone and the bottom was crispy. You tried to hurry and eat because as you ate, the meatloaf cooled, turning the liquid into coagulated shortening-looking stuff and your appetite went away as you tried to put the coated meat into your mouth. And don't even get me started on round steak! My parents were some kind of meat club and apparently a cow is made up of 90% round steak. For every other cut of beef, we had like 16 round steaks. I hate round steak.
Now, however, I have no one to blame but myself. I used to cook rather frequently when my kids were young and living at home. Now, I find I only do myself injury when I try to cook. I was REHEATING a meal (that's right, not even actually cooking), when I burned myself on the heating element of the oven. Now, I am sporting a scar to remind me not to attempt cooking for a good long while. Sadly, I didn't heed the reminder last weekend when we went to the cabin. My mom and sister were working outside and I was inside assembling the chili we were going to have for dinner that night. My mom had brought some homegrown peppers to add to the chili and I cut them up, took the seeds out and diced them, dropping them expertly into the chili. I washed my hands and went about my business.
A little later, my eyeball itched and I rubbed it. OH MY GOD!!! Now I am BLIND! I run to the bathroom with my one good eye open and scrub my hands twice more, with two different kinds of soap. I wash all around my eye and my face. I rinse my face and wipe the water out of my eyes. AAAGHH!! Now I am blind in both eyes and my entire face is on fire. I blindly stumble out of the bathroom and call for my sister and mom to help. "SISTER!" "MOTHER!" Nothing. I continue stumbling spastically towards the front door, arms out in front of me, waving them wildly. Again I yell, "SISTER!" She finally replies disgustedly, "WHAT?" She did come to help and sweetly scrubbed my face with a baby wash cloth and flushed my eyeballs. Finally, I was able to open my eyes to slits and bleary-eyed, I smiled my gratitude.
I ain't cooking next time.

Target

I think Target is bad for you.
I recently went to the new Target that opened close to my house. I, of course, went for a reason, to get a witch's hat for Halloween. I figured while I was there I would check out the new digs.
Actually, the devil lives in the Dollar Spot at Target. How do I know this? Because I am now compelled to purchase things I neither need, nor have ever wanted before. Case in point. While passing the Dollar Spot, I decided to peek in see what there was. There were cute little Halloween kitchen towels. One had a ghost, the other a black cat or something. First of all, I'm not the kind of person who does fun decorating. I admire those who do, but I am not one of them. I am more a practical, no-nonsense, garage sales of America kind of decorator. I put up a Christmas tree at Christmas, but that's about it. I do not decorate for Halloween.
Unfortuantely, I also can't pass up a good deal. Two towels for $1?? That's wonderful. Oh, look at the little t-shirts for babies! My great nephew desperately needs one!! Look!! Headbands for 50¢!! They're so cute! (Even though I wear glasses and wearing a headband at the same time breaks the laws of ears.)
Basically, what I'm saying is I came home with a bag of crap because it was a good deal!!! (Is it still a good deal if you never needed or wanted the item in the first place? I think not.) The devil lives there. He is making you buy a bunch of crap that will soon disappear, never to be seen again. It will never be seen and you will never notice it is gone because YOU NEVER WANTED OR NEEDED IT TO BEGIN WITH!!!
My nephew now has a new seasonal t-shirt he may or may not have ever been able to wear. My dog has a new scarf. My kitchen has new towels. My hair has a new headband and my checking account has a negative balance.
Yes, the devil definitely lives in the Dollar Spot. I wonder what they'll have for Thanksgiving?

Cold

I'm getting really tired of my house being cold.
Now I know sometimes when I'm hot, it's just me. I'm pretty sure that's not the case with cold. How do I know it's cold in my house. There are signs.
1) My entire family is dressed in layers. Of sweats. All the time. Even sleeping.
2) None of us want to get up in the morning. Ever. Now, I know everyone is comfy in their warm bed, but it has really gotten ridiculous at my house. The alarm goes off. It continues going off. Continues. Continues. Why do I not shut it off? That would mean I had to remove my arm from the blankets. It's not happening. Despite the fact that I am awake and dreaming I had a warm cup of coffee, I am not going into the frigid air just to retrieve it. I really have to go to the bathroom. Thinking about the warmth of wetting the bed it starting to sound good. Changing my mind at the last minute because I know it would just turn cold. And wet.
3) Lying completely still as you sleep because any movement causes you to leave your already warmed spot on the mattress.
4) Watching TV completely wrapped in a fleece blanket. Watching the same channel all evening because you don't want to put your hand out of the blanket to hit the buttons on the remote control.
5) Ending up sleeping in the chair because you can't bring yourself to run to your bedroom.
6) You're afraid to wash your hair because it may freeze.
I think maybe it's time to turn on the furnace.

Critters

I was looking at a friend's blog who has pictures of her little weiner dog swaddled in a towel. She says the dog drags the towel to the people and whines until she is picked up, swaddled and held like a baby. She asked if the dog was spoiled. Well, YES!!!
However, if you think about, many of us spoil our pets in all kinds of ways. I am not ashamed to admit I have hopelessly spoiled several of my pets over the years. Some of them are not even MY pets!
I currently work in an office where a cat resides. I constantly tease my boss about how the cat has him trained to do his bidding. Now, Boss is out of town. Guess who is doing Cat's bidding? Yeah, that's right. It's me. Cat walks over, "Meow." I virtually leap out of my chair to let him out. Walk to the front door, open it. The cat looks at me as if I am the most ignorant creature on the planet. Again, "Meow."
I run to his bowl to check and see if there is food in it. There is. I pick up the bowl and shake it (presumably to make him think it is now fresh). Again with the look of disdain. I walk to the back door. Open it. Wait. The cat walks towards the door. Slowly. I wait. And wait. He takes a detour. I wait. He wanders ever so slowly in the general direction of the door. I wait. At the last minute, he decides it is just too painful to watch my excitement as I think I finally know what he wants. He turns away and walks the other direction.
Now, I am watching him, mouth agape. I cannot believe I fell for that again! Did I just see his shoulders shake? I did!! He is snickering at me. Dirty, rotten, rat *&^$^&%!!!!! Just for that he will get only three treats instead of five! Take that you rotten cat!
At home, I have a little precious dog and two cats. My little dog is cute, sweet and loveable. For the most part, he is very obedient. (Dogs live to please. Cats live to be pleased.) However, I still hop up to do his bidding. He scratches on doors he wishes were open. I immediately open them. If he is outside and decides it's time to come in, all it takes is a single "Yap!" Either my husband or myself will jump up to let him in. Now, in the case of dogs, you don't feel quite so stupid, because they are pretty much willing to give their lives for you. Cats on the other hand, would throw you under a bus in a heartbeat to avoid anything bad happening to them. Actually, I think they find it amusing to see how badly they can treat a human and still get rewarded. Many times I have walked past Cat only to have him reach out with his claws and grab my leg. Or grab my leg and bite it. How many times have I seen him sleeping and looking so sweet and beautiful I reach over to scratch under his chin. He lifts his head for a moment and I think, "Oh, he likes it!" About that time, he grabs my arm and bites me, drawing blood. Ok. I've had enough. Like any wounded animal, I retaliate. I smack the crap out him. Until he commands me to do otherwise.

Viva Las Vegas

My husband and I recently took a trip to Las Vegas to celebrate our 25th anniversary. It was a lot of fun, but I gotta say, I have never felt more like a midwestern girl. The pace there is crazy, not to mention the whole Vegas experience.
A few things I found extremely amusing.
First, people watching is a blast in Vegas. Every kind of person on Earth is represented there. I really wish I could have surreptitiously taken pictures of the various characters we saw. We saw a little old lady with a cane at the slot machine with little gray pig tails. It was so cute! One guy was wearing a yellow and orange plaid suit with a matching cap. That it is to say nothing of the numerous Elvi (that's plural Elvis) and show girls, Zorro, mermaids and hookers. Many things are legal in Vegas that aren't here, including prostitution. Ads for girls are even on the city buses! (They don't call it Sin City for nothing!)
On our tour of the Hoover Dam we went on, we were given coupons for various things such as complimentary drinks with purchase of an entree, free show, discounted tickets, etc. One, I had to wonder how many people actually used. It was for an exotic pet store specializing in ferrets and monkeys. MONKEYS??? Do people look at the coupon and say to themselves, I've always kind of wanted a monkey. Now that I have this 10% off coupon, it has just put it over the top. I'm getting one TODAY!!! How do you get a monkey home? Stuff it in your suitcase? Buy it a seat on the plane? Pretend it is your carry-on bag?? Either way, we managed to leave without buying a monkey. (I know, unbelievable.)
We did however purchase 18" tall maragritas. They also have them twice that size with a neck strap attached so you can walk around and suck down your alcohol at the same time!! Talk about convenience!
I was also amused by the difference between the flight there and the flight back. On the flight there, everyone was excited, talking, laughing. On the ride home, everyone slept.

Torture

You know the person who invented the machine used for a mammogram is a man. No woman would invent a machine designed to pull and smash their breasts.
To check and see if you have any cancerous masses, your breast must be splayed out on a platter and smashed between two plates. God help you if you have really small breasts. If that's the case, the technician is forced to pull flesh from your back in order to have enough to lay out. When it is placed properly, your breast looks like a pancake. Not the nice, fluffy pancakes from IHOP, the crappy homemade pancakes you put too much water in that never really rise and stick to the pan.
Men gripe because they heve to turn their heads and cough. I want to see them after having a MANogram.

Rolls

I have found a new...thing. Well, okay the thing is not new, but I have found new and inventive uses for it. It is the hot roll.
Yesterday I decided to be domestic and make hot rolls. From scratch. Okay, anyone who knows me is now scratching their head, saying, WHAT!!!!
The good news is, everyone survived.
The hot rolls I made were...unique. They were golden brown. They looked delicious. The only problem is they were also very heavy. I mean HEAVY. I went to take them out of the oven and had to have my husband spot me. I caught my daughter doing curls with one in each hand. The sad part is, they were actually making her sweat!
One fell off the table and I feared for my dog's life. I prayed he wasn't under there. (He wasn't. He survived.)
The other good news is I have found other uses for hot rolls.
These are the perfect party food. Have your guests had too much to drink? Get out the hot rolls. These babies will absorb all the alcohol from their system. In addition, they will expand to twice the size of their stomach, causing intense sleepiness. "Oh, Christine. Wonderful party. I just need to go home and take a nap now." (These are particularly wonderful if you are having a party wih young people who want to party all night long. Hey, I'm too old for that!)
Another money saver is if you are serving food at your party. Did you not buy enough hamburgers? No worries. Serve hot rolls. The guests will be too full to eat a hamburger anyway. These rolls can also be used as party favors. You can use them as baseballs or bowling balls (maybe not, they wouldn't roll very straight). Someone tick you off? Hit 'em in the head, then eat the murder weapon.
I'm thinking I will make them again. This I time I will serve them with ranch dressing.

Shopping

The other night, my friend and I were talking about shopping. Now, she is one of those people who loves to shop. "I love to just walk around and look at EVERYTHING! I can walk around Walmart for three hours and love it!"
Sometimes it amazes me that we are friends.
I mean, I can barely stand to walk around Walmart for three minutes, much less three hours. I pretty much despise shopping under almost any circumstances. I do have a sister who has the same shopping philosophy as myself--get in, get what you want, get out. I have another sister, who, while she may shop quickly, we don't shop for clothes because we don't shop in the same section. This sister is very little and shops in the junior section. My clothes come from the "big, fat broad" section of the store.
Others in my family are the ultra-specific shoppers (remember the shorts, Mom?), who must have a certain shade, certain length, certain fabric, certain price, certain heel, certain texture, certain cuff, etc., etc., etc. Yet another is what I call the remorseful shopper. She looks, picks something up, puts it in her cart and walks around the store with it, only to be plagued with buyer's remorse BEFORE we even get to the check-out stand. "Oh, I'm not going to buy this." The disregarded item then gets discarded into whatever section we are in when the Earth-shattering decision is made. Shirts are now poked in the freezer goods. Socks shoved into bath mats. Jeans in with appliances. You get the picture.
I have to admit, I kind of like shopping with other people's money. Every year, my mom takes me shopping for my birthday. That is kind of fun. Since my birthday is in the winter, I am shopping for clothes that cover all of my body, like jeans, skirts, etc. Absolutely never looking at dreaded items like swimsuits or shorts. (These are not fun to shop for even with someone else's money.)
Speaking of money, that may be another reason why I don't like to shop. I am a cheapskate. My friend who likes to shop said she likes to just look at things, with no intention of buying anything. I think that is just teasing. It's like holding a cookie just out of reach of a child. If I am going to spend my time wandering around Walmart, I am damn sure walking out with something. I deserve it. That is my reward for shopping.

Hardball

Our family was thrown a little bit of a hardball this week, so I have had neither the time nor inclination to update my blog. Keep checking, though, I will come through for you soon.

Corsets and Getting Dressed

This last weekend I was dressing up for a wedding. Of course, I wanted to look my very best, so I decided to wear a corset under my dress. Now this sounds uneventful, except you CAN NOT put a corset on by yourself!!
First, there are approximately 500 hooks on a corset. Of course they are in back. For that reason, I employed my daughter to assist me as my own personal "Lady In Waiting."
She sweetly agreed to help me dress and grasped each side of my corset. Next, I heard grunting and groaning. Next, I hear grunting, groaning, panting and expletives as she tried to get the two sides to come to an understanding and meet somewhere in the middle. After several minutes of this, I feel her foot on my back as she leans backwards using all her strength and her body weight to maneuver the two sides to gether. "Man, ma, it's a good thing I've been working out!!"
After her 30 minute workout, the corset was finally in place and I tossed the dress over my head, only to find the zipper is on the side, under my left arm. How exactly am I supposed to zip such a thing up from that position?? Again, with a little assistance, I managed to zip my dress up.
After being completely dressed, I proceded to the wedding. What I had not considered was the actual WEARING of the corset through the ceremony. Being Catholic, the wedding was of course a bit longer than non-Catholic weddings. It also entails standing, sitting, kneeling, standing, sitting, kneeling, standing, sitting, kneeling. I'm here to tell ya, those are not easy to do wearing a corset. As I sat on the pew, I could feel my ribs cracking under the strain. Every time I moved from one position to another, the ribs of my corset would bunch and crack more of my actual ribs.
The good news is, my mom told me I looked very nice and thinner. I just nodded and smiled. My lungs were crushed and I could not breathe enough to talk.
Needless to say, I couln't wait to get home and remove the torturous device. Of course I had to take someone with me to get the horrid thing off.
I had a bon fire that night.

While I'm On A Roll...

Now that journaling your every bite has managed to suck all the enjoyment out of eating (and I didn't even get into figuring out complex meals like chicken alfredo and garlic toast, or Chinese food of any kind, or a burrito and those yummy sugar-dipped chips that you get at Taco Bell) I will continue to regale you with tales of my drab life.
Ok, while I'm on a roll, now lets talk about what to do if you go over your allotted number of calories. WORK IT OFF!!
Now that doesn't sound so bad, but you have to do like 30 minutes of cardio to burn 250 calories. WHAT?? My crappy sandwich took me like 30 seconds to consume and I have to work out for an hour and a half to burn it off? That's just wrong.
I go to the gym with my daughter (sometimes) and we try to work on our...stuff. She is in far better shape than I am and patiently tries to help me through a workout. My problem is, I hate to sweat. Sadly, when you are overweight, it takes virtually nothing to make you sweat. (Oh, I stood up. Now I'm sweaty.) Now, I am trying to find some form of exercise that is actually exercise that doesn't make you sweat. I think they call it liposuction, not exercise.
Another issue is that I am "athletically challenged." I know you don't have to be an athlete to work out, but if you are riding that stationery bike, it is really embarrassing to fall off. (Believe me, I know.) How sad is it to be riding your "bike" along a virtual path, then look up to find other virtual riders riding over your virtual body as it lays in the middle of the virtual path?
And adult beverages? They are even worse. One single shot of a kamikaze--100 calories. WHOA! To work off that kamikaze, I'm going to have to do some serious dancing. To get me on the dance floor, I'm going to have to do some serious kamikaze sucking. Life is a vicious circle.

Obsession

Recently, my obsession has been to lose some of the tonnage I have put on since taking a job where the only muscle I actually work is my brain (and if there is another human being in the room, sans boss, my jaw). Sadly, my butt remains firmly planted in my oh-so-comfy chair.
To that end, I have recently been visited with a nutritionist who gave me tips on how to change eating habits rather than dieting. Luckily for me, it involves eating virtually all day long, so there is no hunger or deprivation involved.
One aspect of changing eating habits is to be aware of the habits you have now. That means writing down every piece of food and every drop of drink that passes your lips. That doesn't sound too hard, right? Well, it's not. That's the easy part. Believe me, it gets harder.
After you write down what you ate, for example something simple like a sandwich and chips, then you have to dissect it into parts, i.e. 2 slices white sandwich bread, 1 piece bologna, 1 slice American cheese, 1 Tbsp. mayo, etc. After dissection (or science), then comes research. Finding out how many calories are in each part of your food or drink. After doing your "research" you find out that piddly little sandwich, which wasn't even that good and which didn't fill you up, is like 300 calories by itself. The chips you ate (about a handful), which were kind of stale and looked like they had been stepped on, are 500 calories because you learn chips are approximately 150 calories per serving, but a "serving" is only four chips. Who eats four chips? I mean Lays spent millions of dollars telling people that no one can eat just one. And no one can eat just four.
Okay, so now that you've done your math homework, you are left with a story problem. "If you are trying to keep your caloric intake to 1200 calories and you have already eaten 800 with a crappy sandwich and chips, what the hell are you going to eat for the rest of the day?"
Answer: Veggies! Lots and lots and lots of veggies. But not those dastardly canned veggies (can you say mass amounts of sodium?). No, they must be fresh veggies.
Okay, that doesn't sound so bad, but with fresh veggies come a four letter word. WORK. I mean, no one just opens the refrigerator, takes out a cucumber and just starts gnawing on it. (However, the temptation has been there.) No, you must first prepare the vegetable for consumption.
First, you get out the cutting board. If it's a cuke, you will probably need a peeler of some kind and a nice sharp knife. Now, none of this is any big deal if you think ahead and make these preparations before you are actually ready to eat them. However, if you wait until you are really hungry, that is another situation all together.
Since you are starving and your blood sugar has dropped to single digits (yet you somehow manage to remain conscious) your hands are shaking uncontrollably, drool is pouring from your mouth--you're getting the picture, right.
Next thing you know, you're in the emergency room, someone has your fingers in a baggie waiting for the doc to sew them back on. You glance over at the baggie and unbidden, the thought comes to you, "I wonder how many calories are in those?"

Dentist

In the last couple of weeks, I have had what I can only describe as a unique experience. What, you may ask, has she been up to now?
I now have my first official fake tooth.
Apparently there is a hierarchy of sorts in your mouth. If you have many teeth in a row in poor health, which failt to thrive and fall out, you get "dentures." This term, I believe, is to indicate they are like indentured servants. They do all the work in your mouth and depend solely on you to choose what you will to feed them.
If you have just a couple of teeth in your mouth are rotten, you get a "bridge" to help them overcome their hardships.
If you have just one bad tooth, it is considered royalty and receives a "crown."
The first day I went to the dentist, it was because after eating the always dangerous piece of TOAST, my tooth broke, leaving a jagged shard in my mouth. I got into the dentist the next day.
When I sat in the chair, the first thing is to check out the damage. After deciding I did, indeed, break the tooth, Dr. whipped out his two six-inch needles. The first went into the outside of the top left gum. While uncomfortable, I didn't really come up out of my chair until the second shot which into the INSIDE of my gum. After scraping me off the ceiling, I was tied into the chair and Doc got out his miniature oscillating saw. He begins the task of removing the offensive tooth from my head. I sit with my mouth agape as tooth shrapnel flys all over the room. I think to myself, "Has anyone ever impaled their throat with their own tooth shrapnel?"
After the shrapnel is successfully removed, some kind of foul-tasting mixture is made up which you are told to "bite down" on. After tasting it, I admit I was thinking something along the lines of, "you can bite me!" The mold being made, he prcedes to put cement in my mouth. For the final touch, a beautiful piece of silver bling is poked in my mouth.

As much as I loved my "grill" work, two weeks later I find myself back in the dentist's chair. This time, he uses pliers to remove the silver bling previously placed and procedes to his ball peen hammer where he nails the new crown in place. (This of course was after blasting my tooth with air and watching me leap out of skin, he determined I would be more comfortable after another six-inch shot was injected into my face).
I left the office $400 later looking very much like a stroke victim, mouth slack and drooling slightly. Just before he left he added, "Don't chew on that side and brush only in a downward stroke for three days. By the way it was great seeing you!"
Oh yeah doc, you too.

Dieting

First, I have to say I have come to a stunning revelation. I hate dieting.
I know, you're thinking, 'DUH!"
I have always told myself dieting isn't that bad and the end result is worth it. Now I know that once you hit 40, there is no end result. You are doomed to stay fat forever. Oh, there are a number of diets and weight loss plans out there, but are they things you can live with? Me? Heck no!
First, there's the Atkins Diet. Well, I just must say there is not a snowball's chance in...a very hot place...that I would ever survive that diet. If I can't have pasta, bread, potatoes, etc., I'd rather be dead. While some women (okay, normal women) may crave chocolate, I crave pasta. Pasta is my comfort food. Had a bad day? Fettucine alfredo will make everything okay. To me, a life without carbs is not worth living. Just kill me now.
Then there are the diet pills advertised on TV. They get your attention by saying things like, "lose weight while you sleep" or "no exercise required." Then, they get someone who is apparently an auctioneer in real life to tell you about the "side affects." Even though I can't understand half of what they're saying a few phrases do pop out. Phrases like "uncontrollable," greasy stools" and anal leakage." WHAT? Are you telling me that while I am embarassed to have my cellulite seen by the general public, it will not bother me to have my backside stained by greasy, leaking stool? Why do I want to lose weight in the first place? With that medication, even if you're thin, no one will know it because you can't leave the bathroom for fear of having an uncontrollable explosion in your pants.
How about Weight Watchers? I know this has been very successful for many, many people. As for me, I will not even weigh at my doctor's office, much less in front of a group of people. I try to distract GOD when I am getting on the scales at home. NO ONE is allowed to know my weight, so again, the chances of my participating in this particular method are extremely slim. (No pun intended.)
Those who tried the phen-phen diet lost a ton of weight (both figuratively and literally). They also have horrible health issues now related to using that particular method of weight loss. (I guess as your body decomposes, you do indeed begin to weigh less, but...)
Then there's the fad diets...cabbage soup (not even an Irish girl can live on that), Negative Calorie Diet (is that like stirring your food with a magic spoon?), Apple Cider Vinegar Diet (can I just say, YUCK!) Israeli Army Diet Plan. With the last one you have two days each of apples (gives you runs), then cheese (to bind you back up), then chicken (to make you cluck), then salad (again with the mass amounts of fiber, thus the runs).
Well, I guess I should just be happy. I mean overweight people are notoriuosly friendly and well-liked, right? Look at the many examples through history...Santa Claus, Cupid, Michelin Man, Pillsbury Dough Boy, Campbell Soup Kids, Chef Boyardee--all happy, smiling, friendly. Heck, even the Hamburger Helper hand is happy and he is even missing a finger!
Thin is evil...Father Time-skinny old man who makes you old, too, Sandman-Skinny psycho lugging around bags of sand to throw in your eyes, Tooth Fairy-stealing kids' teeth in the middle of the night, Batman's nemesis The Scarecrow, Count Dracula... You're seeing the pattern here.
Better to be fat and loved by all than skinny and despised by all the fat people.

Stay tuned

Don't give up on me. I've been really busy and really haven't much time to blog. Stay tuned...There's more to come!

Night Magnification

If a good night's sleep and sweet dreams can be attributed to a benign entity such as the Sandman, then a night of insomnia must be brought on by a mean kid burning insects on the sidewalk with a magnifying glass.
First, the Sandman. How benign can he be if he puts sand in your eyes to make you sleep? I mean I've had days when it just FELT like there was sand in my eyes and it was not a happy experience. If you even have a speck of something it hurts like crazy. How would sand feel? I'm thinking maybe he's not such a good guy afterall.
Now, the mean kid with the magnifying glass. I compare it to that because night time makes everything so much worse and so ridiculously real? Do you know how many times I have lain in my bed awake, thinking horrible thoughts?
Oh no! My kid is at a party. What if they have a beer, get pulled over on the way home, get a DUI, get arrested, get kicked out of school and lose their job? What if their entire future is ruined because they had a beer?
The night your child is 15 minutes late and you lie there thinking, "Oh my gosh--what if they've been in a car accident. They are probably injured or dead on the side of the road. They may be paralyzed. My child will be wheelchair bound, eating from a straw for the rest of his/her life. She/he may suffer traumatic brain injury and be a vegetable.
Or the picture of a crumpled car on the side of the highway with the EMS using the jaws of life to extricate your kid from the vehicle. Holding their intestines in their hands. Picking up limbs from the raod.
The best part of night fears are the sound of the door opening when they finally arrive home. The blessed relief. The surge of anger for the worry they just inadvertently put you through. The sweet, "Mama, I'm home."
Finally, God is in his heaven and all is right with the world.

Trivia Overload

I have read somewhere that everything you see, hear or learn is stored somewhere in your brain, it is just a matter of retrieving it. For that reason, I have always pictured the brain as being some sort of closet. Some things you can reach in your closet with ease while others require searching and dislodging other articles to find. Apparently the entire front section of my "closet" is dedicated to worthless trivia no one ever needed to know, but which I can retrieve at a moment's notice. Other things are buried in the far recesses of my closet, apparently having been boarded up and carpeted over...these are things like algebraic formulas, western civilization and any kind of geography.
Falling out of my closet every time I open the door are things like all the songs of School House Rock, the names of cartoon characters, the theme songs of shows I have never even seen and the names of actors from movies I have never viewed.
Unfortunately, this spills over into other aspects of my life. I have found recently that while I apparently suck at remembering faces, I have a knack for remembering weird trivia about people. My daughter is constantly comparing me tosome kind of weird stalker because I will meet someone or see them and after they tell me their name, facts just start coming to mind. "Oh yeah, Jane Smith, you have six kids and were in labor for 32 hours with the second one. Your mother's maiden name is Jones and she has asthma." I mean this may be a woman I wouldn't recognize if she came to my door, but all of a sudden I remember everything she ever told me even if it was just in passing. Sadly, I also apparently creep people out because while may not even have met them, I may know things like their accomplishments because of working for the local paper. That's why if a teenager waits on me at a restaurant and read their name tag, I think to myself, I that's Bobbi Sue. She is the daughter of so and so and plans to attend USA University. She enjoys biology and art and wants to get a degree in ... whatever. You get the idea. I guess that's the weird stalker part.
It seems like there should be something constructive I could do with this talent. I have to admit, though, I have no idea what it would be. Maybe I should just slam my closet door shut so I can't see what's in it. That's what I do to the real closets in my house and it works for me there, so...why not?

Van Hater

I guess I will start with an apoology to those readers who drive a van. While I'm sure you are perfectly responsible, nice, caring person while on foot, a bicycle, in the grocery store, riding a unicycle, on an airplace, in a boat or just generally anywhere other than driving your van, once you get behind the wheel of your precious minivan, you become my enemy.
There is something about minivans that lead the driver to believe they are the only vehicle on the road. I have seen semis change lanes and accelerate when they see a minivan entering the highway they are on. I can hear the driver's thoughts now: (Oh dear Lord, it's a soccer mom in a minivan! Take me far, far away to keep me safe and so I will live to see my family another day.)
My daughter and I have often discussed how much we despise vans. She used to work at a fast food drive-in and would constantly tell about the vans who drove in with 16 kids piled up in the back. Me, I really don't care how many people are in the van. I just want the van parked at YOUR house.
I used to think minivans accidentally ran you off the road because the visibility was bad in those particular vehicles. Now, I think something evil lurks in one or more of the parts that assemble the contraption. This evil leads the driver to believe thay can merge onto a highway regardless of how much traffic is already on it. The evil tells the driver it can change lanes without using a blinker and the car next to the van can move OR ELSE. The evil tells the driver he/she can read their mail while driving because it (the van) will do the driving for them.
Now, I understand there's lots of room for hauling kids, equipment, car seats, bicycles, furniture, small houses, etc. I also understand sometimes you need a vehicle to haul these things and/or people. I just want to encourage you to resist the evil. Resist the urge to turn around in your seat when you hear a French fry drop. Resist the urge to push other vehicles off the road. Resist the urge to text on your phone, dress your child, put on your socks or do your laundry while driving the evil beast! Go home! Park the evil minivan and get a posturepedic bed and never leave your room!

Posturpedic

First, I want to say, I absolutely love my bed. My husband and I decided to invest our stimulus check in a good night's sleep, so we bought a memory foam mattress and the posturepedic bed that has the adjustable head and feet as well as a massage feature for those days that just, well...suck. When your back is aching or your feet are throbbing, there is nothing better than climbing in your posturepedic bed, perhaps elevating your head and feet a little, watching some tv and feeling the vibration move along your back and legs. (I love it so much, I now go to bed at 5:30 when I get off at 5 p.m. I walk in the door, say hello and go put on my jammies.) It is so wonderful, when we were shopping, my son fell asleep on one of the show room mattresses. When we woke him up to leave, he had to wipe the drool off his chin and flip the pillow over!
But of course, that is if you are in the bed alone.
Unfortuantely, my husband suffers with restless leg syndrome. He likes to have his feet elevated at a 90 degree angle. This is a problem when you are sleeping on your side and your feet suddenly are lifted skyward and you are bending in the middle in a direction your body is not intended to bend. Another annoying scenario is when you come home from work at 2 a.m., after spending 16 hours at work. You're tired, frustrated, and your feet hurt. All you've looked forward to for the last five hours has been going home and climbing into the heaven that is your bed.
You get home and BOTH the feet and head are elevated at 90 degree angles. There lying sideways like the stuffing in a taco, is your husband. Sound asleep. Snoring loudly. On the one hand you think, "Poor baby, he must have had a hard time getting to sleep." Then the real side rears its ugly head and you yell, "Are you kidding me??? Where am I supposed to sleep?" Of course the bed now has a remote which is nowhere to be found. It is probably wedged firmly under the buttocks of your snoozing husband. This where authors of horror stories come up with their diabolical plot twists. Horrible means of torture keep coming to mind, many of which involve placing large objects in small orifices, such as shoving a 2 x 4 up the left snoring nostril.
Another question, why is that when women can't sleep, we just lie there and worry about stupid things. When men can't sleep, no one sleeps. Any ideas?

Long time, no blog

It's been a long time since I've had a chance to sit down and blog. I had a wonderful weekend visiting my darling cousin in Missouri. I went with my best friends (my sisters), and we all had a blast! We spent most of the trip cracking each other up. It was considerably quieter on the way home, as we were worn out and all had sore butts from the six hour drive.
When I came home, I was excited to see my little boy home on vacation. Okay, my little boy is almost a foot taller than me and is in reality a grown man, but he is still MY little boy! I can still see past the facial hair at the toddler face that used to be.
I feel so blessed to have all my little chicks back in their nest!
My guys went camping/fishing while I was in MO. They both came home sunburned. My little red haired boy looked like a lobster in spite of having applied sunscreen. My husband, usually not prone to sunburns, has a very peculiar pattern on his back where the boy apparently was either drunk, distracted or uninterested in putting sunscreen on his dad's back.
My sisters and I talked on the way home about camping/fishing and decided we would rather have buzzards pecking our eyeballs out while we lay naked and on display before having to suffer the torture of sleeping in a tent with mosquitoes eating our flesh (and probaly leaving behind West Nile virus), the sun burning our flesh and the water pruning our flesh. (Hey, no matter how much flesh you have, you still want it to be in one piece, unless you have bugs trained to perform liposuction!) We also hate sleeping on the ground, listening to the chirp of those annoying crickets, the sounds of wildlife and just generally, the outdoors. I want to sleep in an environmetally controlled room, on a posturepedic bed with afan blowing on me all night long. Is that too much to ask?? I think not.
When they found out they had no actual campsite, Husband suggested they throw their sleeping bags on the ground and just sleep wherever. Apparently my fellas have differing ideas as to what "camping" and "fishing" are. Husband came home surprised the boy wasn't a major outdoorsman. (??? Does he know the boy at all?) "Boy kept saying he went fishing with his buddies all the time and they went on a float trip. I figured he was into camping and fishing."
The husband thinks of camping as a time when you sleep under the stars and commune with nature. The boy thinks of camping as sleeping in a three-room tent doused with bug spray. (Come on, I did contribute some DNA to him!! Quite a lot actually.) Needless to say, Boy was not open to the idea of either sleeping under the stars with the hum of mosquitoes on the lake to lull him to sleep, nor sleeping in the pontoon chairs purchased for the fishing. "I really didn't want to drown in my sleep," he said.
As for fishing, the husband wants to actually catch fish and perhaps cook 'em up. The boy thinks of fishing as a time to sit outside, consume beer and and BS with buddies or his pops.
As for me, roughing it is spending time at the cabin with no central air. I love the cabin. I get to spend quality time with my sisters, mom and the Captain. We hang out and play games, BS, vent, snack and drink. Can you have a better time? I think not.

Garage sales

Working at a newspaper, I find myself taking ads for garage sales from many, many ambitious people who actually have them.
Myself? Well, not surprisingly, I never have garage sales. Don't get me wrong, I admire those people who do, I just don't have them myself. I always thought it was because I was too lazy to gather all the crap I have in my house up and laying it out on the driveway for others to peruse, discuss and ultimately reject. (What?? That is a perfectly good 8-track player, how could you not want that?) Now I have come to the conclusion that I don't have garage sales because I have a mental illness.
My illness stems from my intense belief that my crap is worth more than you are willing to pay me for it and I don't want to let anything go (and because I'm too lazy to haul my junk outside and put price tags on it).
About a year ago, my sisters and mom came over to help me fix up my basement and make the kids' rooms into "guest rooms" and basically make it a livable section of the house.(Yes, it requires an entire cleaning crew to get this done). My sister reminded me just the other day of them going through the hordes of stuff in my basement. They started by asking me if I wanted to keep this or that. They quickly learned, if asked, I would not release anything. (Now do you wonder why my house is so full of crap?)
It started out simply enough with questions like: Them - "Why do you have this little blow up beach ball thing?" Me - "My son brought it home from after-prom, so it has a story attached to it. He probably still wants that." Them - "No he doesn't" It is thrown away. (Being the youngest, I have learned they just ask to be polite, they really don't care what the response is. They are older and know what's best for me. Actually, most of the time that is true. Apparently you don't get any smarter with age.) They immediately quit asking. When they left the basement, about four lawn & leaf bags of junk went with them.
Miraculously, my basement became a clean, livable space--then. It seems I have a way of accumulating stuff. Some things even I am a little ashamed I have kept (I have a cast from a broken leg I had 18 years ago). Other things, how do you pitch them? Just a couple of weeks ago I took down a handprint my son had made when he was three. Now obviously, I have no use for it now, but how can a mother throw it away?? If you don't throw it away, where do you keep it. At what point do you draw the line??
And that's just sentimental stuff. What about that recliner you paid $400 for back in 1988? I mean it's still in good shape, why shouldn't someone be willing to pay $200 for it now. I mean my gosh, it's half price!! The dresser only has a few scrathes on it, it should be worth at least a third of its original price, right? WRONG! My stuff is crap. Your stuff is crap. If it's at a garage sale, everyone pretty much thinks it's crap. Well, maybe I'm wrong. People have told me about garage sales they had and made $1,000-$2,000. I'm lucky to make $10.
I guess it really is just my stuff that is crap.

In all seriousness...

If you enjoy reading my posts, please pass along my web address. I am trying to get up a lot of readers. I am kind of hoping someday to publish somewhere other than my little newspaper, but need a lot of feedback to proceed. If anyone knows a way for me to increase my readership, I am open to any and all suggestions.

Sports stupid

The childhood trauma came rushing back!
I'll explain. Yesterday, while sitting at my mother's with my daughter and two of her friends, I tossed my phone over to my daughter to show her a picture message I had just received. When we finished oohing and aahing over the picture, she tossed the phone back to me. (Here is where the trauma comes in!)
I'll just say it, I am probably the most unathletic person on the face of the Earth. I mean maybe if it was a sport that didn't involve catching, throwing, running, kicking or hitting something, maybe I would have been good at it. Plus, as a little kid with glasses, my face was apparently a magnet for balls. I think I can honestly say I have been hit in the face with just about every ball known to man except for a bowling ball or a croquet ball (which probably would have killed me if I had been hit with them, thus ending my tragic tale). Yes, I have been hit with a softball, baseball, basketball, soccer ball, red rubber ball, volleyball (which I played and have been told that the spectators felt sorry for me because I was so horrible--"Serve the ball over the net this time, Christine!!!") and yes, even a golf ball (don't ask).
Anyway, I attempted to catch the phone with a motion that can only be described as some kind of spastic twitch. Needless to say, I did not actually catch it. I was SO happy to know this mini convulsion was witnessed by others. Friend says, "That was a horrible catch!" (She pretended I had actually caught the thing because it had at least landed in my lap.)
All the trauma of picking teams in grade school came rushing back. Remember the days when the teacher would assign two people to be captains (usually the most athletic) and told those captains to choose their teams? Now, I realize someone has to be picked last, but every single time? That's just wrong. I was so far down the list of people to pick, EVERYONE got picked before me. "I want Beulah, the paraplegic, you have to take Christine" or "I want Emily with the iron lung, you have to take Christine." What may be even worse than being chosen after someone with a prosthetic leg is being bartered off because you suck so much, the opposing team thinks the handicap of having you on the team somehow makes up for the athletic prowess of someone else. For example, "You have Dawn (a really good athlete), so you have to take Christine." Apparently this is supposed to help shift the balance of power from the team being unstoppable (because of Dawn), and being a guaranteed loser (because of me).
I've got to tell you, when the hierarchy of life is determined by recess (as it is in grade school), your self-esteem sort of plummets when the kid on life support is chosen for the team before you.
The really sad part is that even if the kid on life support is chosen as the captain, even THEY won't choose you for the team because they want their team to win.
Oh well, at least I didn't have to run to catch the phone.

Victoria's Secret (PG-13)

This the Victoria's Secret semi-annual sale. Now some of you , shall we say, "perkier" ladies may not care about such things, but for some of us whom gravity has attacked with a vengeance, we need to know the Secret.
How do you know when it's time to be let in on the Secret? Here are a few clues: 1) When you walk past and flash your breasts at your husband by lifting the bottom of your skirt. 2) When you start to worry you are going to zip your bosoms up in your jeans. 3) When you lie on your back and have to put your arms over your head because your ta tas are flanking you. 4)When you dry off from the shower and as you bend over to dry your legs, your knockers resemble tube socks with croquet balls in them.
Ok, those are a just a few of the clues you get.
You "perkier" ladies, also known as young women, small breasted women or "enhanced" women, can go to Walmart or Target and just pick up a sports bra. Me? Not so lucky.
I recently purchased a couple of less expensive bras to wear on weekends or on Big Panty days (or let's face it, those days when you just want to be comfortable). After I got them home, I decided to wear one of my new purchases. Now, I had tried them on at the store to make sure they fit, but I had NOT tried them on with clothes. Anyway, I put one on and was wearing it to work on one of my 16-hour days for comfort's sake. I looked down and noticed that it appeared I had two cannons facing opposite directions preparing to shoot! Now, I firmly believe that having larger breasts when you are 60 pounds overweight is kind of like God's compensation to you. "Well, you have cottage cheese thighs, a huge flat butt and a gut which sticks out further than your backside, but look, you have cleavage now!"
However, without Victoria's Secret to lift those sisters up and put them where they belong, it is of no use whatsoever. So I guess my point is I will be at Victoria's Secret sometime this weekend making my half-price (but still expensive) purchase because the girls are worth it. I will bear with the stiff underwire, live with the "push-up" feature which makes 'em look better and deal with the biting that occurs after about eight hours. Hey, a girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do.

Scooter weather

I would love to be able to drive my scooter again. I miss it. A little background--We bought a little Honda moped a couple of years ago. I live in a small town where the speed limit is usually no more than 30 miles per hour, so a vehicle that has a top speed of about 29 mph is just fine. Also, there's not much traffic, so you are relatively safe (unless someone is driving behind you talking on their cell phone, eating a hamburger, putting their hair up in a ponytail, putting on mascara in the rearview mirror and simultaneously talking with the nine other people smashed into their little clown car). The good side is that the scooter gets between 80 and 90 miles to the gallon which, when gas is $4 a gallon, is a darn sight better than my Buick. The bad part is that I look like a Cabbage Patch doll riding on a Barbie bike. Or a Weeble riding a straw. Whatever--you get the picture.
Ok, so I'm a short, fat, old lady riding around on a tiny little scooter wearing a bicycle helmet. (I mean better safe than sorry, right?) Since I live in a small town and work for the local papaer, I know many of the folks around here. I can just imagine the conversation around the dinner table: (Hey, I'm in menopause, you know it's about ME!) "Did you see Christine on her scooter today? I wonder where that seat goes when she sits on it? Do you think it has to be surgically removed when she stands up? You suppose those tires are reinforced? Does she think a bicycle helmet is going to protect her if she gets hit by a car?
In answer to the last question, I don't know how much protection my helmet will provide, but I hope if I get hit, I'm not having a Big Panty day.

Big Panties

Gotta say, I'm kind of having a "Big Panty" day. I don't know what you call them, but that's what I call them. For those of you who are young, guys, newlyweds (that's anyone who has been married less than half their life)or any combination of the above, I will explain. Big Panty days are those days when you wake up and your nose is kind of stopped up, your face feels greasy, you walk into the bathroom, glance in the mirror and shriek (probably because in addition to your greasy face, you find a big red zit about to make its appearance and four new whiskers on your chin. Basically you feel really ugly and fat and just want to wear something comfortable and don't care if it matches or it's from the 70s or whatever.
Those are the days you open your drawer and dig to the bottom and find your big panties. The ones where half the elastic is hanging out, or have holes ot stains or what have you. The ones you should have already thrown away, but have never really gotten around to "just in case" you needed them. (You know you have them...it's those panties your mom always said NOT to be wearing if you were in a car wreck.) (Can't you hear the EMS now, "Man, she should have listened to her mama. That's probably why she got in this horrible, disfiguring, maiming accident. Because she was wearing her big panties. She should have known better!)
Now, I don't know what other people call those days and I'm basically just assuming guys have their own version of it, having never actually been a guy myself. (However, those chin whiskers are becoming more and more prevalent...)
Speaking of displaced hairs, have you ever noticed older men have little bushes growing out of their ears?? I used to think it was just because as it fell off their head, it just took root wherever it landed like in their ears or on their back. Now I have decided it's a self-preservation adaption that God gave them. It protects them from the savage spewing of the menopausal women around them.
As I've gotten older, I have noticed certain changes. The first thing I noticed was that all of a sudden, everyone around me started having a big bowl of Stupid in the morning. Then came the fact that no one seemed to noticed the temperature would just unexpectedly rise to like 300 degrees. (Why is no one else sweating?? Are they dead?)
In the middle of the night, for some odd reason, I wanted to shove my husband out of bed because he was sucking up all my air and of course, causing me to sweat like a pig.
Now of course, I have to come realize that as always, it's all about ME! I have to remember to be patient and hope their box of Stupid runs out soon. (My box of Grouch seems to be bottomless, so don't bet on it running out anytime soon. And I can chew on one bowl of Grouch for DAYS!)When the temperature rises, I just sit and fan and laugh it off (better to join in on the laughter than just feel like you're being laughed at). In the middle of the night, I get up and put my feet on cold tile. (It helps). Hopefully everyone around will me will survive the next decade or so.
Now that I think about it, I guess I would rather have a big panty day than a tiny hat day.

Foot Fetish

This weekend I was invited to get a pedicure with my mom and daughter. Sounds like a fun outing, right?? Well, it was a fun time. For me anyway. I can't really say the same for the poor guy who was administering my pedicure.
Before I even went to get my pedicure, I had to mow my legs. (Again with the judging??) In my defense, my legs rarely see the light of day. (Believe me, there's a reason for that. I do not have legs anyone wants to see. My legs look the hood of a white vehicle that has been pelted with hail! I know, tan fat looks better than white fat, but like a vampire, I burst into flame when coming into direct sunlight.)
Anyway, back to my pedicure story. I have to admit here that besides the fact that my feet look Fred Flintstone's (short square toes on short square feet), I generally abhor shoes and taken them off about March and don't put them back on until around November. Needless to say, they aren't exactly the softest feet on Earth. (Ok, my kids call them moccasins.) Anyway, I'm soaking my feet in the tub and he does the thing with the toe nails (clipping, buffing, cuticle trimming, etc.) He looks at my heels and looks at me with a pained expression. He said, "You want cut off?" I'm thinking, ouch! Not particularly. (Besides, I need those callouses to walk on later, right?)
He gets out his electric sander and some kind of toxic cleanser and proceeds to scrub the heck out of my heels. After like 20 minutes, he falls back exhausted. Next comes the application of pretty polish to ugly toes. (I know they're ugly, but they are still attached to my legs, so you do what you can, right?) He polishes them beautifully and has me sit in front of this teeny, tiny little fan blowing on my toes, which puts out about as much air as a snore. I sit there for a while and it seemed like long enough for the polish to dry. WRONG! I put on my sandals and immediately messed up my polish. The guy came back over and redid my polish. (God bless him!!) Before I left, he insisted I wear some flip-flops he provided, so I didn't mess up my toes any further. (The flip-flops resemble hospital shoes for thsoe who are not really interested in hygiene. Anyway, I did finally leave and my toes are lovely.
I heard that guy retired right after I left.

More about being directionally impaired

Now I have a new thing to fear about GPS systems. What if they lie to you?
My niece recently went on a trip with her new GPS system and decided to rely solely on directions being given by said device. They ended up driving 50 miles out of their way and still had not arrived at the destination they thought they had programmed in. Okay, she said they think they know what they did wrong and she doesn't think it will happen again. But what if it does?
I can picture the conversation with my husband now. "Honey, I'm on my way to Reno, Nevada. I just passed a sign that said Anchorage 17 miles. Did I make a wrong turn?"
I mean why do thay make it so difficult to use? If you had a good sense of direction you wouldn't need a GPS, right???
Anyway, I have a friend who owns a Garmin. Hers is very polite and has a very pleasant voice. It doesn't berate you when you become too befuddled to proceed. It calmly says, "recalculating." That's a very polite way, right?? Plus It has these little encouraging dings when you do it right. You kind of feel like you're on a game show and doing well. "Ding, ding!" (I'm so proud of you! Good job!)
If you turn wrong, it merely gives a disappointed "dong." (Better luck next time!) It does not threaten you or sound threatening. Plus you can pick out a picture of a cool car you wish you were driving. (I think I would pick a picture of a fun sports car and pretend I'm driving that instead of the blue-hair Buick I actually drive around in. Then at least I could pretend to myself I am cool!)

Sick, sick, sick

I have decided ibuprofen is a wonder drug.
Why, you may ask? because it makes everything okay.
I have been stricken with strep throat (yes, I did say stricken--call me a drama queen, but I really felt like poop.) for the last two days. This is the only time in my life I have ever had it, so I'm sure I have had it worse than anyone else ever has. Besides having a throat that feels like you are swallowing shards of glass, I also have glands the size of golf balls protruding from my neck, making me look like a monster from a horror movie. (Ok, maybe they're not really the size of golf balls, but they feel like it.)
Anyway, I got up again this morning feeling yucky (did I mention my head has had a small tribe of bongo players in it?) with a screaming headache, sore throat and massive glands. (Yes you better call the WAH-mbulance) My saintly husband had bought me some liquid-filled gel caps of ibuprofen the night before, so I decided I would give it a try. (I mean even if it killed me, I would only feel better, right?)(I know, totally overdramatic.) Unbelievably, a half hour later I was feeling like a human being again, albeit a sick one, but not a horrible feeling sick one.
Not only did it get rid of headache, fever and somewhat releive my throat, but even my feet feel better!
I'm thinking about buying it in bulk now. If it gets rid of all pains, maybe it will get rid of that annoying neighbor!

Directions

First of all, I will say I have the sense of direction God gave a crowbar. I have kind of adapted by completely ignoring my "gut feeling." If it feels like I should go right, I go left. Usually, this is effective, but of course, not always. I have also found there is really no way to improve your sense of direction. You can try to look for landmarks, but frankly (at least for me), they are no help. (turn by the Quik Trip--there's what, 200 Quik Trips in town? Every corner has a Quik Trip)
My husband gives what I call "country directions." Example: "You go out on old highway 25 and keep going until you see the big rock. Turn east and go another one to nine miles until you pass where the old silo used to be. Turn north there until you see where the Smiths used to live and it's about two to eight blocks from there."
I want street names. Go to Main Street. Turn left. Go 1.5 miles to Hampshire. Turn left. Proceed 2.3 miles. Get out of your car. Walk 19 steps to door. Open it.
My son is always telling me he is going to get me a GPS system. While that sounds nice, I'm a little afraid. What if it's mean to me? What if I plug in the information needed and don't do exactly what it says? Example: GPS says, "Turn left in 2.5 miles." I get to talking and forget to turn. GPS yells at me, "I said turn left, stupid! How can anyone as dumb as you even have a driver's license? We'll try it again. Go to the next block and turn right." Yelling again, "Turn here, moron!!!. I give up. There is no hope for you. You are too stupid to be on this earth. I have set this vehicle to self-destruct with you in it to insure you are no longer driving the streets. This car will self-destruct in 3, 2, BOOM!!
Maybe I'm better off just being lost all the time. I mean, I eventually find my way home, right??

Middle Age Spread

I have decided there is more than one meaning of the term "middle age spread." While my butt and hips have indeed spread over the years, there's so much more to it than that. Your stuff spreads, too. What I mean is as your kids leave the house, you start moving your stuff into what used to be their space. For example, I have taken over all the closets in the basement. I shower down there, so it is logical for me to dress down there, right? Well, now my that my daughter is once again living with the "roommates she had in high school", she feels she needs some of that space back. Once upon a time I was amazed that my mother could live by herself and yet still have all the closets in a house that used to house six people completely full. I no longer wonder about that. It is so easy to do. Even if you don't have any more clothes than you ever did, you still need more closet space. (Maybe it's the other middle age spread contibuting to that.)
My daughter has moved into the room that usee to belong to my son. It is bigger and has the bathroom connected to it. (Also, she had been gone for 4 years and her bedroom kind of became a storage room. I don't know why she couldn't sleep with a Christmas tree on her bed!) Anyway, along with the larger room is the larger closet. So my clothes were removed from the larger closet and stuffed into the closet of what used to be her bedroom (confused yet?). And when I say stuffed, I mean STUFFED. Now, all my clothes are taking up about 1/3 the space they were previously alotted. Not only that, but her things are still in that closet as well. She has many items she has acquired for the day when she is living on her own like towels, dishes, etc. Those things are all stacked in the closet I am now using. What this means is that not only do I have about 14 inches in width to hang my clothes, But I also have only about ten inches in length before it is folded over in half. Apparently, my closet is only good for hanging socks and panties.

Over it

Okay, I feel better now and the pity party is over. I listened to my big sister and got up off my butt and did something constructive. That's why she's the big sis and I was born last.
I took a shower and was getting ready to slip on my new sandals when it came to me...why was I throwing a pity party when it could be so much worse? I could be out shopping for God's sake.
First of all, let me explain that I understand I am not your stereotypical woman. I don't carry a purse if I can avoid it. I hate virtually all domestic duties and I'm really not a big fan of chocolate. I don't really accessorize much and do not change my purse with my outfit. Most importantly, shopping is something you do when you need something, not something you do for fun. I would rather be drawn and quartered and dragged naked through the streets than just wander aimlessly through a random store with no intention of buying anything.
This brings me to my next subject. Shopping with someone who has a very narrow scope of what they want. I was shopping with my mom earlier this week and I was looking for white sandals (everyone needs a pair of white sandals). For me it was-I want them to be white and I don't want my free loader toe to stick out the side (that's another whole issue for my therapist). Those were really the only requirements. For my mother it is more like, I am looking for a pair of brown shorts for a trip she is taking this summer. Sounds easy enough, huh? WRONG! What she doesn't say is that they must be a particular shade of brown. They must be a certain length. They must be a certain style. I see a pair of brown shorts. "No, those are not brown enough." (Not brown enough??) Another pair. "No, I don't want any elastic." ok... Another pair, "No those are too long." Another "No those are too short."
What she didn't tell me was that they had to be exactly 11 centimeters from the center of her kneecap, they must be exactly three shades from the crayon brown, they must, in effect, look exactly like the 27 other pairs of shorts she already owned. Oh, did I mention they had to be a certain fabric. "No, those are seersucker."
I might also add she was looking for sandals at the same time. Brown of course because they had to go with her "Color Palatte" of greens, browns and tan. (After all, she didn't want to have to change her purse every day!!) These sandals also had to be a certain shade of brown, but they also had to have the correct height of heel. "No heel, I want flat sandals." "Those are too flat." "I said no heel." Etc., etc. etc.
So while I may have spent my evening and morning alone, it definitely could have been worse!

Loser

Okay. I am officially a loser. It is a holiday weekend and I am sitting home alone on the computer! What is wrong with this picture?
I spent my Saturday night sitting in front of my TV watching Forensic Files. I called numerous people (who apparently have lives) to see if I could find someone to hang with, only to find they weren't at home. (Yes, I already figured out that is because they have a life and I don't.) I spend my holiday weekend working. What really sucks the most is that in all actuality, only about two hours was spent actually working. However, those two hours prevented me from going to the cabin and visiting with Captain Morgan.
I am a double loser because not only am I home alone, but I am a lazy bum. Some would take the opportunity of being home alone to get something done around the house. I could be cleaning my sty (which used to be my home), doing laundry (the song Ain't No Mountain High Enough keeps running through my head) or planting the plants that heve been sitting on my porch since mid-April. But no. I have been vegetating in front of the TV (does that count as planting something?. Oh, and throwing myself a pity party.
All this alone time has given me time to ponder...
Everything in life is about perspective. For example, today I am throwing myself a pity party, feeling lonely. Most of the time, I really enjoy my own company (I mean who wouldn't enjoy hanging out with me? Ha. Ha.) But, it's all about perspective. Another example: My daughter recently graduated from college. At a get-together after graduation, I overheard one of her friends asking her what she was going to do now. Her reply? She laughed and said, "I am just going to live with the roommates I had in high school." Now that's perspective. Some people would think, "Man, I'm an adult child moving back in with my parents and living in their basement." What a great perspective!! Actually I'm kidding. Having my daughter live with us again has been nothing but a joy. I have really missed her the last four years and am relishing the fact that she's back, if only temporarily.
Actually, my perspective is brightening just thinking about hers. I may just get up and do something constructive!

just thinking...

Okay, I am buzzing. I really feel like I am about to crawl out of my flesh. Let me explain... I got up this morning to find NO COFFEE!! In my world this is equal to a typhoon, earthquake, avalanche, etc. (Of course, never having experienced any of these things, it is easy to make these obvious comparisons.) In other words-disaster.
I went to the other office I work out of and finally deciding I couldn't stand the lack of caffeine, I decided to go across the street to Sonic and get a cup of coffee. On my desk, there lay a coupon for Java Chillers for 99 cents. Being the cheapskate that I am I decided to get one. Once there, I thought to myself, "Self, what if you don't like a Java Chiller and find yourself still without caffeine? Obviously that woukld mean disaster to the second power, so it was not even an option. I decided it was better to be safe than sorry, so I ordered a Java Chiller and a cup of coffee just to be safe. WOW!!! I don't know what is in a Java Chiller, but they are not only delicious (think dessert), but they give you a serious kick in the butt! (I suspect there may be an illegal substance in there, but I'm not telling! Anything that good must be illegal.)
Now, since my mind is racing, it gave it me time to ponder gifts from God. (The Java Chiller being one of them.) When God is handing out gifts such as brains, beauty, talent, etc. are there lines? I mean, I can kind of picture lines for each of those things. "The line for looks is at the far end of the building...talent is around the corner...brains in the southeast section..." That would explain so many things, but yet leave other questions unanswered. Did some people just keep crowding in line? We all know those people who are gorgeous, talented and brilliant. We want to hate them but can't because they are also the nicest person on the planet. Is that fair???
Then we also know the person who is sadly unfortunate looking, dumb as a box of rocks, unpleasant and perhaps even stinks. What happened with them?? I don't know. Just something to think about. One thing I know, when the line formed for a sense of direction, I got lost. Sadly, I have been ever since.

Slip Slidin' Away

Slipper slides scare me.
Several years ago (okay, a couple of decades ago), my sister Cindy and I decided to take our respective (though rarely respectful) kids to the park to play and have lunch. I sweetly volunteered to drive if she would fix lunch.
The day started out well enough. It was a beautiful day in late April, and it had rained the night before, so it was rather cool. I decided I better wear long pants, (mainly because I hadn’t shaved my legs since November) so I pulled on my brand new, straight-legged jeans(hey, it was the 80s!). I grabbed my Coca-Cola jacket and packed my kids in the car.
The park looked fantastic. The grass was that bright, verdant green you only see in the spring. We could still smell the rain from the night before, and the air hung thick with humidity. The park had all kinds of equipment: climbers, swings, merry-go-round, tires, and slides.
Cindy and I watched the kids play for a while, but I just couldn’t resist going down the slide a few times. I guess I should have stopped at once.
I chose the tallest slide. I was a grown woman after all! It just wouldn’t do for me to go down some puny, little kid’s slide. I discovered that the darn humidity had made the slide of my choice kind of sticky. That was no fun!
I hollered, “Hey Cindy! The slide is sticky! Do you by any chance have any wax paper in the lunch so I can slicker it up?”
“ No. I’m sorry,” she replied.
I was far too ingenious to be deterred, however. I thought it would be a good idea to slide down on my satiny jacket. That would slick it up! I sat at the top of the slide on my jacket and screamed, “Whee!” as I flew to the bottom.
My feet landed in the sand and stayed there. Unfortunately, the rest of my body did not take the hint and kept going. I heard a sound like a stick breaking and looked to see that my right foot was on backwards.
“Oh my God! Cindy! I think I’ve broken my leg!” I yelled.
Cindy walked over nonchalantly and said, “Funny. Get up.”
“I’m not kidding!”
“You did not break your leg. Get up!”
“Cindy, look at my foot!” I nearly screamed.
She looked down and her face turned to ash. “Oh my God! We have to get you to the hospital!”
I looked at my Fred Flintstone-like car parked about a football field away. This very conscientious park had curbs about 15’’ high and placed the equipment far away from the danger of parked cars.
Cindy called the kids and helped me to my feet…er, foot. I hopped about three times in excruciating pain, then realized that was not going to work. I would pass out before I got ten feet. The next option was crawling. Down I went on both hands and knees; broken, dangling, foot held up. This worked just fine until my four-year-old son hopped on my back.
“Give me a ride, Mama,” Ryan squealed.
My head spun around like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist, and a deep, guttural, demon voice screamed, “Get off me!”
My little redheaded boy’s big, blue eyes filled with tears and he jumped off yelling, “I’m going back to play then!” Off he went. My oldest niece, Nicki, chased him down and brought him back.
Eventually, a kind man ended up carrying me to my car. On the way, I said, "Sorry I'm not smaller." to which he replied, "Me, too." Cindy drove my Flintstone-mobile to her house to drop off the kids.
We stayed in my car because I was not about to hop from car to car. Note to Hyundai owners: If you are ever broken, this is not the smoothest riding vehicle you could wish for!
Immediate Care was a welcome sight after the debacle in the park and having winced in agony over each of the seventeen billion bumps. Cindy ran in to get a wheelchair for which I was eternally grateful. I did not relish the idea of crawling across the asphalt on the parking lot. With my luck, I would be run over. I transferred from the Flintstone mobile to the wheelchair. Cindy pushed me into the building and we patiently waited our turn.
Up to this point, I had been very much in control. I did not cry or moan or curse loudly, because I didn’t want to scare my kids or my sister. Perhaps it was because the nurse finally looked my way that my tiny, little brain decided that it was no longer just my problem. The medical staff would take care of me. Whatever the reason, as soon as the nurse looked at me, I went into shock.
Boy, those folks move fast when they see a dangling foot and the body attached to it shivering uncontrollably. They rushed me into a room. The nurse said, “Let’s get these jeans off so we can x-ray.” That was easier said than done. My one and only pair of straight-legged jeans would not go over that foot. They tried and tried, then cut my brand new jeans off
my body, exposing my furry legs.
Off to x-ray! I figured it was bad when the nurse put my x-ray pictures up and sucked air through her teeth saying, “Ooh! Come here and look at this,” to her colleagues. Even after hearing that, I still thought they were joking when they said, “You need to have surgery.” I had broken both the bones in my lower leg.
Next thing I knew, I was flying down the hallway that connected to the hospital. I was in a drug-induced haze by then. Once at the hospital, I was taken to a room called the "manipulation room." I'm here to tell you that is a euphemism for "torture chamber."
While in the torture chamber, a group of sadists continually pulled and pushed on my leg telling me it was to try to align the bones (yeah, right!). The doctors then turned to my husband and asked him if he was ok!!
Since my ordeal, I now have an irrational fear of slipper slides, parks, sand, straight-legged jeans, and Coca-Cola jackets. Oh well, what are a few more phobias?

Bathroom thoughts

Okay, these are just a couple of observations I have made in the last couple of days. One day, I used a restroom designed for the handicapped (oh, don't judge. We've all done it at some time or another.) While in there, I couln't help but notice my feet were dangling from the stool without actually touching the floor. Now as I'm only 5'2", this came as no surprise. What I did find surprising was that the toilet paper dispenser was under the stability bar. What this means is that from your perch on the edge of toilet, you must bend yourself in half, standing on your head to retrieve toilet tissue. I have decided either businesses should go back to just having rolls of toilet paper or perhaps have the big toilet paper dispensers installed upside down in the handicapped stalls.

On the other extreme, I was dining in a resturant on Mother's Day and had to tinkle. I used the restroom (not the handicapped stall) and found to my dismay I could actually see up into the toilet paper dispenser! I actually had to reach up an arm's length to grab a few sheets. Surely there's gotta be a happy medium! Homes can do it, why can't businesses? (Never mind, I know--I have never been to a home with a toilet paper dispenser. Good Lord, it's hard enough to get anyone in my family to put a new roll on, much less if they had to actually install toilet paper. My guys firmly believe there is a toilet paper fairy.)

First Try

First of all, I work for a small community newspaper. One of the ironies of my job is that I write a cooking column., The irony is--I hate to cook and basically suck at it. This is anarticle I wrote one time when I was desparate and had no one who was willing to do be featured that week.


I find myself in the position of having no cook this week and I seem to have run out of friends, husbands, anyone who owed me a favor and everyone I have ever threatened. Therefore, you, the readers will have to make do with my own brand of baloney. Today, you are invited to come into my kitchen; and a scary place it is.
After two years of writing this column, I have to ‘fess up. I truly worship those people who cook or bake (or broil or grill). Though I very much enjoy eating, I don’t really cook. When I began this job and told my family about this column, there was uproarious laughter from my mom and sisters (to say nothing of my husband and kids). During a lull in the hysterical guffawing, my sister gasped, “I guess you don’t have to actually cook to do that, huh?”
This week’s “Come Into My Kitchen” column is written for those of us who call ourselves cooks only in the broadest sense of the word; those that compare the task of cooking with cleaning the toilet or scrubbing the floor - a necessary evil. Me, I cook with what can best be described as “home assembled” recipes rather than “homemade.” (By the way, I despise baking, so there will be no recipes for baked goods. Cookies are made by the Keebler elves and sold at Dillons. If you want donuts, go to Noah’s.)
I used to actually bake birthday cakes for my poor, unfortunate children when they were little (before they were old enough to laugh, be embarrassed or know what cakes were supposed to look like). Their birthday cakes inevitably looked like they had been dropped in the street and either kicked or run over by a car. They were truly the ugliest cakes you have ever seen. In my own defense, they did taste okay. (That is, if you could bring yourself to put it in your mouth!)
I am putting in today’s column several recipes for the “gastronomically challenged” as well as some helpful tips I have learned the hard way, to help you get through your meals.
First tip: Learn the phone numbers of all local restaurants. Put them on speed dial if necessary.
Second: Everything tastes better with ranch dressing. (At least everything I make does.) After extensive research, my daughter and I have determined that almost every meal can include ranch dressing. Not only does it top a salad, but it also makes an exceptional dip for almost anything. You can dip veggies, chicken or pizza crust into it. It makes fish sticks edible as well as covering up a host of culinary blunders.

Did you cook that hamburger a tad too long? Put a little ranch on it and that charred taste disappears. Out of salsa sauce (another kitchen staple)? Tortilla chips are great dipped in ranch and it can even be put on breakfast burritos.
Third: Take advantage of all convenience foods. It is nothing to be ashamed of to use spaghetti sauce out of a can or jar. Frozen foods are one of the major food groups. Hot dogs and macaroni and cheese can be a meal if you’re feeling low on cash or ambition. I’m sure it is nutritionally sound. After all, you have your bread (the bun), meat (so to speak), and milk groups (in the mac and cheese). All you need is a veggie or fruit. Open a can of corn, pears or peaches and be guilt-free. Actually, a hot dog with everything probably already has the veggies. I mean isn’t relish a little chopped onion considered vegetables?
Fourth: Use lots of cheddar cheese! Cheddar cheese goes on top of just about everything. (When you see my recipes, you will no doubt notice a pattern.) Cheddar also helps give that “homemade” look. Cheddar cheese sprinkled on a frozen pizza looks like maybe you made it yourself.
People are always commenting, “You must love getting all those recipes.” Well, as you have probably realized by now, I rarely use any of the wonderful recipes seen here. While I greatly admire those people with the ability and/or desire to cook, I personally would love it if I never had to cook another meal. (If there was a cooking fairy, I would beg him or her to live at my house!) If I had the money, I would eat out all the time or hire a cook or have all my meals catered.
I do give one of my sisters all the dessert recipes, however. She thinks she hit the mother lode! She loves to bake and does it to relax for goodness sakes! (“What are you doing?” “Oh, just baking 73 dozen cookies. I’ve had a rough week.”) Personally, I think she is just sick, sick, sick.
The spaghetti recipe I included is called “The World’s Fastest and Easiest Spaghetti.” I defy anyone to make spaghetti any faster or easier using real noodles. (No frozen or canned spaghetti allowed!) If anyone knows an easier and /or faster one, my hat goes off to you!
The recipe for “Breakfast Burritos” makes an exceptionally fast and simple lunch, brunch or supper. I do doctor them up a little more for supper by adding onions, peppers, mushrooms or whatever. My kids leave off the eggs and just have cheddar wrapped in a tortilla. Nothing beats a 30-second snack.

Another meal we like, though it is more time consuming, is burritos. They are a favorite of the kids and I usually have leftovers even with a teenage boy in the house. You know what leftovers mean? An even quicker lunch tomorrow!
Other quick and easy meals we have are tacos, tater tot casserole and in the summer, salad. (You can buy salad in a bag! Just add tomatoes and of course, cheddar cheese.)
By the way, there is nothing wrong with paper plates. Why would you want to spend more time doing dishes than you spent fixing dinner?
Obviously, you don’t have to be a chef to be featured in the “Come Into My Kitchen” column. (For those of you who say, ‘I don’t cook.” Bull. Every household has someone who cooks (even if they don’t like it!).
To save yourself from future visits into my kitchen, volunteer to be featured as the cook. You could also volunteer a friend, a neighbor or an acquaintance. One of your siblings probably did something to you in childhood that you owe them for. Give me their name and I will call them to be the cook. I can be reached at The News, Monday through Friday, 555-5555.

Favorite Recipes

THE WORLD’S FASTEST &
EASIEST SPAGHETTI
1 can spaghetti sauce (or jar)
1 pound hamburger
1 handful spaghetti noodles or linguini
(about 1-inch in diameter)
Onion, diced (if desired)
Mushrooms (optional)
Cheddar cheese

In a big pot, bring water to a boil. Put in raw hamburger, onion and spaghetti noodles, broken into thirds. Boil it all for approximately eight minutes. Pour contents of pot into a strainer to drain, then into a baking dish. Add spaghetti sauce and mushrooms and stir together. Put cheddar cheese on top. (I think about a ton of cheese is the right amount!) Put in microwave for five minutes. Eat it.
This can be served with bread sticks from Dillons or bread and butter.

BREAKFAST BURRITOS
3 eggs
2 tortillas
Cheddar cheese


Break eggs into a bowl and beat them. Scramble them on medium heat. While they cook, put cheddar cheese on tortillas. Heat tortillas with cheese on them for 30 seconds each, until cheese is melted. Put eggs into tortillas. Can add salsa or ranch dressing. Roll it up and eat it. Makes a great lunch especially if you are in a hurry.

BURRITOS
1 pound hamburger
1 pkg. tortillas
2 cans refried beans
Cheddar cheese
Taco seasoning
Salsa and sour cream if desired

Brown hamburger and drain grease; rinse. Add refried beans and salsa sauce to taste. Add 1/2 package taco seasoning. Spread mixture onto tortilla and sprinkle with cheese. Roll it up. Continue until you run out of stuff. Bake at 350 degrees approximately 15 minutes or until hot. Can be put in the microwave if you’re in a hurry.