* Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Cheery Festivus or Bah Humbug to you all. *

Well, It's here.
The trees are trimmed, the presents are wrapped, the cookies are baked, and the stockings are stuffed.

Minus my one small fauz pas, however, where I put extra money on a credit card for my husband before realizing that our cards were expired. Hm. So I had to wait until today, Christmas Eve, to complete my shopping.
How quaint, right? ;-)

Ah well. In my house, the tree is trimmed, (some) presents are under the tree, the cookies are in my stomache, and the stockings are (basically) filled.

So, I wish you all in Blogger-land the best of the Holidays, from my home to yours.
Be it Christmas, Hanukkah, or Festivus for the restuvus. :)

xo
K

The Pros and Cons of Christmas.

It's officially winter here in my hickville-middle-of-nowhere county of the U.S.
It is 20 degrees outside. That is approximately 30 degrees below my comfort zone.

I've been bundling up like a child the past few days. And wouldn't you know I caught a cold too. ugh. The joys the holiday season brings. Which brings me to:

The Pros and Cons of Christmas. Allow me to elaborate.


Pro: Frank Sinatra singing carols
Con: Britney Spears singing something resembling carols.
Pro: Snow
Con: Ass-freezing cold
Pro: Christmas spirit
Con: Christmas spirits pregnant ladies can't drink
Pro: Sparkly, shimmery xmas trees
Con: The spacious, empty gap beneath the tree that my cat sleeps.
Pro: Christmas treats and cookies
Con: Christmas weight gain
Pro: Family get togethers
Con: Family get togethers. ;-)
Pro: Holiday shopping
Con: Getting hit in the hip by shopping carts
Pro: Christmas cards
Con: Recieving christmas cards from people you forgot to send one to.
Pro: It's Christmas! Everyone should be happy!
Con: There's always a grinch in every family.

You know what the really funny thing is though? Even though I have visions of baby onesies and I'm achy and tired and cold.....

I always look forward to christmas. It does, after all, only come once a year.
:)

Pregnant Woman Cry, It's Normal!

Well, it finally happened. The emotions of functioning for two finally brought me to tears.

I'm happy, don't get me wrong. I'm exhuberant! I'm pregnant! But holy hell- I feel like crap!

I feel like I could vomit from the moment I click off my alarm clock in the morning to the moment my head hits the pillow at night.
I feel bloated, and I have headaches, but really....it's the nausea that is killing me.

I am always eating, always tired, always nauseated, and I always have to pee. It's the perfect combination of pure joy and pure misery if I've ever experienced it........


Anyways. So to the point, I felt like crap all yesterday at work, which I might also add has been a less-that-fantastic environment even before my mommy-hormones were raging; got home and ate some ice cream (momentary fix) and watched some tv and drank my weight in water trying to offset the fact I felt like I was on a ship in a tsunami.

The husband, the sweet man he is, made dinner whilst bringing me fruits and vegetables as I laid sprawled on the couch in an unladylike fashion. We bickered some, which I will happily admit was mostly due to me and my current sensitivity.
I napped. I woke up.

Then he brought me dinner. Smothered pork chops with egg noodles and steamed green beans.
I couldn't eat it. I just broke into tears.

Here I am, walking about in a constant fog of "do I/don't I vomit", wanting to pull my hair out during work yet smiling like the chesire cat instead, come home for even more bouts of sickness, and then my husband makes me dinner and all I can't even eat it.
I felt terrible.

And yet, I'm still stuck. I'm so grateful for every wave of puk-ish desire because it means the little bugger is doing well, but at the same time:

I can not wait until this morning sickness crap passes. Holy crap, people.

My Books, My Belly, and My Gag Reflex.

I have to admit, I've never been very good at taking instruction verbally.
In fact, I rarely take instruction well at all unless it's self-instruction, but that's besides the point.

So, of course the moment that everyone finds out I'm pregnant I'm knocked on my ever-growing tushy by a barrage of "do this" and "don't do this" and a handful other less inviting phrases.

While I graciously appreciate everyone's concerns and intents to share their boundless knowledge and experience, why is it that even though motto of pregnancy is and always has been "No woman is alike", that the first people to forget this is women who have been pregnant?

I expect what I expect, and what I read, and more importantly; I will roll with the punches and get where I get when I get there. I don't need to know that I will be kicking my cat off my bed in the middle of the night because I no longer love him, and even more so, YES I am aware that you don't leave newborns alone in a room with two cats.

C'mon people, it's the first time a baby has been inside me with the full-on intention of coming out, but it isn't the first time this girl has been around a baby. They aren't foreign objects to me.
I have been around a few years, long enough to know that 1. babies are kind of hard to break, and 2. if in fact you do break them, it's ever-so-helpful that their daddy is a medical assistant.

Back to my original point.
I don't take well to people spouting off their opinions (or 'facts' depending on their assertion level) to me. I'm a reader and a doer.
At my appointment yesterday with my midwife, as she was flipping through literature and explaining the high points of the first trimester and what to/what not to worry about:(which btw, did not annoy me because it's her job) I already was aware of 90% of what she said.

Because I, the day after I got the 'you're knocked up' sign from my self-pregnancy test, went out and bought some books. And I read.
The most prevalent message I'm getting from all of it (other than the obvious do's and don'ts) is:

Every woman, and every pregnancy is different.

So as we go into it, it's a whole new ballgame, ladies and gentlemen.
While I appreciate the fact that your wife threw up at the sight of raw chicken, and that you ate peanut butter and jelly at midnight everyday for a month, and you have the "best" cure for constipation........

frankly, conversating about vomit and defacation isn't really what makes a pregnant lady feel fabulous, if you know what I mean. :)

Staycation and a Little Surprise.

I've been off work for a week.
It's crazy, because I thought I'd get WAY more done than I did.

I must add, I did get a lot done, but it sure feels like it's only been 2 days, not a week. But whatever.

We went through our storage, and now there is a huge "Goodwill" pile in the hall, as well as a garbage pile. The closet in the second bedroom is also much more empty.
I cleaned my fridge out. I reorganized my kitchen appliances and whatnots.
Odds and ends job completely all over the place.

I have come to one conclusion. Work sucks, I wanna stay home all the time.

*sigh*
Never gonna happen, but my, I love my staycations.
Granted, I would gladly trade one in for a trip to...face it...anywhere. But I got so much more done this way. And....it was cheap. I like cheap. I embrace cheap. It's one of my mottos.

Yesterday the hubby and I celebrated 4 years of marriage.
My, time does fly. We had pizza and watched Star Wars 4 - 6. I slept through most of The Empire Strikes Back, but hey. I was tired, in my defense.
It was a nice anniversary.

I digress. It's been a fast week, and I want it to start over. Also, I have a myriad of things to accomplish today and this weekend. So why am I blogging.
I need more tea and to get moving!

Ah yes. And one more thing.

I'm pregnant. :)

~The Unraveling One

Sincerely, The Starving Housewife.

Do you remember that feeling you used to get when your a kid, and you have your nice warm house, and big delicious dinners, and all the coolest toys you play with, and no bigger concerns than who you're going to sit next to at lunchtime tomorrow?

Yeah, all these little pouty kids that strut down the leaf-speckled sidewalks looking like the most pathetic creatures on the planet make me sick.

I mean, not that I want to go back to wearing hot pink sweaters and crooked ponytails and trying not to make eye contact with the creepy lunchlady in a hairnet....but I have to say I kinda miss that carelessness of childhood.
Adolescent minds simply do not comprehend the side effects of growing up.

~

After careful calculation between my disposable income and the stack of bills that clutter my mailbox daily, I have come to the conclusion that I can pay everything diligently and on time as long as I cease to eat for the next 6 months. Hm. Yes, that will work. Think of all the weight I will lose.

However, bearing in mind that if I die from starvation that nobody will get paid, some other process must be administered in balancing my finances. Either that, or I'm going to need to take up a second job licking stamps or making tacos for a pimply teenage boss.

Our dear friends at the Department of Revenue have sweetly requested payment for my previous year's balance due, and rightly so. I concede that I owe them the money. But I must admit, I'm a little miffed that in an analysis of my disposable income in order to determine my monthly payment that by excluding my credit card payments as offset, ANY 26 year old girl is going to plunge into starvation when they tell me I have to give them $112 a month.

This, of course, is actually the part that is only making things worse. The initial bombshell was a garnishment I recieved on October 1st because the lady at the collection agency is a biznitch and turned me in because my payment was...wait for it...


Not skipped.
Not avoided.
Not missed in over a year.

but late. Just a week late.

Soooo....now, rather than making my $25.00 a month payment, they are garnishing my paychecks for $560 a month. Seems fair. (cough cough)


Uhhhh.

Being the spreadsheet freak that I am, I created an simple filliable calculator in a program that allows me to input all my monthly bills, my monthly paychecks, and it will spit out an ending balance that I fondly refer to as my 'scrap fund'.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what this girl, husband, and two cats will be surviving off of for the month.

$33.00.

Look like Mr. Capital One and Mr. Household Bank will be playing a role in my life again. :)

I think now I could really go for some of that cafeteria food and a crooked ponytail.

Lost in Translation, I Blah You Too.

Ever notice how you can say one thing, and someone will hear something completely and vastly different?

Annoying as hell, isn't it.

I can pull out of my personal verbal closet a thousand things I have said to my husband and I would have been better off slamming my fingers in a door it would be less painful. Not that he intends it wrong. He just doesn't hear it right.

It's okay though, I'm not too worried about it. I've heard it from a crapload of spouses so I'm pretty sure it's more often the rule than the exception.
Face it, ladies, men and women do NOT speak the same language.

I can say "It's on the top shelf somewhere"

And he will hear: "It's on the top shelf in plain view. If at first momentary glance you don't see it, be sure not to touch or move any item, and instead start hollering about how it isn't at all where I said it would be."

But don't be upset, men. We do it too.

You can say "I need that socket wrench right there, can you hand it to me? Yeah, right there next to the 1/8th inch and the phillips screwdriver. No, not that, that's a hammer. Yes, that's it. Ooooh, look at you bending over, look at that butt! mmmmhmmmm!"

And we hear: "blah, blah, blah, socket wrench, blah, blah, yes, blah, no, blah blah, you look kinda fat today."

Ahhhh. It's a complicated science.

Now, let's throw a scenario out there to complicate things even more. Let's take K and her fantastic husband and throw them into a alcohol-flowing, late at night situation with some friends. See, the thing about me is that once I get a little on the tipsy side, my mouth opens and starts pouring verbal atrocities.
I start talking all subjects taboo and making innappropriate jokes to go along with it.

The pros to such an affliction, is that once some friends go out drinking with us, you bet your bottom dollar that they like us if they ever attempt such a feat a consecutive time.

The cons to ordeal is that more often than not I get the evil eye in the morning when my husband informs me that me and my girlfriends were loudly comparing bra sizes, or sharing tips on 'married lady actions'.
Yeah....I usually feel a enormous wave of regret the next day, which might I add is always a fun addition to the hangover I'm suffering through.

What can I say. Men and women, we speak different languages. And sometimes, I get a little alcohol in my system and I speak a language all my own.
I can look on the bright side.

a. My husband must really love me, because he hasn't divorced me yet.

b. I have an inate ability to screen out friends that aren't true friends, i.e. Karen embarrasses them and they can handle it.

and c. We may speak different language and communication may at times be strained, but at least whether we're a slightly embarrassed, irritated husband or a half-drunk, crude-mouthed wife: 'I Love You' is still the universal language we understand. Kind of.

If you don't look behind you, you'll never see grandma giving you the bird.

Live your life by looking through the windshield, not the rearview mirror, they say.


What freaking idiot wrote that quote.

Live your life by looking at both.
That's why they're in the same damn place, obviously.


We are all looking up the road ahead, of course, we have to. Otherwise we would walk into other people, and you might get groped, or hit by a car. So we look ahead.
And we can't go approaching the hypothetical 'speedbumps' and hills and issues, without looking back on the ones that are already behind us.

I get the point of the quote. Yes, look forward, not behind. Be positive. Blah blah blah. But seriously, it's misleading, and kinda of downright wrong.

If you forget the past, and everything in it, you'd need to re-learn how to tie your shoes everyday. So then we would all be wearing velcro shoes. And that's....well....
That would incredibly ugly.
(and all the people with velcro shoes just slumped down in front of their laptops.....)

Anyways. Back to my point. You can't NOT look behind you for so many reasons.

I mean, you could. But it would be highly unintelligent of you, you moron.

Why walk through a dark alley without looking of your shoulder? Crazy psycho killer man will dub you an easy target and *boom* off with your head.
Or, emotionally speaking, do you not want to learn from your mistakes? For example, the time you substituted super glue for the evasive little white bottle that came with your fake eyelashes?
Not at all the same thing. Didn't you feel like a complete ninny going back to the office with eyes like Tammy Fae?
Well, you should have.

In Life, like in a car, we are equipped with receptors to look in all directions. To see what stupid things we've done, and enjoy and gloat about the fantastic brilliant things.

Biggest, of course, is the windshield. Most important. Avoid the little old lady crossing the street at a painfully slow pace. I know it's hard, but you have to wait.

To each side, a little bit of what is directly behind us shows. Also helpful in case you didn't wait long enough for the old lady's weiner dog. You might want to go back and apologize for that.

And, in front of us, conveniently so, up above is a little bit of the path we left disappearing into the distance in the rearview mirror.
We don't always want to see ALL of our past, but it's good to see certain things, so we're given a large span in which to do so, which we must pick and choose what is worth looking at.

The little old lady flipping you off? Bad. (but kinda awesome at the same time)
The fact that the little yapper dog is okay? I guess for her, Good.



So, I take this opportunity to write my own quote, which is indeed wiser and more accurate than the original.
A little "Unraveled Wisdom", if you will.

Live your life by looking through the windshield, but don't ever forget the rearview mirror. Learn from past mistakes, thrive on past accomplishments, and always laugh when elderly people perform obscene gestures in your direction.



p.s. I have to look in my rear view mirror. So much of who I am, is who I loved and where I have been.
If I lost that, I would not be the woman that I am.

A Farewell Letter to a Friend.

Saying goodbye is never easy. It never will be.
But remembering them in your life, is the one thing we can give them once they are gone.
I lost a friend on Friday.
So many things I wish I would have said, and could say now.
If I could write him a letter, it would go something like this:


Phil,

Oh, so many things that I will always remember.

Firstly, thank you for the memories, and for allowing me to be a small part of your life.
I know we went our separate ways, but I was always waiting and watching for that girl to walk into your life that was meant for you.
You were a charmer, I will give you that. :)

We could walk into a room full of strangers, and because of you, leave with a group of new friends. You had that magnetic personality, and were never afraid to strike up conversations with any random person who happened into your vicinity.

Often times, those encounters were quite humorous, and I have you to thank for many a crazy conversation with a character of doubtable mentality. :)

On a tamer note, I enjoyed our random and quiet outings, like listening to Dashboard and driving all the way to Grande Rhonde to go to the casino, then changing our minds and turning around just to drive all the way back. I was a cheap date, this I realize.

There are things I still laugh at to this day, like your talent for choosing the best driveways to park at so we could kiss without you driving off the road. Cos yes, I'm sure you knew that I love getting glared at by grumpy, suspicious farmers. It's my favorite. *sigh*

Remember the giggle fits at 3am while we're walking around the block in the dark because you "had to get some air"? Of course, while you were getting air, I was smoking a cigarette, but I'm sure I needed the exercise.

And no, I still don't know how to walk in the dark, I still trip over my own feet in the daylight. :)

I love the way you got kind of squeamish when you watched me get my belly-button pierced. You said the needles were too big, and you swore you heard a *crunch* even though in my defense, it was your idea, you know.

And lastly, I suppose for old times sake I will finally settle our constant argument. I always disagreed for the sake of disagreeing, so I will give it to you now. You are right, it is Colin Farrell.

We had a lot of adventures, and did a lot of things, and had a lot of laughs.
I will always remember them, and you, as being a very tender part of my past.
You will be greatly missed.

xoxo

John Philip Verd III ~ 1982-2009 ~

Well, THAT was stupid.

Hindsight is 20/20, they say.
I'm tempted to agree.

For, sitting here in a hungover haze, lyrics from Katy Perry's 'self inflicted' pounding in my head, trying to drink black coffee because I again forgot to by creamer, and dimly remembering singing kareoke and drinking far too much alcohol last night...

I can only want to go back to yesterday and slap myself in the face.


If, perhaps, I ever listened to myself, maybe I wouldn't have a headache, wouldn't have stayed up until 4am, and I wouldn't have eaten a burrito for breakfast.
And I surely would be able to rest assured I didn't embarrass myself yesterday, which I really can't say for sure.
I suppose the good thing is, I can't remember, so no dent on my self esteem. Though, is that really the problem?


Like so many things in my life, I look back and think "well, that was stupid".

I have an hour to shower and make myself presentable, and I'm off for a goodbye party and then dinner out with some more of my family.
When really, I wish I was neck deep in pillows hiding from the world while HBO plays a soothing hum in the background.

Alas, choices, choices. I drank myself into oblivion at ridiculous hours of the morning, so now I must stumble through the rest of my day and pretend I feel FABULOUS when I am just fighting the urge to throw up in my purse.

You would imagine that I would have learned my lesson, and that the next time I have a busy Saturday ahead of me I would do the right thing and keep my antsy butt home on a Friday night, but I can already tell you-

That'll never happen.

So excuse me while I go back in my head and ensue with that slap in the face, and while I'm there, I'm going to remind myself to buy some half and half....

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails, No Thanks, I'd Rather have Boobs.

Although it may explain a lot about me and my strange antics, it might surprise a great many people that from a very young age I always thought it would have been so much more appropriate should I have been a guy.


I now graciously embrace my gender as a female, after the curves formed and the awkward teenage years have ended, but I still reminisce fondly on the things I missed out on by not being a boy.


In such a blunt format, that is a freakishly odd remark, this I know. Allow me to more sufficiently explain.....

Better to be a boy reason #1:

My brother never had to wear embarrassingly poofy pink dresses.

As a young child, I often looked lamentingly at my brother on Sunday mornings, dressed in his relaxed fit khakis, collared shirt, and dress shoes. It took immense control to refrain from growling from beneath my foofy, poofy lacey dresses that made me look like an overstuffed babydoll as all the old ladies pinched my cheeks and 'oooh'ed and 'aaaaah'ed.

Better to be a boy reason #2:

Boys got all the cool toys.

I have always wondered what screwed-up idiot thought it would be an entertaining invention to create a humanesque shape out of plastic that once you shoved water down their gullett you were rewarded with the necessary task of having to change a wet diaper.

While my Baby Betty was pretend-urinating in my bed, my brother was feeding his gecko real live crickets. Need I say more.

Better to be a boy reason #3:

Shirts are optional.

Who can deny that it always seemed just so unfair that even before the introduction of female-parts, it was just inappropriate to see a little girl without a shirt?

I'm not implying that such requirements are not important, I'm just saying it pissed me off that my brother's 'wardrobe' could be comprised of a single pair of shorts and if he spilled chocolate ice cream, it wiped right off his tanned little chest.

Better to be a boy reason #4:

Temperment expected.

Anyone who was a little more rambunctious than a crocodile as a child remembers the incessant glares from mommy as you bounced from chair to table to couch because the floor was 'lava'.

The only thing was, boys apparently were blessed with the stereotype that energy is just part of their genetic makeup and thereby acceptable.

Girls, however, were expected to be quieter. And go play with the doll that peed on stuff.

Better than a boy reason #5:

One word: Tangles.

There wasn't enough "No More Tears" in the world to make me a happy camper. Whose brilliant idea was it to decide that little girls couldn't have buzz cuts????


Oh, the joy of being a stupid girl, right?

All of these things not-withstanding, at the ripe age of 26 I'm now okay with being a woman.

Because as it turns out, my husband considers himself a lucky man that he married a woman that never complains about the newest action movie, never turns down a shot of whiskey, and would gladly leave the laundry for tomorrow and play a friendly game of poker with a cigar in hand.
I love wrestling, and beer, and heavy metal music, and staying out late in dive bars kicking ass playing pool.

And I get to do all of that, and have boobs too.

So I will gladly accept my gender.
Even though I'm still a little sore about the fact I can't pee standing up, I guess in the big picture of life we can't have everything we want, can we.

No, I'm not a Vampire but Garlic can be a Weapon Anyway.

I'm convinced I'm genetically incomplete sometimes.

To the naked eye I appear perfectly normal, I speak normal (part of the time) and I posess all my appendages as you would assume, all attached in the proper places that biology would confirm to provide me with a proper human anatomy.

But I am irrefutably and unconditionally missing some sort of 'graceful gene'.

I have to be. There is just no way that any normal human is meant to be this unnaturally clumsy.

Oh pish posh, you say.


Really? Cos a perfect example of how unfortunately and embarrassingly talented I am at finding ways to injure myself occurred while I was preparing dinner last night.

I hurt myself on a clove of garlic. Yes. Garlic. No. I am not a vampire.
But really, I'm not kidding, I somehow managed to bend my thumbnail all the way back, ripping the skin beneath it.

That's only one of the things I did yesterday.


I have a friend (amazing, right? ha.) who never ceases to find joy in revealing my little discrepancies in grace. I am, in his words, "the most talented person I know. For, how many people in this world are capable of spilling coffee on their face???"

Me. Yup. I'm that damn fantastic.


Sometimes, while walking, I trip over things that are not there. Yes, I have been walking long, and no, it's not the first day in my new feet.

I once, much to my family's amusement, actually sprained my wrist while boiling pasta.
I consequently wore a wrist brace for weeks.
I count myself pretty lucky, simply because I managed not to drop the boiling water on my feet after my wrist popped in a way I'm quite sure they are not meant to. Crisis averted......sort of.

I know.
I'm downright agility challenged.


All in all, I probably cause myself pain at least once a day.
For years I thought it was common practice. Imagine my shock on discovering that people actually are typically capable of climbing stairs without missing a step and tumbling down four steps before righting themself.

I guess, depending on how I spin it, anything can sound like a good thing. So aside from the unfortunate self-induced pain I endure on occasion, what I have learned by being genetically incomplete is this:

If you hang out with me?

I will make you look like a freakin ballerina in comparison.


Just don't give me the garlic, please.

When Two Stubborn Hearts Become One.

My husband and I, like so many couples that stay together, have become annoyingly alike in our years together.
We disagree frequently, mind you, no marriage is without some opposition.

I think the couch is appealing and diverse with different colored pillows, he thinks they should be all the same color, shade and style for the sake of conformity.
(one guess as to who won THAT one....)

He thinks I should drink water instead of coffee in the afternoon, I think he should mind his own damn business.

Marriage. It's give and take, and at the end of everyday you just thank your lucky stars that you have someone who is willing to love you through sickness, depravity, and another year of American Idol.

But, back to the point I've so gracefully sidestepped.

When you're around someone as much as you're around a spouse, you find all those little irritating habits rubbing off on you. Eleven years ago I would have probably made a face at the idea of eating peppers with salt as a 'snack'. Yet, now I kind of like them because that hunk of a man I live with eats them. And let's just say if you've ever kissed a man with jalepeno breath and found that appealing, there is something wrong with you.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Let's flip back to annoyances, shall we? Those delicious little differences that add spice to every relationship. Peeves, if you will.

(I have many, by the way, but we're not going there today, sorry.)

I find it incredibly ridiculous that my husband will drop his smelly, dirty socks on the floor next to the hamper rather than wasting two additional seconds to drop them in it. (He fixed that one, by the way, after some incredibly kind and loving coaxing from me. *ahem*)

The biggest of all peeves for me, however, is all the little catch phrases that Gene says differently than other people do. The highlight of these joyful tidbits of literary expressions is a little thing he likes to say when we're watching a movie or listening to a story when an intruiging twist appears.

"oooOoooOO." he says. "Honey, look, The plot sickens."

Ugh. Makes my skin crawl.

"NO, Sweetie" I argue for the hundred thousandth time. "It's THICKENS."

He just smiles and averts back to whatever entertainment currently became more 'sickening'.

I can google it, chat it up with random strangers in bars, and implore to God above the true phrasing of the interjection, and no matter who replies that it is in fact "thickens"; My fantastic and handsome husband will just smile and shrug.

Ah, the sweet smell of disparity. If I ignore this one, small infraction of our similarity, he will ignore my occasional grumpy outbursts and my tendency to get hyper at the oddest of late-night hours. Fair enough, right?

Well, about two months ago I was curled up on the big comfy leather couch at my parents house watching a movie with my mom and eating some form of sugar with my wine. I can't remember what movie we were enjoying, but that could be partially due to the headache I had in the morning and the empty wine bottle I groaned at when I woke up. Regardless, the plot of said fantastic film (whatever it was) took a sudden thrilling plunge in another direction. Complete with the sporadic, eerie change in tone of the music that is so common, and of course the ominous glance between protagonists as the viewers lean forward in anticipation.

"OoooOooo, Mom." I say in a semi-wine-induced stupor. "Look, mom, the plot sickens."

(ohhhhh......#@!&@#!!!!!!)

Well. I guess I'll have to start forgiving my husband if he gets a fit of the giggles at 2am now, won't I.

The Plight of the "Real" Woman.

In a society that encourages 'perfect' bodies, seamlessly tanned skin, and bright, bleached smiles, I often find myself wondering where I missed the boat.

I once complained to a boyfriend as we passed a 6 ft blonde in hip huggers and a tight halter that showed her toned midriff, "ugh. Even if I broke myself trying, I could never look like that."

To which he replied without a second thought, "It's alright honey. I like 'real' women anyway."

Pardon me if I'm being oversensitive, but I'm *quite* sure that the voluptuous bombshell that had strutted by us was in no way a mechanical life form from another planet. She was flesh on bones and I'm relatively positive she would have bled just like me if I'd ripped that 6 inch boot off her foot and beaten her with it.

Which brings me to my dilemma as a woman.

You see, the partial untruth is, I probably could slightly resemble Barbie if I worked at it, and I might not actually break myself doing it. I could wake up before the birds and huff and puff and sweat until I actually had abs worth not hiding under sweatshirts all the time.

My issue is, I just have so many things I'd rather do with my time. Like sleep, for example.


I am, ladies and gentlemen, the epitome of a woman who just lacks the ambition to feel good in a bikini anymore.


I'd rather have a cigarette and write my daily blog.
(that was a joke, by the way. sort of.)


I just finished a conversation with a woman who was telling me how she works out 5-6 days a week, runs at least 4 miles, and is frustrated because she is still not losing weight.

Well, Hellllllooo.

While she's dreaming of hot fudge sundays and grunting like an ape as she does 100 crunches, I'm probably eating a fudge sunday and propping my feet up on my yoga ball to watch tv. (it really does make a great footstool.)

And the funny thing is, I'm not overweight. I kind of like that I actually have a butt to speak of. My husband is not repulsed by me. I whine a bit at times, but really, I would whine even with a body like Cindy Crawford; I just like to whine sometimes.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, that even in this day and age where you see 12 year olds in short shirts and lipstick, every magazine features a tiny, perky bosomed woman in heels and big shiny smile, and they brainwash every female into thinking that size 2 is "the" size we all wanna be:

This girl is pretty damn content not caring what society says she isn't, doesn't contemplate barfing up her carb-filled dinners, and doesn't really care that she shifts between a size 6 and 8.

I still turn heads in my own way. I don't stop traffic, unless of course I run into the street and start waving my arms like a crazy woman.

But I don't feel like a reject in society just because every woman I pass doesn't want to kill me with my six inch heels when their significant other glances at me.

I don't think any woman (or man for that matter, roles reversed) should.

So I guess my old boyfriend was right. I'm just 'real' like that.

Communication Soup, Anyone?

Oh, the adventures in blogging.

I must confess, I spent a good chunk of time scouring this blog-verse and looking through pages. Tidbits of people's lives, families, hobbies and whatnot.

I'm actually surprised to admit that I discovered a great deal of people that I find rather amusing. (not everyone, mind you. Some people were downright dull. but anyways.)

Humorous walk-throughs of frantic daily life, complete with quips about marriage and life that I find all too relative. Celebrations of birthdays, vents and rants about the common discouragements we all encounter.
I laughed. I smiled. I 'awww'ed.
I clicked the little 'follow' button so I can stop by again and fall privy to the slur of words and photos that entertained me.

Which brings me to my own personal query -

Can I be that damn amusing?

I sit here, having seen the hubby off to work; the furballs (that I so tenderly treat like my children in absence of true genetic offspring) have been given their morning breakfast; and I get my big morning cup-o-joe and come padding into my office to curl up my pj-clad legs to find something remotely noteworthy to say - and what do I say?

I start blogging about blogging, that's what I do. Ugh. How annoyingly anticlimactic.

(I must interject here that I sincerely believe I won't be blogging each day in my pajamas....not that that is of any usefullness at this moment.)



The direction I was originally attempting to point with my semi-self-deprecating little rant, is that it strikes me so overwhelmingly that in this current stage of technology that we as a society are literally choking on an abundance of avenues of communication.

I alone, for example, am an avid member of Flickr, Facebook, Myspace, Redbubble, and Imagekind, I have IM on my cell phone, and I have more e-mail addresses than I can even keep straight.

And now, lo' and behold: I add an enthusiastic, cheery little Blogger icon into the pot of soup.

*pauses for dramatic effect*

It's no wonder my friends are always on me about not answering my emails. I forget to ask them which internet venue the little 'new mail' icon might be residing. It's ridiculous, right?

The problem that I find tapping my shoulder in apprehension - is that while I have a few random fellow attachments that bleed from one to the next, in all actuality each different application holds it's own special appeal, it's different contacts and associations and circles of friends.
Can any one person, (hopefully) sane, god-fearing person, actually keep up with all the different forms of communication?

It's downright bloody exasperating.

I suppose that is the ultimate question, isn't it. Just how far do we stretch, and how thinly can we cast ourselves, before we realize that in attempts to do everything and be everything to everyone, we find ourselves incomplete in a thousand different ways rather than complete in one way?

Perhaps I'm overthinking/analyzing. I do that on occasion.

Or perhaps I'm not.

I'm not really complaining (or am I?) about the vast array of ways in which I can receive my 'good morning's and 'hi, how are ya's. It's nice, in fact, ever so often to know that there are enough people that care about you that you can sign into any application and get a notification or two.

But in reality, wouldn't it just make so much more sense if everyone was on the same plateau of a community instead of fifteen?
And now, since that will undoubtedly never occur, should I think about digging through my dusty, cluttered attic packed with at least a dozen applications for connecting to the outside world, and ensue with getting rid of the ones I can live without?

I'll have to ponder on that.
In the meantime, oh-newest-of-applications that I've delved into, I'm off before my hypothetical soup gets cold.

Becoming less unsaid.

For ages random people who barely know me have been throwing the word "blog" at me.

They read a small blurb under a recent photo I post and they say that I'm real, and honest, and straightforward, and that they want to read more. I wonder what these people have been drinking to make them find my spurts of random enthusiasm or the lack of so interesting, because based upon the number of people who have brought it up in conversation with me, surely there is an epidemic of lack of better entertainment effecting the world in a sporadic pattern.

I digress. Obviously I've either grown tired of the connotation being presented to me as food for thought, or I've just become so bored that I almost find the idea appealing.

Which is not to say that I am an interesting person, or that I live an unusual life. In fact, I'm a pretty typical human these days. Every Sunday I leap yet again into another 40 hour week of working for 'the man' (or in my case, I believe it to be 'the woman'), each followed by a shockingly similar evening of making dinner, housecleaning, checkbook balancing, and trying to get the cat off my lap long enough to find the ever evading television remote.

Time passes quickly and I keep looking back, wondering where the time went and how I changed from that bright eyed teenager who couldn't wait to get out into the world and write books and get a career painting huge canvases and taking photographs to show the world how my mind works. Ten years later, I'm a cynical (which isn't to forget happy!) wife who stresses over stretching the monthly paychecks and dreaming of big houses and backyards and being able to skip the heels and business attire to stay home and feed mini-me's and change their dirty diapers.

Life is a rotation. We're all driven, some of us are just driven not to change. Some refuse to allow themselves not to.


I'm not sure if I was opposed to it, or if I wanted it, but I changed. I change everyday. And the ironic thing is, I wouldn't go back and change that for anything.
The person I am, become, and will be is a meld of all the little things that happen in my life, the people I pass in the street, the feeling I get when I bite my lip when someone is rude to me, the small sacrifices I make, and the bits of joy I find in a good cup of coffee when I'm having a bad morning.

Yesterday I didn't care for a blog, or for sharing anything more than my usual vents and blurbs that accompany my photos on a daily basis.

And today, well...I guess I changed, cos I'm sitting here with my coffee in my pajamas and bunny slippers that I will never feel too old to wear, thinking about that girl I was yesterday. I know that she is continually in change, and that if I don't uncork that voice that was hers by tomorrow or next week she may have converged into the actions and joys and disappointments that occur along the way and she might never get a chance to speak who she was.

No matter how insignificant and pointless her words might be. At least I will be able to say, I never left her unsaid.