ImporTant!

For starters...  I've messed with my blog background again, as you can plainly see.  I know some of you hate that ("Why can't she just pick one and be done with it already?").  I'm sorry.  I didn't like how dark and ominous it looked.  It was depressing me.  I like it lighter...  For now.  Next week?  We'll see.  ADD girls get to change their blogs as often as they like.  Someday I will write all these rules down for you.

Speaking of rules...  We're making a new one.  I have a problem that we need to address and correct today.  I've kept quiet about this as long as I can.  Something horrible is happening.

It's Impordant. No, I didn't misspell the word. That's my problem. Impordant. People are saying it like that. Like there's a D in it. There's no D, guys.  The word is 'imporTant,' with a T.   There's no flipping D.

I've tried to be a good sport about it. I've listened to it for a long time without saying a word.  But I've reached my limit.

At first, I thought it had to do with the region in which I live.  I'm right here where Hicks and Rednecks begin to co-mingle and breed with Southerners (God help me), which creates an interesting potpourri of mispronunciations and a veritable Vortex of Grammatical Doom.  I've told you many times, here in Cowcrap County, English is almost a second language.  It's usually fun. You don't gotta talk good 'round here and ain't nobody gon' give a crap. See? Try it. You can call yourself bilingual!

Yeah, it's fun...  For a while.  Until someone ruins it with impordant...  Although, they- these evildoers- usually say it like this: "ImPORdunt." 

Today, this word is being added to my list of Things That Are Driving Me Crazy.  The list includes, but is not limited to:

• The way Canadians say about and house (No offense to my Canadian friends.  I love you.  You just talk weird.)
• The diatribes of certain Liberal Dems
• The phrase "I could care less," when you actually mean you couldn't care less
• The Hub
• The words irregardless, nucular, birfday, and now, impordant 

Actually, it will probably rise to the top of that list because it's quite possibly going to usher in the cardiac event which ultimately leads to my demise, so I can honestly say it's killing me.

YES, it is that big of a deal.  It's killing me, people.  Well, that and the candy I had for breakfast.  But, you get my point.

Along with the thought of (He Who Shall Not Be Named) spending another four years in the White House, this is the only other thing making me wonder if I'd like to try being euthanized.  Well, that's not true.  There are other things.  My tendency toward gross exaggeration, for example.  Nevertheless, I may ask a loyal volunteer to go all Colonel Mustard on me with a lead pipe in the conservatory.  Or my kitchen... The shed out back... Whatever. Just put me out of my misery.

To recap:  There is no D in imporTant.  And we're all agreeing to make any necessary adjustments to our diction.  Today.  It's our new rule- we say Important with a big, ol' T.  We did agree on that...  Right, guys?  I could have sworn we did. 

Henceforth, I shall accept the following pronunciations:

• Important (obvs)
• Import'nt (I think my own redneck-infused pronunciation sounds like this, so it gets an auto-pass.)
• Importunt
• Importent (...although, if you are misspelling important as importent, someone should beat you with a bag of oranges.)
• Even Importint

I cannot accept Importont.  That's just nuts.

At least with these, the consonants are being spoken correctly, and vowels are left to be enunciated as region and culture dictate.  But we must maintain the consonants, people.  If we monkey around with consonants, anarchy ensues...  All hell breaks loose...  The fabric of our civilization unravels, and we all die.  Do you want that? 

Do you?

We are agreed, then.  We are done with imporDant.  We are saying important, with a T, from now until Jesus returns.

So it is written, so it shall be done.  Amen.  And thank you.

The Glamorous Life: Portrait of a Cashier

I told you I got a job, right?  Yeah, I did.  As a cashier, remember?  I'm back home with the kids now (yes, already), but the fact I had a job for a few months is the important point for right now.  We can talk about how and why I'm no longer working later.  There is definitely a-whole-nother story there.  But for now?  I have stories to share from my days spent living the Mal-Wart dream. 

I've gained a veritable treasure trove of wisdom, you know.  I mean, more wisdom than I already had.  Like, jeez, so much wisdom.  And I'm not kidding about that 'living the dream' thing, either.  What little girl doesn't hope she'll one day become a Mal-Wart cashier?  Who doesn't indulge a few fantasies about lifting 40 lb. bags of dog food into a shopping cart (while every single body part is screaming in mind-numbing pain) for thankless strangers who treat you like you're not even a human being?

This surplus of wisdom has put me in a generous mood.   So here are a few, basic nuggets of my hard-earned Mal-Wart wisdom I'd like to share with you:

1.  People are absolutely terrible.  I mean, just... so...  horribly, rottenly, disgustingly terrible.  Obviously, not you.  Others...  They are rude, hateful, selfish, arrogant, stupid, angry, dramatic, self-involved, dishonest, temperamental, smelly, sleazy, obnoxious, gross and quite literally deranged.  Oh, and rude.  And they're willing to go completely psychotic over a 55 cent coupon.  That is the amount of money that turns friendly, civilized people into rabid, wild dogs.  Dead serious.

You may have already known all this.  But I honestly did not.  I'm naive and sheltered, I guess.

Within my first two weeks at work, I had one man call me fat and another imply that I'm stupid.  And those are only two "big" incidents out of many, many others.  I can't even begin to cover all the minor, "every-day" types of rudeness, but I'll happily blather on about mention a few:

*The 4 yr old from Future Serial Killers of America who flipped me off, as well as all the other bratty, little demon-children who loudly demanded I hand over their lollipops, Barbies and action figures, while their parents laughed it off.  Sorry, but I'm going to get all uppity and superior for a sec to say that my kids would never, ever, ever speak to a cashier, or anyone else, the way so many children were allowed to speak to me...

*The bazillion people who go through the 20 Items Or Less line with at least one full cart of stuff while sheepishly grinning at you as they say, "I might have a few more than 20..."  (happens constantly, guys), then they cluck their tongues in frustration when you're not getting it sacked and loaded quickly enough, because you only have room for, um... 20 items or less, while the people waiting behind them are clucking their tongues at you for allowing this to happen... 

*The shaking, paranoid meth addicts who are apparently being told by the voices in their heads that you may, in fact, be an undercover FBI agent and should be treated with suspicion and derision.  Seriously, they act as if the question "Would you like your Sprite left out?" is actually some kind of trap that might require the presence of an attorney before they can answer ("Would I what?  Uh...  No, I don't want anything left out.  Wait, what?  Yeah, yeah, leave it out... Um... Wait. Leave it out where?  ...Uhhhh, what?")...

*The little old ladies who believe you should and most definitely will burn in hell if you smash their bananas...

*Cell phone users (Every single cashier on Earth hates your guts.  Your life can't possibly be that important that you can't put that %#$* phone down for two seconds and answer me when I ask you a question.  When I rudely interrupt your conversation to ask you something selfish, like "Do you have any coupons or ad matches?" it is because I'm trying to provide you with good service, you self-important little puke)...

*The liar-liar-pants-on-fire ad matchers (Oy.  Ad Matchers and Coupon People, how I hate thee) who swear that Price Cutter is selling cases of Pepsi for 39 cents and want me to match it...

*The 'green' people with their flippin' impossible-to-keep-open, reusable grocery bags.  You may not always be rude, but you sure are a pain in the butt (God bless you for your dedication to the environment.  May you be eaten by one of the baby seals you so desperately want to save)...

*And fat people who ride scooters. They're not necessarily mean or difficult customers.  I just have a problem with people who take a scooter just because they're too fat to schlep their own arse around the store.  If you're that fat, you need the exercise.  (Is that mean and judgmental of me?  It felt a tiny bit wrong when I said it, but kinda good at the same time)... 

Hey, speaking of fat, do you want to hear the fat story?  I mean, since this is already turning into one of my long, rambly sagas anyway?

It all started one balmy July evening...

Kidding.  Actually, it probably was in July, but who cares?  A drunk man came through my line and got a little grouchy about the cost of his stuff (...And may I please interrupt my own story again for just a sec to point out that cashiers do not set the prices?  You would think that's common knowledge, but apparently it's not.  Getting angry with a cashier over the price of something is pointless and just makes you look silly.  Killing the messenger, and all that...  Did you get angry with the ultrasound tech over the sex of your unborn baby, too?  How about your mail carrier over the balance due on your Visa bill?).

Anyway, after griping for a minute, the drunk guy said something like, "See, this is why I can't afford enough food to get as fat as you people!"  Except he said it more like, "... AS FAT AS YOU PEOPLE!!!!"  (I think he might have added the word "people" onto the end to soften it a little, instead of just leaving it at "as fat as YOU..."  Wouldn't want to be too mean.)

I couldn't have cared less about the fact he called me fat.  So what, you know?  I am fat.  You're really not gonna shock me much by speaking it aloud.  I passed a mirror that morning and had already noticed that, yep, I was still fat.

I was shocked and upset more by the fact that this guy wanted to be mean.  I don't get that (says the lady who just crushed the heart of an obese, scooter-riding reader).  It was a little scary that someone would just want to be crappy for no good reason. 

Remember, I was still a rube at that point-- a tender lass, unfamiliar with the dark underbelly of life that is Mal-Wart; not the weathered old sage I am now.

Anyway, I gave him my Mal-Wart smile... the pleasant smile I quickly perfected that conveys total peace and contentment with my job, coupled with a burning desire to cater to you, while simultaneously hiding the fact I think you're a roddy jackass.

My lack of a negative reaction to his comment seemed to really tick him off.  His face took on a creepy, Donald Sutherland kind of thing, where he was technically smiling, but it was scary-smiling... You know how Donald Sutherland can smile at someone and speak in a very soft, soothing voice, while he glares maniacally and threatens to kill them?  Okay, yeah.  Like that.  This guy was looking for drama- he wanted my feelings to be hurt- and it angered him that I wasn't going to let him have his victory.  He said, "Oh now, see there?  You're a niiiiice person... (again with the Donald Sutherland smile)... See?  I know you don't like what I'm saying to ya, but you're still smilin.'" 

I handed him his receipt and said, "Thank you, Sir.  You have a great evening!"  He stood there, glaring and smiling for a second, then angrily rolled his eyes, and said (in a juvenile, sing-songy tone that was supposed to mock mine), "You have a great evening, too!"

Then he stomped away.  Out of my life forever.  The woman with him kept giving me a look that said she was embarrassed by his behavior and felt bad for me.  I just felt bad for her.  After all, I was getting away from him.  She wasn't.

The guy who called me stupid (kinda) was not as dramatic, but more hurtful.  I have a huge hang-up anyway about being treated like an idiot.  Of course, none of us likes it.  But it's one of my major pet peeves.

The guy was perfectly nice.  We were having a pleasant, normal conversation, I thought.  I guess the problem, as far as he was concerned, was that I responded with "yep" instead of "yes" to a few questions he'd asked (remember, our story is set in Oklahoma.  Redneck Central.  'Yep' is not unusual here.  Clean hair... Lack of body odor...  Class...  Shoes...  Proper grammar... Bras...  A full set of healthy teeth...  These things are unusual here.  'Yep' is not.  Neither is the number of people trying to buy a can of Red Bull with a food stamp card, or putting back diapers or meat to afford tobacco and beer, but that's a rant for another day).  At first, he just imitated me in a seemingly joking way.  I'd say, "Yep," and he'd go, "Yuuupp."  I thought he was just playing with me and I laughed along.  It didn't seem hateful at all.  Then, towards the end of the transaction (just as with the guy in the fat story above, these really mean types are also gutless and choose to wait until it's almost time to walk away before dropping their little bombs of hate) he suddenly takes on this Obama- style, 'I'm-so-far-above-you' arrogance and says, "You know, the fact that you work at Mal-Wart already tells me you probably didn't go to college, but that 'Yuuuupp' really proves it."

... Absolute shock. 
... Lots of eye-blinking. 

(Is he saying I'm stupid?  I think he's saying I'm stupid...)

... Must. Say. Something.
...
...
... Silence.

What I wanted to say?  Ohhhh, something along the lines of: "Whaaaat the frickety-frack did you just say to me, you stuck-in-the-60's, long, greasy, gray pony-tail-wearin' dufus?  Your college education sure didn't help you when it came time to dress yourself this morning, you Hawaiian-shirted, sandals with socks, pompous, horse's arse!"

What I did say? 

... Nothin.'

I put my head down to hide my embarrassment, hurt feelings, and dopey, shocked expression on my face.  I took an extra second to get his change from the drawer.  Then I said, "Thank you, Sir.  You have a great day."

A similar incident happened weeks later when an old lady, who was waiting next in line behind someone she apparently knew, was telling the man I was waiting on how he should really be paying closer attention to the prices as I rang up his items "...because these people (meaning me) will rob you blind if you don't watch every single item.  They don't care.  They're not trained to know anything...  They don't know what they're doing..." She continued her derogatory rant for a few minutes as if the person she was speaking about wasn't even there.  I've never wanted to wrestle an old person to the ground so badly in my life.  I seriously considered smashing the old bat's bananas. 

Yeah, those two got to me.  They shouldn't have.  I know that.  But they did.  Which brings me to another wisdom nugget:

2. Your cashier deserves your respect.  If for no other reason than the fact that she put up with every other customer before you without killing any of them (that you know of ;) )...  That fact alone shows great strength of character on her part.

She deserves to be treated as a person.  Do you do that?  Do you make eye contact with her?  Many, many people do not.  Waaay more don't than do.  I'm sure you think you do, but think about it... Do you really?  Do you bother to speak to her?  Yes, you're in a hurry and you've had a hard day...  I guarantee she has, too.  You just want to get out of there?  Yeah.  The feeling's mutual, hon.

Here's the REAL wisdom nugget I learned about cashiers.  They. Work. Hard.  I sought the job because I thought it would be a fairly easy way to make some extra money.  All I'd have to do is stand still and work a cash register.  Mwaaahahaha...  I could not have been more wrong.  The work is physically hard (and that is not just the opinion of an old, fat chick with a chronic pain problem- the young ones were talking about their aching heads, backs and feet, too)-- there's a lot of walking all over the store at times, and lifting, bending, loading, etc... often while perfectly able-bodied, stronger, bigger customers impatiently stand there and watch them do it (because, after all, it is their job).  I can't tell you how many men stood there watching me struggle with large bags of dog food or cases of beer.  My own husband would be embarrassed to let a woman struggle to lift or carry something while he just stood by and watched.  He wouldn't let it happen.  You can call that old-fashioned, or even chauvinistic, but I prefer to think of it as good manners and common courtesy.  And his mama raised him right.

Another nugget?  For some reason, the whole Golden Rule thing (treat others as you'd like to be treated) does not seem to extend to those in service jobs, like cashiers, food servers, etc.  I don't know why.  They deserve kindness just as much as anyone else, if not more, since they're serving us (DUH!), yet we tend to behave as if we're Paris-flippin'-Hilton, ordering Ramon the pool boy to get us a fresh towel (Egyptian cotton, of course). 

A little tip...  A person who provides a service is not quite the same thing as a person who is your personal servant. 

Not only is the work physically tiring, but it's usually emotionally and mentally exhausting as well.  Cashiers really, honestly do put up with every rude, horrendous and idiotic behavior imaginable.  You just have no idea.  No idea.  They hear every type of complaint.  And? They are rarely thanked.

They are rarely thanked.

Just FYI...  They also have to depend on others to come relieve them for a break or let them go home.  Those others are often late by a few minutes, sometimes more.  That may not sound like a big deal, but when your back is about to snap from pain or you're trying not to lose your patience on the next customer because the last one was beyond horrible, and you have to pee and you're repeating your silent mantra, "Only 10 more minutes until break.  Only 10 more minutes..." It's a big deal.  So, next time your cashier is griping that her break was supposed to be 10 minutes ago?  She's not just being an unprofessional, spoiled snot who doesn't appreciate having a job (although, granted, it is unprofessional to gripe in front of a customer and not something I would do).    She's just reached her breaking point.  Try to be understanding of that fact and extra kind, instead of judging her for her bad attitude. 

When you see the cashier turn off her light or put out the Lane Closed sign (time to go home, finally!), and you say, "Oh, I only have a few things.  I'll be quick!"  It's a big deal.  Yes, it is her job to provide a service to you.  But, you know what?  Cashiers can get in trouble for not clocking out on time.  Did you know that?  If she remains there to serve you past the time a manager told her to turn off her light and go home, she will eventually get a butt-chewing.  Or, she may have been told to leave that lane in order to relieve another cashier who is desperately in need of a pee break.  The Lane Closed sign means, um... that the lane is no longer open.  Go to another lane.  It won't slow you down that much or ruin your day to walk to the next aisle. 

Remember, it is not her fault that the store is packed and there are only five lanes open.  She doesn't like that any more than you do.  Believe me.  She has no control over the scheduling and, like you, she too wonders why Mal-Wart has 24 check-out lanes if they're only going to use a few of them. 

Since I began livin' the Mal-Wart dream, my interactions with cashiers have changed greatly when I do my own shopping.  It's not like I was ever a rude jerk before (I certainly hope I wasn't), but I'd be willing to bet I had my share of self-absorbed moments when I was in a hurry and didn't give two flips about the cashier.  I now know the sad truth- that I could, honest-to-God, be the only kind person she'll wait on that hour, afternoon, or- God forbid- the whole day.

Even though I know she's paid to do a job for me, I try to make that job a little easier these days, if I can, whereas I honestly didn't give it much thought before.  For example, if I expect her to scan things in or under my basket, I make sure the bar codes are easy to get to so she doesn't have the additional work of dragging everything out and putting it back.  I'm personally not picky about how things are bagged, but if I did want her to bag certain things together, I'd make sure those things were all grouped together on the conveyor belt (because you idiots who wait until the moment after the bags have been loaded to finally tune in and ask if the Hershey's bars are with the canned peaches and ketchup, 'cause that bag is going to your aunt's house, really need to be dipped in hot grease).   And?  I behave as if I'm standing in front of an actual living, breathing, human being, instead of the ATM or a vending machine.  I make sure I smile and say, "Hi.  How are you doing today?"  I know I did that before, but now?  I really listen to her answer.  I no longer mumble 'thanks' as I rush off with my basket, while talking to my kids and fumbling for keys. I make myself stop. I look her in the face. And I say, "Thank you."  I do it like I actually appreciate, respect and give a flip about the person standing before me.   Because I do.  

Hi

It's been awhile, huh?  Sorry about that.  I'm a crappy person.  There's just been nothing worth blogging.  Everything here is the same.

Did you see Hunger Games yet?  Or do you not even care?  What did you think?  I liked it.  Didn't love it.  Movies can never compare to great books.  But it was good. 

I just read Divergent yesterday (by Veronica Roth) and it's another good YA book.  If you have tweens/teens who go for that whole Dystopian thing, check that one out!

Look what I have.  A precious treasure:
:

ALL TEN KIDS, same place, same time!  This was one of the outtakes, but it's probably my favorite.

The whole fam damily is here :)), except for one grandchild. :((

Back row: Evan- 18, Mike- 20, Alex- 21, Kyle- 26, Nick- 32, Katie (DIL, married to Nick). Middle: Tucker- 13, Kindra- 30, Keagan (Nick's son), Olivia- 12. Front: Jaden (Kyle's daughter), Kinidy (Kindra's daughter), Some Fat Chick- 45, but looks 53 cuz she's just. so. tired, Avery (Nick's daughter), Braden (Kindra's son), Darrell- 107, Sam- 3, Brianna- 11.

It's very rare to get all 10 kids together. It just does not happen. The kids planned this as a special, surprise kinda thing for their dad. Isn't that awesome?

As long as we're showing photos...  Evan, who is about to graduate, just got a haircut. That little tidbit is thrown in for the grandmas, who think Ev looks like a hoodlum. He went from this:

To this:

 What do you think?  Less hoodlum-ish?  I think he looks younger with shorter hair.   That's his girlfriend, Bayleigh, by the way.  The boy has lost his mind over this girl.  We don't know her that well yet- she's very quiet- but she seems sweet.

Anyway...  Sticking with the photo theme, you know what drives me nuts lately?  I guess it's not what but who...  It's these idiots on Facebook who constantly take and post photos of themselves.  I can't stand much more. 

The pics themselves are not necessarily offensive- as far as being raunchy/immodest, inappropriate, etc.(although some are)... There's just too flippin' many of them.

I want to be as clear as I can possibly be when I say I hate these people like I hate enemas, root canals, 3rd degree burns, spiders, poison (and Poison) and this guy:

Do you guys have any of these self-obsessed morons on your friends lists?  What's the explanation for these people?  Why do they exist? 

To you, Obnoxious Photoholic, I would say (you know... if I had any guts):  The fact that you believe you're that attractive makes me want to smack you with a tube sock full of nickels.  You are the Zoolanders of Facebook.  ...Oh, look! There you are with your sexy pout. And here you are with a mysterious, brooding thing going on. And here's your serious, contemplative pose. Why, you're just a regular sage, aren't you? There's your smoldering, intense gaze...   Oooh.  You're stunning.

And each shot shows you either standing in a mirror, holding your phone/camera, or your camera-wielding arm is held up and out at an odd angle, making you look even more like a dufus. Trust me.  You look dufus-y enough as it is.

PLEASE, hear me:  You look exactly the dang same today as you did yesterday. Put the camera down. Get yourself checked into some kind of program. Take the 12 steps. Find a sponsor.  Whatever it takes. Please. We're all sick to death of the sight of you.   

I have one person in particular on my friends list who is making me especially cuh-razy with this. And it's a man (no, not the hub).  I have grown to dislike this guy so much, that I think it's affecting my religion. Honestly. Jesus is mad at me, you guys, because I detest this guy over something as trivial as a batch of photos. I should just delete him altogether. But he's a relative (no, not one of my sons), and I'm afraid I'll miss important info about him. I've stopped looking at the pics, though. I feel like a horrible relative, but I just can't do it anymore.  I'd show you the pictures (you'd be shocked and awed by the total assy-ness of the guy), but then I definitely would be a horrible relative. 

So, I won't. 

I really, reaaally want to, though.

I hate it when that happens...

The other night, I had the best idea for a book.  It was a murder mystery kind of thing and as I was about to drift off to sleep, I was thinking of plot twists and even character names, for Pete's sake, and getting really excited.  I couldn't wait to write it all down 'tomorrow.'

So you know what I'm going to say, right?  'Tomorrow' came, but the book idea did not.  I had forgotten it.  The whole thing.  Other than the fact that it was the best idea for a book and it was a murder mystery kind of thing.  I love those murder mystery kinds of things. 

I have now decided I will never procrastinate on writing down a book idea again.  Nevereverever. 

I have decided this before.  Quite a few times, actually.  Almost as many times as I've decided to lose weight.  And I never get around to it.  But I've never had an amazing, fresh, creative idea go POOF and disappear like this before. 

Of course, I've never had an amazing, fresh, creative idea before, period.  Bwaaha.  I kill me sometimes.

So, from now on...  I'm writing down my book ideas as I have them.  There's this one idea in particular that's been clunking around in my big 'ol head forever.  It may not be the best book idea I've ever had, but there could be a good story in there somewhere.  I think...

I don't really remember.

To begin with...

Okay.  The "boy" I wrote about in the last post?  I had a couple people (including my mom) email me privately to mention how young he looked.  Way to make me feel old, friends and neighbors.  People, please...  That dude is in his 30's.  Like, only 12-13 years younger than me.  Big whoop.  That's not even a Demi/Ashton age difference.  I think my rockstar may even be married and have a kid or two. 

I also do not believe that an occasional glance at the opposite sex is wrong.  I tell my husband this all the time.  He is free to glance at Halle, JLo, or Brooklyn Decker.  Who wouldn't?  Besides...
1.  If Mormons can glance, I figure, so can I (and I happen to know for a fact that Mormons glance.  I won't say how I know, or mention any particular Mormon by name... *cough, lookingforgeorge, cough*). 

2.  Philippians 4:8 says, "Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things." 

I have thought about some abs that are truly lovely, admirable, excellent and praiseworthy, so that's 5 out of 8.  And I always give God all the glory and thanks for the beauty of His creation.  So...  there you go.

I have a very strict policy:  I only look if they are 21 and older.  It's my personal code of honor.

Okay, that's a lie.  But, if they're under 21, I just take a brief glance at the abs and move on.  Really.  Okay, brief-ish.  But I don't give the face time to become engraved in my mind.  That's what separates the Normals, like me, from the Pervs.  Just a peek at the abs.  And pecs, maybe.  Okay, probably pecs, too.  

Oh, that reminds me of a funny story...  A few years ago, I was on one of my exercise kicks.  These come around approximately once a decade when I will buy whatever exercise program is currently being schlepped on some late-night infomercial.  I have so much optimism and motivation when I order... and then the box arrives. 

It gets put under my bed, usually unopened, until I can clear a good exercise space. 

I've never cleared a good exercise space.

Sooo...  a box of DVDs, with those big rubber band thingies, etc., was recently pulled out from under my bed by a curious 2 yr old, and a poster from inside the box was opened up and left lying on my floor (the poster, which I'm assuming was included for motivational purposes, has a ripped, tan man on one side and a woman who must have sold her soul to the devil- because her body is just too dang good- on the other).  The poster was lying with the man side facing up. 

Evan and I walk into the room.  Evan sees the naked, tan torso of a man.  The first thing he thinks of to say is, "Oh, Mom (all disappointed-sounding, like I'm 5 years old and just peed on my Easter dress)...  Tell me you didn't.  Please tell me that is not a Taylor Lautner poster."

How do you spell that little breathless noise you make when you're really exasperated?  Because that's the noise I want to spell right here ___________________. 

What is with you people?  Does everyone think I'm a perv?  Gee whiz.  You mention one kid's abs and one rockstar and the whole world goes nuts.

I'm offended.  Deeply hurt. 

Okay, not really.  I couldn't care less.  I ocassionally take notice of man-boys.  Deal.  I'm a fat, Chaz Bono-looking, dangly, old, wrinkly house frau, with no evidence of my once-hot former self.  It's not like the man-boys are looking back.

Onto other topics, shall we?  Before I either get depressed about my pathetic, desperate, wrinkled, be-Chazzed state, or get another email from Mom (kidding, Mom.  Love getting emails from you). 

How about a little Sammy Story to finish this post?

Sam loves Reese's.  LOVES them. 

But he can't say 'Reese's.'  He calls them 'Feces.'  It's so funny to watch him hop around when he spies the package, then hearing him say, "Feces, Mom?  Feces?  Feces!!! Mom?  MOM?!?  Yaaaayeeesss! FECES!" 

Today, I gave him a bite of a Feces and he said, "That's good, Sir!"  Hahaha.  Gosh, I love that boy.

The feeling has passed...

Do any of you guys like The Str*okes (and right now, my mother and both of my blog buddies named Elaine are saying, "What are The Str*okes?")? These are The Str*okes:

They're a band (which I'm guessing you could have gathered on your own). I think I like them because they remind me (a little) of some of the music I was listening to in the 80's, when I was young (you know... way back before cell phones, pc's and fire)- it's rock with a little new wave-ish thing going on, some punk, and a little bit of awesome, all mixed together (and before my mom asks me, "Why were you typing all those little stars in the middle of your words?" ...Mom, it's because I don't want some stoner kid, who is Googling for this band, to wind up at my blog by accident and then leave me weird and/or filth-riddled comments). 

Anyhoooo...  I'm sure you couldn't care less about my taste in music and it's really not the point of this post, anyway.

This...

little lamby is the point of this post.  He's their singer, Julian (Jules).  He may, just possibly, have a tiny bit to do with why I like The Str*okes, if we're really telling the truth.  And don't I ususally tell a little more truth than you wanted to hear?  Why, yes.  Yes, I do. 

This little boy could recite transcripts from traffic court to music and I would listen (oh, don't be so shocked that fat, Christian, 44 y. o. moms/housewives still look at rockstars.  We do.  And we look at ones a lot younger than this kid... ;D... We are also a teensy bit fond of the abs on teenage werewolves, but that's a post for another day...  We take a quick peek.  We say, "Praise God from whom all blessings flow." And we go on with our fascinating lives of laundry, snot wiping and grocery shopping, feeling completely content and fulfilled... : /...). 

I think he's pretty cute in that Bad Boy, Rocker, "I'm-going-to-'borrow'-$500-from-your-purse-while-you're-not-looking, to-buy-drugs-while-I'm-out-with-your-best-friend, then-break-up-with-you-right-after-I-use-your-place-to-take-a-shower-cuz-I-really-need-one" kind of way. You may not see the same thing I see (my daughter doesn't. She thinks he's icky.  She had the nerve to ask, "What is wrong with you, Mama?"  Oh, sweetie...  Many things.  So very many things), but I think he's cute. 

Anyway, The Str*okes were on S*NL and as I was watching, the most horrific realization washed over me.

My little lamby looks very much like Ray Romano (Everybody Loves Raymond), who is not my idea of sexxx-say. Granted, he's a much younger Ray, but Ray is in there somewhere, just the same.

Look!

Do you see it?  You gotta see it!  Look again.  Subtract 20 (okay, 25) yrs from Ray and add a wig...

See?  Studly

And...  Dudly

You do see it, right?  Tell me it's not just me.  I don't know how I went so long without noticing this before.  But alas, Julian is ruined for me now.  I'm sorry, Julian.  That's it.  Infatuation over.  Accept it, honey, and try to move on.  I will never look at you and see a bad boy rockstar again. 

Way to wreck it, Ray Romano. Thanks. 

At least I still have Colin Farrell.  He doesn't resemble some middle-aged whiny dufus, does he?  Nevermind.  I don't really want to know. 

Maybe Julian's resemblance to Ray is most obvious when seeing him in motion- something about his facial expressions as he sings... This is a clip from their S*NL performance, if you're curious. But, I'll warn you: If you listen to this, I'm pretty sure he slips a word in there, around the 3:59 mark, he shouldn't have been saying on network tv (not even on S*NL). I could be wrong, but I have Mom Ears that are super-sensitive to the EFF word, so I'm probably not. Even a hearing-impairment doesn't hinder the power of Mom Ears when it comes to picking a random EFF out of what is otherwise mostly garbled nonsense. Just skip the last 20 seconds or so if you don't go for the nastiness. I have a feeling you'll be turning it off long before then, anyway.

Just watch for a few seconds (on mute, if you want), then try to tell me this isn't a young, weed-smoking, possibly heroin-addicted Ray Romano:

Of gratitude and sex dolls...

Instead of thanking you all in a comment on the last post, I wanted to say it here- in a post of its own- to make sure you would see it.  You have no idea how much your words of support and kindness meant to both of us.  I showed Darrell most of the comments last night, and he had tears in his eyes, just as I did (well, actually, I had tears running down my face).  We were both overwhelmed.  Thank you, guys.  You may not think you helped...  but you did. 

Once again, we are blown away by the fact that those loving, supportive comments came from friends we've never met. Funny, isn't it?   (We do have friends and relatives in our lives who are nice to us, too...  I don't mean to make it sound like we don't.  Ha! That wouldn't speak very highly of us, would it?  If our only friends and supporters were of the cyber variety?)

(...Oh. My. Goodness.  Speaking of having friends who aren't "in the flesh," did you guys see that episode of "Strange Addictions" where that creepy little dude had a life-sized silicone doll for a wife?  Have I already blogged about this?  I wouldn't be surprised if I'm repeating myself, as it made such an indelible impression.  I was... well, I don't know what I was, but it was like a mix of being shocked, horrified and nauseous.  Is there a word for that?  Shockiffauseous?  He talked to it, you guys.  He put it in a chair at the table and ate dinner with it.  He did, um, other things with it, too.  Oh, did you hear that?  Did you hear me gag just then?  I accidentally vomited in my mouth just a tiny bit.  I honestly had bad dreams after I saw that show.  And in my defense, I didn't watch it on purpose...  It was just "on" and before I knew it, I could not change the channel.  But, I digress...)

Back to the topic, which is neither sex dolls, nor the scary men who love them... We'll do an in-depth discussion of that another day, perhaps? 

(Oh, gosh.  I just realized I may have offended one of you who might possibly be the proud owner of your own little silicone friend.  If you own a, um, synthetic partner, dear friend, I'm sure yours is, um, very nice.  I was not referring to you, of course, when I used the words creepy, scary and unholy.  Oh, I didn't use the word unholy?  Of course I didn't.  Why would I?  What could possibly be unholy about knowing a doll in the Biblical sense?  I fully respect and tolerate that freaky little alternative lifestyle you've got going on there.  I am not repulsed by it at all.  Whoopsie, I just puked again, but that little bit of vomit was about something else.  Not you.)

Now, back on track.  For real this time...  Thank you! I love you guys.  Whether we've met or not, you've proven to be wonderful friends when I need them and I hope I will be the same for you.

In answer to some of your questions: 
Yes, I would be very willing to work from home.  In fact, I'd rather do that than get a night job elsewhere.  I haven't heard of any real options to do that around here, other than the phone sex trade... and that pesky little gag reflex of mine has probably ruined my shot at a lucrative career in that field.  If local friends hear of legal and non-gag inducing opportunities to work from home, please let me know!

Yes, we are in the process of contacting our creditors and letting them all know what's going on.  Some are more understanding than others.  Some of those people act as if I owe them personally.  Jerks.  Are they trained to make a bad situation feel even worse? 

One last thing before I go:  I just want to mention that something goofy is going on with my comments, or email address-  I'm not sure which.  But, I'm not always receiving your comments.  Sometimes, they're being sent to the junk folder and other times I don't get them at all and just happen to notice them here on the blog.  So...  if you ask me a question or otherwise expect to get a response to your comment (but don't), don't think I've blown you off! : ))

Still Tired

Remember those whiny, self-pitying posts a few weeks back when I told you how tired I've been? Yeah. The whining continues (as evidenced by this all new, if not improved, whiny post), the self pity comes and goes, and the sleep deprivation is worse than ever. I am so far beyond over-tired, I'm not even sure what to call it. It's really screwing with my head. I honestly feel like I could start sobbing at any time... and I often do. The scary thing is that sometimes, the sobs feel so... I don't know what to call it... so BIG, so powerful, so overwhelming... like I won't be able to keep myself together. Like if I were to really let loose, and let those sobs come all the way out, I wouldn't be able to stop. I do keep it together- so I don't think I'm crazy yet... at least not technically. I'm still holding it together. Somehow. So far. But barely. Like when a kid comes walking in, I'm able to quickly wipe tears from my face and say, "Nothing, honey. I'm fine. I'm just tired. What's up?" Then as soon as the kid leaves the room, here come the sobs again- full force, as if they never left.

It's not that I feel sad, really. I just feel like crying. All.the.time.

And I can't think anymore. My mind has turned to oatmeal. And I don't just mean regular "Mommy Brain," either. I mean more like full-on brain death. I never know what the hell is going on. I can't remember things.

I have no clue what is taking place around me. I can be watching TV with the kids and one of them will ask about something that was just said on the show, but I won't know the answer. Because I wasn't listening. I thought I was listening, but really I was just zoned out like a zombie in front of the screen, and I couldn't tell you one single detail about the show I just watched.

Mike (or some kid) will tell me where he's going, then drive off. Darrell will ask where he went, who he was with and when he's coming home. I.Don't.Know. Because I forgot to ask. Didn't even think of it. Obviously, this makes me look like an uninterested, horrible mother. I'm beginning to think I am. Not uninterested. Just not able to hang on to my interest. But definitely horrible.

I can't carry on normal conversations. Sometimes I have to ask what flippin' day it is. And that is soooo NOT like me. I used to be all about the calendar and keeping track of whatever we had going on. I had this master calendar in my head that could remember kids' schedules and what I was planning for dinners that week, and when the baby would be due for shots, and... you get the idea... Now, I just feel like I need to be taken care of.

Darrell is very good about making sure I get to go back to bed in the morning or take afternoon naps when he's home. He takes care of the kids and lets me sleep, so I can't complain about a lack of help... BUT... It's not the same. Taking a nap is just not the same as putting your head on the pillow at night and waking up the next morning. The other day, I slept longer than I think I've slept in the past year or two (really). I slept deep. I slept long (like, 4 hours). Wonderful, yes? No... The problem? It was during the late morning/early afternoon. Which basically guaranteed I wouldn't be able to sleep well that night (and I didn't).

I don't know how to fix this.

Last night, I honestly don't think I slept for longer than 10-20 minutes at a time. It's really, really starting to get to me, peeps. I'm dizzy a good part of the time. I've gotten really scared of driving, especially with the kids in the car, because I don't ever feel totally "with it" anymore. I feel weak and shaky. And I'd almost swear it's affecting my hearing. I know it's really not- but it seems that everyone sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher these days (Waa-wah-wa-wah-wa). It's probably just that, since I'm hearing impaired and have to focus closely on what people are saying to understand them, I can't hear since I can't focus. Make sense? Oh, yeah... and I'm always mad as hell. I feel really, really cranky 24/7.

It's getting to the point where all I want in life is to sleep at night. And it doesn't even have to be ALL night! Just five hours would be awesome. Four. Good God, I'd take four. I want to sleep at night, and feel awake during the day and know what the hell is going on with my kids. I want to do normal mom things, like make breakfast for my babies and do laundry- and while we're on that topic, I really want to know where my frickin' favorite blue t shirt is. I do not want to ask my teenage son if he happened to wash or fold any of my underwear lately. Is it a tiny bit pathetic that my whole goal in life has become dusting a damn table without feeling so overwhelmed and exhausted by the activity that I have to fall down and cry in the middle of it?

I want to do "Normal Mom" things without feeling like I have to hold in the sobs until my kids aren't looking. I do not want my children to feel like they are "bothering Mom" to come up and ask me a damn question or show me a picture they just colored. God, I'm so horrible. No kid should ever have to say, "I'm sorry to bother you, Mama, but I made a picture for you." I.Am.Horrible. That is now my new name. Horrible Hugeass.

But I just don't know how to make it all better. I feel at this point, the housework is so far gone that I'd never be able to catch up, which makes me want to say to hell with it and just go take a damn nap. I apologize, by the way, to my Christian readers, for all the hells and damns. If it makes you feel any better, I'm actually editing all the effs in my head and changing them to hells and damns before they reach the page. I'm just in that kind of mood. God forgive me, but right this second, I just want to scream really loud effs and every other drunken sailor type of phrase at the top of my lungs. I'm horrible. I'm tired AND I'm heading for hell in a handbasket. How awesome is that?

Anyway... I was saying that I don't know how, at this point, to start turning this around and making it better. I feel right now like there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Like I will never sleep like a normal person again. I will never be a normal mom. My house will never be even half-way in order. And it's making me crazy. It's all just too much. Sam is going to grow up believing his mom is a vampire who sleeps all day and says hell and damn all the time and the other kids are going to hate me and I'm never, ever going to find my favorite damn blue t shirt because it has committed suicide by diving to the bottom of the laundry pile and suffocating itself.

My priorities used to be: God first, Family second, Others third, Self last. I tried to live that. I certainly wasn't successful at it every day, but I tried. Now, my priorities are: Sleep first, Sleep second, A little something chocolate to snack on, More sleep.

I've tried several times to go without sleep (for 36 hrs. or so), thinking I'll be so tired that I'll have to sleep. At some point, your body and mind just must collapse, right? Wrong! When I go so long without sleep, I'll either: A) Become so wired, that I'm no longer sleepy (still tired, but not sleepy), or 2) The baby will have a bad night and I won't be "allowed" to sleep.

I say really crazy things. I was talking to Sam the other night- thank God the rest of the house was asleep and Sammy is too young to understand, because I realized what I was saying didn't even make any sense. I could not believe I'd said it. I'm too embarrassed to tell you what I said. And Sam won't tell, so don't ask. I'm just totally Nuckin' Futz.

I'm going nuts right here in front of God and everybody and there's not a soul on earth (in my real life) I can talk to about this, either. That makes it suck even worse, because it adds the loneliness and isolation factor in there, too. Of course, talking to everyone else on the planet(that would be you), like I'm doing right now, is not quite the same thing. Isn't that funny? I can tell you, strangers, things that I cannot say to people who know me. I feel like the only conversations I have with Darrell anymore swirl around my complaints, so I try to shutup as much as I can. He doesn't need to hear it. I'm quite certain he doesn't want to hear it. I know I wouldn't. Complaints get old so fast. I'm sure he feels he's doing the best he can, and I know my complaints make him feel like he's not doing enough. I also know he's doing a lot more than many other husbands would ever dream of doing. And I will look people right in the face and LIE when they ask me how I'm doing... "Oh, fine," I say, "I'm doing great!"

I think it makes me sound like a horrible failure if I tell the truth: "Oh, I'm crappy, that's how I'm doing. I honest to God feel like I'm going to DIE. Yes, D.I.E.- DIE. Thank you for asking. I skipped church last week so I could catch a nap and will probably do the same tomorrow. I haven't cooked a decent dinner in days, and who the hell knows how long it's been since I've done a load of laundry, or spent any real time with my kids. I don't even want to be talking to you right now because I'm too damn tired to fake all the pleasantries. And how the hell are you, as if I really care?"

I know there are people in my life who, if they heard any of this, their answer would be,
"Well, maybe you shouldn't have adopted another baby... Especially not at your age. Seven kids are just too many for you to handle."

And no, I'm not just imagining that. I know of at least one person who would have that attitude.

Is she right? I'm beginning to think she is. And her voice just keeps playing over and over in my head.

All I know is I'm failing. At everything. I don't cook. I don't clean. I don't even keep myself clean on a regular basis. I noticed the other day I could smell myself. Smell.Myself. And I did not get up to shower. Now that's not good. I don't spend enough time with my kids. I snap at anyone who tries to talk to me. I avoid having to be around people. I just want to sleep. And sleep some more.

Oh, yeah- and the social worker is coming at the end of the month for our 6 month post placement report, so... um... that oughtta be good. Bwaaahahaha.

I'm sorry this was so long and even more sorry to take up your precious free time being such a whiner. My little laptop has become my one real confidante, so you are too, by default. I'll try to be more cheerful on the next post. I owe you one.

The Cow Says...

That's going to become the title of my blog, I think. And I shall sign all my posts "Heifer."

I'm fat, is what I'm indicating there.

You're shocked, I know.

Of course, I'm always fat, so this is not new news to any of us, and I'm really no fatter now than any other day, but some days the magnitude of the fatness seems... well... bigger. It hits me harder.

I've been feeling crappier about myself than I have in a long time. A long, long time. Maybe it's because "Forty-Three" is approaching soon and my goal in my late thirties was to have all my weight off by 40. Big, big FAIL. Then last year, I was supposed to lose all the weight for my son's wedding. Remember that? Yeah. Ummm... Huge FAIL.

Or maybe it's just because I look like crap. Yeah, that could be it. I may be onto something with that one.

I was at the mall today, buying school clothes for the kids and saw an adorable shirt I would have liked to get for myself. Loved, loved, LOVED it. The problem? I was in one of those ridiculous teenager-y kinds of stores, where there are huge pictures of really hot, half-naked young people, locked in passionate poses, hanging all over the place, and where everything is sized in miniature, you know? *Large* actually means maybe a size 8, or something. XL is like a size 8.3. Usually, I wouldn't even see anything in those kinds of stores that would catch my eye. My taste really isn't "Teen Ho-bag." So, I either keep myself busy helping the kid find something, or I'm trying to zone out and remain in my happy place, while I wait patiently for us to leave the store and its booming, crappy music behind (oh, man... that sounded so OLD). But this shirt was sooo cute- not at all the popular "I Aspire to Become a Prostitute When I Grow Up" style. So I pointed out the shirt to the girl behind the register (she was a fat girl, too) and asked if there was any chance in Hades that the shirt would fit me. She said probably not. Of course. She said she'd given up trying anything on in that store, because nothing fits.

I don't want to shop at flippin' fat chick stores. I don't like "fat chick" clothes. They're not cute. I want cute.

I'm not cute.

My skin looks like I'm 49. My hair is crap. And... is it falling out? Why, yes. I believe it is. Thank you for asking. My body is crap. I am crap. Is this a mid-life crisis I'm having here? Do I need to buy a sports car? Hope not. I can't afford one. I'm old and poor AND fat. Jeez. I can't catch a break.

Please don't mistake my remarks as a manipulative ploy to get you all to say, "Oh, no- you look great." That's not what I want. I don't want anything. I just want to sit here and blow up balloons for my pity party until I'm lightheaded and half sick, and complain and be a big baby. And of course, I mean "big" in the literal sense. Tomorrow I will probably feel better... Right?

Yeah... tomorrow will be better.

Um, not to treat you like a dufus, or anything, but that last part was dripping with sarcasm, in case you missed it.

And just to keep it interesting...

Apparently, there has been a tiny flub with the paperwork in the Marshall Islands. And, you understand, when I say *tiny,* I mean pretty darn big. Are you ready for this?

It seems, at this point, no one can be certain if I am the mother of a boy or girl!

Some of the initial paperwork from the medical report says female, and the later paperwork says male. Our agency lady says it looks like we may actually have ourselves a daughter. She's checking on it and getting back to me.

I recommend someone over there takes a peek down the diaper. I mean, how hard could it be to determine which paperwork is correct? The process can't be all that long and involved, can it? Why, I bet I could verify my own gender right now in less than a minute!

It has always been my understanding that there is a fairly accurate way to determine one's sex, is there not? The child will either have a little schwinkle (er... a, uh... dangling participle, for the English majors in the crowd) or it will not, correct?

Have I been misinformed all these years? Was Miss Jed from 7th grade health class wrong?

Anyhoo, Sam may not be a Sam. Sam may be a Vivian. Or... someone.

Of course this news comes one day after I removed the tags from the new boy's bedding set and put it, with a few other boyish things, into the wash. Of course. At least little Vivian's blue and green bedding will be nice and fresh and snuggly soft.

But, I'm thrilled either way.

I don't care what I'm getting. Really, I don't. I'd just like to know if my baby is schwinkled or non-schwinkled. Surely, that's not too much to ask.


Dear Sam/Vivian/Whoever you are,
Mommy loves you and hopes to see you soon. And by *see you,* I mean SEE you- as in, check out the goods. I apologize in advance for looking down your pants shortly after we meet. Not the best way to make a good first impression, and it's not something I make a habit of doing when meeting new people, but... There are some things a mother just needs to know. You understand.

Love,
Mom
XOXO

I hope I didn't just do something stupid

I ordered a gift for Sam's birthmom. It's personalized, which makes it non-returnable- obviously- and I'm already questioning my choice. It's a necklace with a sterling silver heart that looks like this except that it won't have that baby's face on it. I don't know that kid. That is a sample baby. It will have Sam's face (from his referral photo) laser engraved on one side and a message from us engraved on the other. The message says that she "will always remain in our hearts and be a part of our family- With love and gratitude from Michelle and Darrell."

Golly, Michelle, would you like a little wine with your huge wheel of cheese? "With love and gratitude"... Gyaaawwwsh... Is that not the dopiest, cheesiest thing to say?

Gratitude? Like, "Oh, yeah, thanks for that baby there, sweetheart. Real nice of you." The word gratitude doesn't quite cut it, does it? I mean, how do you convey to someone- in a one inch space and 130 characters- the range of emotions you feel; how your heart is breaking for her over the pain this has to be causing her, how you've cried over knowing that the source of your blessing and joy is also the source of her sorrow, but gee- you're oh so happy to be getting her baby? How do you tell her that since you already love her baby as your own, you also love her- because, after all, how could you not? She's a part of him- and gosh, you sure hope she'll feel the same way about you? How do you say to someone, "I'm desperate to earn your approval," without sounding... well... desperate?

How do you make her understand that it's going to rip your heart out to take that baby from her arms, but you can hardly wait to do it?

One inch of space and 130 characters is not enough.

Cripes. I'm freaking out here, aren't I? I'm over-thinking it... just a tiny bit? Feelin' a little crazy- and not in the fun way. Oh well, I'm already knee-deep in the insanity- might as well keep going...

Was it a mistake to be so personal? Maybe something more "generic" would have been better. Maybe she doesn't want to be "a part of our family, blah.blah.blah..." Maybe she will resent us. Was it a mistake to put the baby's face on it? Will that just be a constant reminder of what's missing in her life? I was trying to do something that would have a special meaning for her, but was I being insensitive instead? She's giving me a baby and I'm giving her... What? A sterling silver piece of crap? What kind of pathetic trade is that?

So... Tell me, dear friends and strangers- am I an idiot? Did I pick a cruddy gift? Or am I just suffering a little buyer's remorse (albeit accompanied by an itty bitty nervous breakdown) over the necklace because I can't change my mind and return or exchange it?

You would tell me, wouldn't you, if I'm a huge moron?

Actually, I'd rather you didn't.

2 txt or not 2 txt

we hav bcm a fmly of txtrs, much 2 my dsgust. r u 1, 2? my kids txt me all the time. i h8 2 txt! y, u ask? idk. i jst do. 4 1 thng, i h8 2 typ on a small kypd. & im 2 slow. + its obnxs. its easr just 2 talk & get it ovrwth. i h8 2 txt almst as much as i h8 FB (facebook). i sur hpe all ths txtng dosnt affct my spllng skilz or grmmr.

I can't take it anymore... There. Real words. That's better, isn't it? Seriously, texting has taken over my family. The boys sit down at the dinner table and their phones start vibrating before we finish saying grace. I'm going to banish all phones from the dinner table. I will search their pockets. I mean it. I will. Next, I may start banishing children. We'll see how it goes with the phones, first. If I'm in Walmart, I'll receive 10 texts in the span of two minutes, each one requiring me to stop what I'm doing to see what they want.

Text #1: ned toilt papr.
Text #2: ktchup.
Text #3: wen u b hom?
Text #4: can u get som twizlrs?
Text #5: milk
Text #6: can i go to c movie w cdy 2nite?

...And on and on and on... You get the idea. Can't these people just flippin' call me? A trip to Walmart now takes an hour longer than it did b4. Oops... Sorry. I meant *before.*

What do you think?

I've been eating a lot of omelets lately. I mean a lot. I ate one for breakfast this morning, and I'm craving one already again for lunch. We went out for breakfast two weeks ago, and instead of ordering french toast, or something like that, I ordered an omelet. I paid someone to make me eggs. That is mind-boggling to me. I guess I should mention that I don't like eggs. That is probably a significant detail. I'll eat them if someone has fixed them, but they are never my first choice and I never, ever fix them for myself. Until now.

I've also been drinking tons of frozen Dr. Peppers (they're like an Icee) from the convenience store up the street. I never, ever drink Dr. Pepper, except for when I was pregnant with Livie and I craved the frozen ones like crazy. Just like I have been lately. I'm a loyal Diet Pepsi girl, and don't even like the taste of Dr. Pepper. Except, now I do.

This morning, when I was making my omelet, Evan said, "Man, mom, what is your deal with omelets all of a sudden?"

Then Alex goes, "Ya pregnant?"

No. I'm absolutely NOT pregnant. But it made me start thinking... Is it possible to have pregnancy cravings when you're adopting? I mean, can your mind play games with you like that? If so, is there a name for it?

I just weighed myself and I've gained five pounds... Okay, fine. I lied. How did you know? It's really six seven eight lbs. Geez, what are you, a detective or something? Five is close enough to eight. Yeah, like you never round down on your weight. Gosh. Five Eight pounds of eggs and pure sugar from the Dr. Peppers.

So, I appeal to the collective smarts of my wise and experienced blog buddies... What gives? Has my mind convinced my body I'm pregnant? Is that possible? Maybe it's just the stress of hoping for our referral, BUT then wouldn't I be craving my favorite comfort foods (mac n cheese, chocolate, etc.)? Why would I be craving things I don't like... especially 8 flippin' pounds worth? What say you?

Stupid does as stupid is...

or something like that.

What is it about international adoption that brings The Stupid out in people? We went to the Post Office yesterday to get passports for some of the kids (we're still hoping to take the younger ones with us when we travel). Everything was going just fine... until it was Brianna's turn. I presented her birth certificate, just as I had done for the other kids, and I had her (expired) US passport with me, just in case there would be any questions, since her birth certificate says she was born in China. I didn't bring any adoption paperwork, her old Chinese passport, or a COC since I had not needed any of those in the past.

Apparently, I'm stupid; stupid-er than I had previously realized.

The postal worker "helping" us, henceforth referred to as CPW (Crazy Postal Worker), asked me to show her where exactly on Bri's US passport it says she is a US citizen. Well, it doesn't specifically say "I am a US citizen" on it. Neither does mine. It also doesn't have bunny stickers on it, nor does it say, "My mom would like to smack you." It is just a plain 'ol, regular, flippin' US passport. AND it is a US passport previously issued to my daughter. I foolishly thought that a US passport was good enough proof that she qualified for... a US passport.

Um... No.

CPW had to ask another worker "if these people will need to come back with adoption paperwork since this little girl was born in China."

One said yes. Another said no. So, maybe we should "come back with our adoption papers just to be safe," CPW decides.

My eyes were starting to do that cool, Incredible Hulk-I'm-getting-angry-thing.
I gently, ever-so-lovingly and patiently explained that we would not have been able to acquire the documents I had with me if we had not legally adopted her, and we did not need to show any adoption papers the first time we got her US passport. Her birth certificate was all we brought, just like we did for the other kids.

CPW then looks at the form I filled out where I said Brianna had no other names, which she doesn't. Her legal name is exactly what it has always been. The adoption documents in China were filled out with the name we gave her. Her Chinese passport had the name we gave her. That is her name- thank you very much, ma'am (and how did you ever pass the civil service test in the first place?). CPW acted as if she didn't believe me. You could just see she was thinking, "Surely the little Oriental must also be known as Mei Ling, or Connie Chung, or something more exotic-sounding."

CPW asked, "Does she still reside in China?"

My voice said, "Whaaaa?"
My thoughts said, "Whaaaat the %*#$?"

CPW repeats, "Does she still... re-side... in Chi-NA?"

My voice said, "No. She lives with us... Here."
My thoughts said, "Does she appear to be residing in China, you Glorious Dingbat?"

CPW asked, "So you are her custodians, then?"

My voice said, "No. We are her parents."
My thoughts said, "You're gonna need a custodian in just a minute."

CPW finally decides, after conferring again with the other workers, that since the last name and address on her paperwork matches ours, she would go ahead and send in the application.

CPW looks around at the four kids with me and says, "So, are you Octomom?"

My voice said... "HA" (with a big, fake smile- jaw slightly clenched to keep the expletives from flying out).
My thoughts said, "Do ya feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?"

As we were finishing up, and thankfully almost ready to leave, CPW (looking again at the kids) says, "You have FOUR children with you."

My voice said... "Yeee- esss?"
My thoughts said... "Well if nothing else, we've established that you can count to four. Good for you, you Incredible Dipstick."

CPW explained, "You are only getting three passports."

Oh, now I see. She thinks I'm too stupid to count my own kids. I must not know how many passports I need.

My voice said, "I only need three. This one (pointing to a kid) doesn't need one."
My thoughts said, "Do you have a hammer handy, or some type of blunt instrument? Anything will do, really... I just need to whack something real quick."

Top 5 Lists

I've loved your thoughts on names (thank you, all!) and thought I'd give you an update on the stalemate between Darrell and I over the name Samantha. After all of your suggestions, and a little more searching on my own, here are lists of our Top Five Names...

Michelle's List

1. The name hated by all but me.

2. Sophia/Sophie

3. Vivian

4. Violet

5. Tess

For *middle names, I'm thinking of using Rose or Grace with most of the above, except for Tess. What would be a good middle name that goes with Tess? I'm thinking maybe Renee? But I don't know if I like that. What do you guys think? Our last name is two syllables, if that helps.

*(For both genders, the baby's Marshallese name will be worked in as a second middle name, like we did with Bri- or possibly used as the only middle name).

Darrell's List

1. Samantha/Sam

2. "...Uh..."

3. "I haven't thought of any overnight."

4. "...Well..."

5. "Oh, uh... I... uh... kinda like Tess... maybe."

You see my problem, right? It's not just me, is it? (No, Michelle, of course it's not. It's all him, honey... Aawwwll him.) He is being extraordinarily difficult.

I'm also stressing over preparing for a baby boy. Even though we've already settled on the name (still Sam, no changes there), I'm doing other things to work myself into an unnecessary tizzy. I've been trying to choose paint colors for his room. I look at baby clothes everywhere I go, trying to find cute boy clothes that are not covered in the typical boats, bears, dinosaurs and footballs, even though we have no idea how old he'll be or what size he will be.

You know, if I were pregnant, everyone would just say I was nesting and my behavior would be considered totally normal, even cute. But since I'm "only" adopting, I'm just crazy to be worrying over all of this before our referral.

That's not fair. Adoptive moms nest, too!

Any suggestions?

First, thank you for the nice comments the other day about my haircut. You guys are a bunch of sweetie-pies! I've heard a few "You look younger!" comments since getting it all lopped off, and those people are now my new best friends. My apologies to my former best friends. You may be reinstated if you come up with better compliments.

On with the subject of today's post: Girl names... I'm having serious doubts about naming a baby girl Sam. Darrell however, is not. And no, we did not get our referral yet, so no, we do not know if Sam is even going to be a girl, but please, people- anyone who knows me understands that I have to spend time and energy worrying about this subject right now. Nevermind that I really do think we'll get a boy... Humor me, okay? I have to have my back-up plan in place. Darrell has no interest in discussing this with me, no matter how obnoxiously often I bring it up, so that means... You get to hear it!

I like very feminine, old-fashioned names. I don't like girl names that are really trendy, although I appear to have a habit of choosing names that wind up being popular. I guess I really know how to pick 'em. I thought I was being so original with Olivia and Brianna, but no... not so much. There is an Olivia and/or Brianna on every one of the girls' teams and in every elementary class. For the most part though, trendy, cute, cheerleader-ish names are out. No offense to all the Brittanys, Haylies, Kaylies, Mileys, Kylies, and Smylies out there. I'm sure you're all wonderful people.

I love flower names: Daisy, Violet, Rose (Rosalie!), Lilly. I love good, solid, "old-lady" names: Scarlet, Esther, Emma, Sophia/Sophie (slightly trendy, but I still love it), Annie (which I love, but it would sound funny with our last name, I think).

The meaning of the name is kind of important to me, too. No "negative" names. For example, I love the name Leah, but it means weak or weary and that kind of ruins it for me.

One of my all-time favorite girl names is... Oh, forget it. I'm too embarrassed to tell you. Judging by the ridicule I've received from my own family members, everyone absolutely hates it. It's a name that seems to invite mockery of every sort, so there's no way in Hades I'd get to use it anyway.

Darrell basically hates all the girl names I come up with, including all of those I mentioned above, which is why we will probably wind up with Samantha. His pick. It's not a bad name, it's just... I dunno. For one thing, to me, Samantha is a cat's name. Our cat's name is Mama, not Samantha, so go figure. Weird. But... I digress. It is also the name of Olivia's American Girl doll, so there would obviously be a lot of confusion in the house. How would the doll and/or the baby know which Samantha we're speaking to?

The main problem with Samantha other than, you know, I don't like it, is that we are nick-name people around this house, so the baby will not be called Samantha, she'll most likely be called Sam. Sam is not a girlie name. I want a girlie name if I'm having a girl- did I mention that? That means that the other names Darrell seems to like for girls (Stevie, Andi, Stormie, etc...) aren't gonna fly with me either, although those are all cute names. We could do Sami/Sammie, I guess, to "girl it up" a little bit, but I'd rather have something else. Names that end in "i" are venturing into cheerleader territory, are they not?

(Crap. If we do name her Samantha, I'll have to go back and delete this post someday, so that her little feelings won't be hurt. I don't want her to feel like her own Mom dislikes her name. Someone will need to remind me to do that, okay?)

Darrell let me pick Olivia and Brianna, and accepted what I wanted without complaint or comment. What a gem. I think he figured that, since we'd had four boys in a row, he would let me have free reign and be as girlie as I wanted with my daughters. So, I guess I could be really sweet and let him have Samantha, or any other name he chooses, for our last baby. I could... I guess... Of course, I won't... But I could.

Maybe if I keep pushing for the name I like the most (The Most Detested Female Name on Earth), Darrell will compromise and let me have Violet, Scarlet, Sophia, or Daisy?

What do you guys think? Have you heard any girl names lately that you really like? Can you think of any good, old fashioned names for me? Are you even still awake? A free M&M to anyone who made it through this whole post! Another one if you contribute a suggestion- I'm feeling generous! Just tell me where to send it.

Losing you... And everything else

Well, I see I'm losing readers by the fistfuls. I never had many to begin with, so hello to the 3 of you sticking with me. I've become such a rotten blogger that I understand why people are jumping ship, but still... It's painful. Deeply, deeply painful. I feel a song coming on... KC and the Sunshine Band...

"Please don't go. Don't go-OHHH-ohhh. Don't go away... Hey, hey, hey."

If you're still here, come out of the woodwork and let me know. Leave me a comment, even if you usually lurk, just to say Hi. My battered blogger ego needs a boost today.

I guess another exciting post is in order so that I can hang on to all three of my remaining friends. So. Let's see... What to post, what to post. What.To.Post.

I got nuthin.'

Alex is seriously considering the military, which has me very nervous and upset. He hates school and doesn't really know yet what he wants to do. He feels like he's just kind of drifting and lost. I told him it's perfectly normal at 18 years old not to know what you want to do with the rest of your life. I don't want him committing years of his life to the service until he knows for sure that that is absolutely what he wants, since there's no backing out of it once it's done. I think teenage boys can have such a romanticized notion of the military sometimes, know what I mean? All that macho Hollywood crap. I want him to be SURE. Then, I want him to decide to pursue something else- lol! I don't want to be a military mom. I worry enough as it is. If you're a praying person, pray that God will give him direction and reveal the right path for him.

Mike has girl trouble. Last month, he and a friend (a girl, but not a girlfriend) decided they would go to Prom together, as friends, since neither one was dating anyone (do you capitalize the P in Prom? Is Prom really that important that it deserves a capital P? I wouldn't know since I never went to Prom, or prom). Since that time, Michael has started dating a (different) girl, who will, no doubt, expect to be taken to Prom by her boyfriend, if they are even still deeply, eternally in love by that time. The girl who is just a friend is not being very understanding about Mike's changed situation and still expects to be his date to Prom, or prom. His new girlfriend doesn't know yet about any of this. I doubt she will be very happy to know this other girl expects to go with Mike. Oh, the drama. Doesn't it take you right back to your high school years? Poor guy. I fear he's going to wind up staying home that night, without a date at all. I'll take him to a movie. That will fix it- spending Prom Night with your mom... Good times.

Let's see... What else.

Oh, I've decided to try my hand at quilting... Again. I've attempted this several times in the past, with depressing results. I don't sew. I'm not a sew-er. How do you spell sewer, as in "one who sews," without it looking like you're saying sewer, as in "all the underground pipes that carry waste and filth?" I guess I say seamstress? Ok. Whatever. I'm no seamstress. Never learned in middle school. Never took a class. Didn't learn from my mom. Ha! Visions of my mom, hunched over a sewing machine... That's funny!

I have a sewing machine. I can turn it on. From there, we start to have our troubles. But I love quilts, and want to make one for the baby. I bought a few books on Amazon and have been watching videos on YouTube, so I'm sure I can learn everything I need to know from those, right? I'll let you know how it goes.

Well. That's the big news for today. I said the other day I'd post pictures of my new haircut, and I will... Really. I will. As soon as it doesn't look like crap. I do not know when that will be. I'm sure all three of you are remembering I said that and you're waiting with bated breath to see the new hairdo.

What does bated breath even mean? The word bated would mean "restrained," or it could be like "diminished." Waiting with restrained, diminished breath? What does that mean? Does it mean you're sitting there holding your breath, waiting to see my haircut? Because that kind of makes sense... Does anyone know?

...Gee, I can't imagine why I'm losing my readership.

Illness Update

Oh my gosh, you guys, you should hear my voice. It's hilarious. This would be a good time to take up singing. I've never been able to carry a tune, but I doubt anyone would notice at this point. I think it sounds like Melissa Ethridge in horrible pain... which is kind of how she always sounds anyway.

You know what's really funny? I keep having coughing fits that are so strong, my puke reflex becomes confused and thinks I'm trying to hurl, so... I do. I hurl. I cough until I can't breath, with tears streaming down my face, then just for a fun finish, I vomit. How's that for good times? I tell ya, I'm having more fun than a band of drunk monkeys.

I'm going to watch the House marathon today (yes, seriously, there is another House marathon on- I wouldn't kid about something like that) because I'm thinking maybe I can get a diagnosis. His team will say I have sarcoidosis. Maybe it's autoimmune. House will say it is Cushing's. (**Drama Queen Alert**) Then I will curl up in a corner and cry for my mother as I wait for death. Of course, she will not recognize my voice, and Melissa Ethridge's mom will show up instead, and there will be this whole awkward, embarrassing thing... But, then, I will die. Possibly in her arms. I don't know, we'll just have to see how it goes.

I wish to be buried in my Wonder Woman t-shirt. And unless someone wants to pluck my eyebrows, we should probably leave the casket closed. I've been a little lax with the personal hygiene lately. Please put my brand new white Nikes in the casket with me. I hardly got to wear them, so by golly, those suckers are coming with me.