2010 In Review

First Quarter (January-March)

Jojo won school spelling bee.  He was a 3rd grader & beat 4th, 5th & 6th graders.  BFFs made him cupcakes to celebrate.  BFF's are AWESOME!

Updated my kitchen

Took kids to Nueces Co. Livestock Show.  No chance of them ever becoming Farm Kids. 

Second Quarter (April - June)

Luke turned 5.  Birthday party at Sonic

Updated Dining Room

Family went on annual San Antonio Trip

Unsuccessfully tried to get photo of all 3 boys in wildflowers

Painted Partridge Family Bus mural on living room wall.

Jojo won best in class again.  He is happy about it, despite his cranky face.

Had party with fun people!




Luke graduated Pre-School

And www.giftoffat.com was born!

Third Quarter (July-September)







Started Mayor's Fitness Challenge





Joe started Grade 4, Luke Kinder.





Played in Water Park in front of American Bank Center



Storm knocked out trees -- windshield

July 4 at beach

Joe got his jellyfish



Sold Beemer

Fourth Quarter (September-December)



1st 5K

2nd 5 K

3rd 5K

Wore LBD -- WITHOUT SPANX!

Beach with Greg & Boys

Pumpkin patch

Merry Christmas

Yummy Christmas Yumminess

Tamales.  Pan de Polvo.  See's Chocolates.  Popcorn balls.  Chips with queso.  Cookies.  Ten flavors of popcorn (ever hear of cinnamon popcorn?  It's incredible.)  Cheesecake.  Pie.  Peppermint Mochas.  Plastic Candy Canes filled with M&M's and Reeses cups.  Chewy candy stuffed in the kid's stockings.  Pita chips and that yummy spreadable chesse.  Summer sausage.  Mixed nuts.  Chex Mix.  Pigs in a blanket.  And Candy Canes.

It's amazing we're not all size 24s. 

Merry Christmas Everybody!

Did you know there's a 5 AM too?

Apparently people all over Corpus Christi have been waking up in the middle of the night to go to V Fit for their Transformation class.

Transformation class is just like Boot camp, only the Mayor isn't there, so Victor isn't as nice.

It starts at 5 am.

That's not a typo. 

Because I promised to get in at least 4 workouts a week, the I had to go to the Transformation class this morning.  Tomorrow is Christmas, so we don't have our weekly workout by the sea.

On the plus side, there are a lot of cool people at this class.  I've met many of them at 5Ks -- they all beat my time by like 30 minutes.  It is a very good workout.  I was soaking wet within 20 minutes. 

On the downside, it was dark when I got there and dark when I left.  Victor is also really grumpy & mean at 5am.  He made us do burpees for a minute and a half without stopping.  That doesn't sound like a long time now that I see it in print.  But lemme tell ya -- I've sat through accounting classes that didn't feel as long as that minute and a half.

I am considering -- just considering at this point -- maybe going to another one.  Someday. 

If only it wasn't at 5 am. 

Another Gift of Fat - Snuggly Arms

Number 2 son woke up last night with a fever & sore throat. 

I am sure there are moms who dose the kid with Tylenol, give him a kiss on the forehead and go back to sleep.  It's only a fever.  Fevers are good -- they build the immune system and fight invaders.  In an otherwise healthy kid, they are nothing to worry about. But I am a worrier. 

After the Tylenol and the kiss, he says "Will you sleep with me Mama?"  Of course I will sleep with you, baby.

I don't care that there isn't room for me and that I won't be able to fall asleep.  I will lay there, listening to his ragged breathing through his congested nose and worry that the fever is the first sign of Meningitis.    I will worry about whether his shots are up to date (they are) and wonder how contagious he is.  I will worry about his brothers and wonder if they are incubating fevers of their own. 

And he will reach over to me and slip his hot little hand under the sleeve of my nightgown so he can snuggle my arms.  The arms that keep me from going sleeveless.  After working out for six months, they are strong now, and the muscles are hard beneath the jiggly layer of fat.  But it's the jiggly part that he needs to make him feel better when he's sick. 

And for once, I am grateful for snuggly arms. 

Fake Ones

When I was 25, Greg & I got engaged.  Before he asked me to marry him, we went ring shopping.  I was very specific about the diamond I wanted.  I wanted an emerald cut solitaire.  It had to be at least 3/4 carats because all my friends had at least 3/4 carats. 

He wanted to marry me anyway, and bought me a 1.4 carat emerald cut solitaire.  It is a beautiful ring, and still receives compliments -- especially from hopeful young women searching for their perfect ring.

Twenty Five years later, I am done with diamonds.  If Greg wants to get me another diamond (he doesn't) I want a a 3 carat pear shaped CZ.  Maybe 4 carats.  Something gloriously big and loud and fake and cheap.  Wait -- not cheap. I don't want it to turn my finger green.  Inexpensive.  But amazing.

I love fake.  I am all about acrylic nails, faux-red hair and someday I will get a nice big set of fake boobs.  I want a good leather handbag, but it can be a knockoff.  With all due respect to Kate Spade, her designs are stunning, but $500 is too much to pay for a purse. 

And $80 is too much to pay for a Christmas tree.  But the $35 ones are all gone.

So I got a fake one.  With lights. It is FAAAAABULOUS!

Happy Birthday to Me. . . .

Today I am 45.

When I was 25, I had a plan for where I would be now.  Fortunately, I am pretty much where I thought I would be in life.  I have a husband, kids, a house, a job.  At 45 my kids are probably younger than I expected, my house isn't as grand as I thought it would be, and I had NO idea I would be working here.  Hell, at 25 I had no idea I would ever live in Texas again.  (My family lived in Dallas for a year when I was 8.  My mother hated it.)

At 25 I had no idea that I wouldn't care that I am not driving a Beemer anymore.  In fact, my 45 year old self is kinda making fun of my 25 year old self for caring about the Beemer in the first place.

At 25 I had no idea that I wouldn't return to graduate school until I was 43.  I thought I'd be finished with my JD or MBA or whatever by 35.  Except that I didn't set a goal to go back to school, so that never happened.

I did set a goal to be happily married.  Guess what?  I'm happily married.  Very happily married.  In fact, Greg was cracking me up this weekend -- after all these years his sense of humor is still so refreshing.

I did set a goal to be involved with my church.  Guess what?  My church is part of my family.  Christ is such a central point of our lives -- way more than I envisioned at 25. 

I did set a goal to own a BMW.  I owned one.  Big whoop.  Not as rewarding as the husband or the church.

I set a goal to be financially independent.  Guess what?  We are almost there.  We pay cash for everything and we have only Greg's goddamn student loan and the house to pay off.  God willing, within 5-7 years, we will have NO DEBT.  Honestly, my 25 year old self pictured financial independence differently.  I envisioned a lot more stuff.  Fortunately, the reality of financial independence is less stuff, more security.  More peace.  Dave Ramsey knows what he's talking about. 

I set a goal to have 2 kids.  A boy and a girl.  I surpassed my goal.  Three boys means that some day I will have a daughter-in-law or two.  Or three.  Again, at 25, I had no idea how much I would like these people that look so much like my husband.  I knew I would love them.  Admittedly, I had no idea of the intensity.  But I really like them.  Most of the time. 

I set a goal to be a size 8.  HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHA.  What  stupid goal.  Who cares what size I am?  Not me. 

No, I am FAR from that goal.  But I am healthy.  And strong.  (Dude -- Gabe worked  my shoulders so hard last night that I can barely lift my arms to type.  Ow.)  I can do things I never thought I would do.  Like a real push up.  Or "run" a 5 K.  Again, my reality is better than my vision.

The key is setting goals.  Goals that matter.  The experts say you must have SMART goals.  (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic & Timed).

At 45, I am setting more goals. 

I wonder what they will look like when I'm 65?

I'll let you know!

Name Bigots

I finally got the Christmas cards stuffed, addressed and stamped. 

One of my colleagues came by & noticed my labels.  He said "I can't even pronounce half these names".

I didn't say "that's because you are an idiot" but he probably read it in my thought bubble. 

"Mata . . masa. . what???"

Matsubyashi.  Mat-soo-buy-ah-shi.  Break it into syllables.  It's really not too hard.

"This one is hard.  It has 2 i's at the end."

"I know.  Pronounce both of them.  Yakushijii.  Ya-koo-shi-ji-i.  Japanese names are pretty phonetic."

"So this one is pronounced Koo-oo-sh. . . what the hell?"

"It's Kuusisto.  Koo-sis-to.  And it's not Japanese.  It's Finnish."

"Okay -- then this one is Hway?"

"No.  That's Chinese. Hui.  It's pronounced Huey."

"I thought you said they were phonetic."

"I said Japanese names are phonetic.  Chinese names aren't always."

"Like this one?  How do you say this one?  NGAH?"

"Actually, she pronounces it Eng.  Ng is generally pronounced Eng."

"Don't you have any white friends?"

"Yeah.  Kuusisto is white.  He's Finnish.  They tend to be white."

"Wow.  Who do you  know in Hawaii?"

"That's Greg's Uncle".

"Oh.  This his first name?"

"Toku? Yep.  Uncle Toku."

"Weird."

"Uh, Homer?  I gotta take this call."

My friend Homer is a name bigot.  He figures if he's never seen it before, it's weird.  When I was a kid, if you had a name like Homer in our school, you'd get beat up.  In South Texas, Homer is a perfectly normal name.  So is Beto.  And Servando.  Narciso.  Guadalupe.  All very nice names, but not so common in Minnesota. 

So please.  When I introduce you to Homer, don't say "HOMER?!!  Like Homer Simpson? Weird!"

Just so you know. . . .

They were sold out of trees.

In other news, I got to go to a cookie exchange today.  I baked 7 dozen shortbread cookies and took them to a girlfriend's house.  Several other of her friends baked 7 dozen yummy cookies and we traded. 

It was the Christmas I dreamed about -- complete with beautiful little girls in red plaid dresses and stylish women chatting, laughing and sipping coffee.  The home was tastefully and seasonally decorated, the hostess charming, and the company engaging. 

Yes, Virginia, there is a Perfect Christmas Party. It exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.

O Christmas Tree

Today is the day we are going to get our tree.

Every year we drive to tree lots all over town to pick the biggest, most fragrant tree.  Every year that perfect tree costs somewhere upwards of $80.  So then we go to the grocery store, and buy a $35 tree.

This year?  I'm just going to buy it when I get my groceries.  While I am there, I am sure to leaf through several home magazines.  I will linger wistfully on the perfectly festooned trees in their pages.  There will be an "all-white" tree, a gold themed tree, and maybe even an Indian themed tree.  India is very "in" this year, in case you haven't noticed.  (For the record, I was into India wayyyyy before it got cool. Because Kal Pen is dreamy.  He's not actually from India, but his parents are, I think.  Anyway -- Sigh.)   

I will dream of the day when my home is decorated perfectly for Christmas.  Elegantly dressed family and friends will come from near and far to enjoy home made goodies and hot chocolate.  We will laugh loudly at witty banter, showing our perfect teeth. 

Last year, my friend Kathy made me a very pretty monogrammed ornament.  It would have gone perfectly on my fragrant, monochromatic tree of the future.  It was broken within 3 minutes of getting on the tree. 

Until that Christmas, I will wax sentimental when we pull our shabby ornaments out of storage and place them on the grocery store tree.  I have ornaments from my own childhood, ornaments my kids made, ornaments I bought when we lived in other states, ornaments from friends.  (Except for Kathy, of course.)  For some reason, I have a lot of western themed Santas.  I like 'em. I used to have a beautiful adobe church ornament.  It got broken when our fake tree fell on my then 3 year old.  Damn fake tree.

And in 2020-something, when my boys are strapping young men, my home is perfect and we all wear sweaters despite the South Texas heat, I will miss my shabby tree.

Happy Hanukkah to Michelle!

Michelle wins my Hanukkah Giveaway!

The winning post (chosen by random.org):

Michelle said...



For me, right now every day is a special day. I have a wonderful husband, 3 (sometimes) delightful boys and even though times have really sucked here lately in our lives, we are blessed because we are still together.






Michelle

Congrats Michelle!

Please send me your contact info here. 
Hope your eight days and nights were filled with Hanukkah Lights!

The Giving Tree

Fair warning -- this post is going to be sappy as hell.  Sentimental.  Cloying.

I am in that kind of mood. 

When I went to mass this morning, I was so grateful to Greg for staying home with the boys so I could go to mass on my own.  No one pulled off my pants, stuck their hands down my blouse or repeated "Look Mama!  It's Father Roger!" all through mass. 

The mass was beautiful.  I love the advent colors -- purple with gold.  I love the candles, I love the symbolism, I love the prayers.  Mostly, I love the people at Mass. 

 The Giving Tree was up -- this is our way to provide The Ark with gifts and needed items for the year.  We select an ornament off the tree.  The ornament has a child's age and gender on it, with an item that needs to be purchased.  These kids need toys, but more than that, they need toiletries, clothes, medicine.  What they really need is a safe and loving home, but unfortunately, the Giving Tree isn't much help there.

The Ark is an emergency shelter for kids who have to be removed from their homes.  Usually, they have to be removed because of violence, neglect and abuse.  Frequently children are removed in the dead of night, when drinking and drugs bring out the worst in those who are supposed to protect them.  These kiddos come from all ages, races, religions and income levels.  Most of them come from poverty -- if only because the poor have fewer mechanisms to control the damage done by the violence. 

As soon as mass was over, families descended upon the tree -- taking one, two or three ornaments.  People where waiting four and five deep.  I know many of the families clamoring for the ornaments. When you know people, you learn their struggles.   I saw people who suffered layoffs this year.  People who have suffered miscarriages and other medical emergencies.  People who have several small children at home.  People who are caring for terminally ill parents.  I saw people who struggle with addictions of their own.  I saw single parent families and even a family that lost a child.  Struggling families who couldn't wait to help the kids at The Ark.

We're going to do what we can too.  We'll give.  It will be nothing compared to what we have received.  I am grateful for the chance to attend mass on my own.  More than that, I am grateful for the chance to be a part of this Parish family. 

Clothes Crisis

The good news is, my clothes are getting way too big.

The bad news is, my clothes are getting way too big.

So I have nothing to wear.

It's no biggie around the house - sweats are sweats.  The biggest problem is at work.  I am in management.  I am in Corporate Services, which means I am expected to get out in front of the community.

One of the gifts of fat is that when I walk into a room, everyone notices me.  I want them to say "Wow -- look at that confident, chic, beautiful woman" not "Geez lady, you look like an unmade bed". 

When your clothes don't fit -- whether they are too large or too small -- you lack polish.  Nothing says "I am not worthy" like someone who won't buy cute clothes until they reach a size 10.  I am finding that it also works the other way around.  Nothing says "Yes. I've dropped a few dress sizes but I am not sure how long I can keep this up" like walking around in baggy clothes. 

So. . . .I will go shopping.  With my birthday and Christmas money.  Hint hint.  Until then, I am wearing the same 3 pieces over and over and over and over.  And over. 

Don't forget to leave your Christmas/Hanukkah/Diwali/Eid/Halloween . .. etc memory here!

A Hanukkah Giveaway!!!!!

Happy Hanukkah everyone!

I know.  I'm a Catholic.  I don't celebrate Hanukkah. 

I don't have a menorah, but I do celebrate Hanukkah.  It's the Festival of Lights!  The story of Hanukkah is one of faith and perseverance and providence.  Why wouldn't I celebrate it? 

This is the time of year when the office e-mail is clogged with Group e-mails complaining about taking the word "Christmas" out of Christmas.  I admit it.  I never say Happy Holidays.  I say Merry Christmas.   Because Christmas is an important event.  And it is joyful! 

That's why I say Happy Hanukkah.  Happy Diwali.  And whatever you say on Ramadan. 

I have a beautiful, wonderful, generous girlfriend who is Jewish.  She is like a grandma to my boys.  They call her "Bubbe Tex".  Because every Catholic kid should have a Bubbe Tex.    Bubbe Tex wishes us Merry Christmas.  In fact, every day is Christmas when Bubbe Tex is around.  She spoils those kids!

So to my dear friend, Bubbe Tex -- Happy Hanukkah!  We love you!

And to  make Hanukkah extra joyful, I am giving away another Starbucks Gift Card.  It will get to you in time for your office Christmas party, so you can use it as your gift if you want.  Or you can get a Peppermint Mocha.  Because THAT is what Hanukkah is all about.  Chocolate yumminess. 

All you have to do is post a comment telling me what your favorite holiday memory is.

It can be a Christmas memory.  An Independence Day memory.  A Ramadan Memory.  Boxing Day.  I don't care which holiday you pick.

I  have 2 favorite Holiday memories:

1. St. Patrick's Day 1990.  Met an incredibly cute boy.  He bought me a beer.  So I married him.
2. New Years Eve 2007.  Number 3 son born.  Tax Deductible for 2007.  Also qualified for the stimulus rebate.  I told you he was a miracle!

Only posts on the blog will count.  Facebook, e-mails, and popping by my office to tell me, don't count. 

Everyone is eligible except my husband and kids.  But they don't read me anyway.

I will use a random number generator to pick the winner, and will post it on December 9th -- the last day of Hanukkah.

Happy Hanukkah and I can't wait to see your replies!

Back to the Routine!

After a week of being a SAHM, I am thrilled to be back at work.  It was great spending time with my littles -- most of the time.  But honestly, we are all pretty sick of each other right  now. 

This morning I eagerly put on my makeup, picked an outfit and got ready for work!  yeay! 

Today was also the first Back-to-School morning in a week.   

Number 1 Son couldn't find his long pants. He had no idea where they would be. "Son. You figured out there was NO SANTA when you were 3. You can't figure out where your goddam pants are????  Did you even LOOK in the drawer?  I didn't think so."

Number 2 Son decides to dance in his underwear all over the house. before, during and after breakfast. I have to tell him over and over and over and OVER to get his clothes on. Then he cried because I yelled.

Number 3 Son acts like he's 6 months old & wants to be carried everywhere. Won't eat his breakfast because he's cold. After he's dressed won't eat it because he's laughing at Number 2  in his underwear.

Husband is yelling at everyone to hurry up.  Yelling at Number 1 Son to get his jacket.  Yelling at Number 2 to put his shoes on.  Yelling at Number 3 for spilling his yogurt.  Did it ever occur to Husband to give 1 the jacket, put shoes on 2 or put 3's yogurt in a bowl for them?  No.  Because they are old enough to do it themselves.

I agree.  They are old enough.  But if you want it done with a minimum of shouting and/or tears. . .. it's best to help them out a little.  And you yelling?  That's not helping.

Now I know why Mother drank.

Cold Mornings and Charlie Brown

I planned to write about how I had to pull myself out of bed this morning to go to Vic's Momentum class.  I was going to whine about how hard it was.  I was going to bitch about how I had to leave my warm bed, where my almost-3-year-old was snuggled against me. 

I put the kids in front of the TV so I could write.  Charlie Brown is on.  I love Charlie Brown.   My favorite is Charlie Brown Thanksgiving where snoopy makes the toast and then accidentally toasts his ear.  My second favorite is on It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown and Snoopy pretends to be a WWI ace shot down behind enemy lines in France.  I love that. 

My all time favorite, however, is on  Charlie Brown Christmas when all the kids sing Hark the Herald Angels Sing around Charlie Brown's tree.  Admit it.  You just hummed a little to yourself didn't you?

I have been listening to the show the kids are watching so I can come in on my favorite parts.  They aren't watching a real Charlie Brown.  They are watching Snoopy Come Home. 

Snoopy Come Home sucks.

Anyway.  It was cold this morning.  I'm gonna go rescue my kids from that crappy show.

Tighty Whiteys and Why I Enjoy Being a Girl

Sometimes I get a little behind on chores.

Like laundry.

As long as I have reasonably clean uniforms for the kids, socks & unders for the hubs and a clean sports bra for me, I'm usually good.

Never occurred to me that I would run out of panties. 

Wait -- I want all the boys to stop reading right now.  The Bitchy Waiter is funny today.  Go read him. 

Yes, you too Ed.  GO!

OK.

I have 10000 pairs of underwear.  Some are fun & lacy.  Some are thongs.  Some coordinate with a specific bra.  Most are comfy cotton briefs. 

Last night after my shower, I opened the panty drawer and. . . . . .chirp chirp chirp.

Nothing.  Not a thing. Not a thong.  No boyshorts, hipsters, g-strings or briefs. 

In normal circumstances, I would go without.  But it's fright week.  I need unders. 

I had NOTHING.  Just a giant pile of dirty laundry.  I would never wear dirty underwear.  Ok, I would.  I totally would.  But the laundry was especially dirty with wet towels and everything.  So I couldn't even find any not-too-dirty ones.

I had to borrow from Greg.  And Greg has 2 choices:  tighty whiteys or chonies.  Chonies weren't gonna do it for me because they wouldn't hold my . .. um . . products in place.  I figured if Kate Moss could wear T.W.s, I could too.  Because Kate & I are soooooo similar.

I knew boys were different from girls.  I had no idea HOW different. 

They have the whole keyhole thing goin' on.  Because they are too lazy to pull their pants down when they pee.  Know what else?  The leg holes on T.W.s are tight.  I mean -- no elastic.  WTF?  How can they wear these?  And there is about 8 inches of fabric between the legholes.  Their legs are NOT that far apart.  I know they need extra fabric to cover their extra parts, but I had NO IDEA that there was so much fabric down there.  Finally, the waistband?  Definately not designed for girls.  Well, maybe for Kate Moss.  But for girls with hips?  Nope.

So today, I am catching up on my laundry. 

Cotton briefs first. 

 

Thankful for Thy Bounty and the Invention of Cool Whip

At the grocery store today there were thousands of people shopping for their holiday repast.

Why don't they just buy it when they are shopping for their regular groceries like I am?   Why does shopping for turkey require 75% more people?  Admittedly, I was with my 9 year old, but I am usually there with all 3 kiddos, so technically, I had 66% fewer people with me.  I have been at rock concerts with less people than were at the store today. 

It was the Monkees Reunion Tour, but still.   

I made my usual route through the HEB (in South Texas, you can go to any grocery store you want, as long as it's HEB).  I started in paper goods, went through dairy, meat, then circle back for cleaning goods, personal products, pet food, frozen, canned goods, cereal, specialty items, bakery then fresh produce. 

I filled my cart with the usual, plus stuff for Thursday.  A box of stuffing, a huge frozen solid turkey, a can of cranberry sauce, a can of pumpkin, a can of biscuits, and a tub of cool whip.  A big tub of cool whip. 

In the produce section, I found sweet potatoes, haricot verts (or, as I like to call them: green beans), lettuce, tomato, a star fruit, lemons and oranges.  My son wanted the star fruit.  What the hell, it's only once a year.  I'll pay $3 for a pretty fruit that no one is really going to eat. 

My oldest and I discussed Thanksgiving.  We discussed the brutal winter the pilgrims experienced.  The disease, the squalor.  We discussed the trials that led to the pilgrims going to the New World.  The prejudice and the political oppression.  My 9 year old is really, really smart.  He is more than up for a discussion on the Geopolitics of 1659 and the repercussions for modern western civilization. 

It occurred to me that the pilgrims wouldn't recognize anything that we were buying in their honor.  Most of it was canned or boxed or shrink wrapped.  Most of it has added salt or sugar or colors.  Even the vegetables were prettier and more processed than the stuff they ate.   I mean, seriously -- canned cranberry sauce? 

When I was about 12, I got in big trouble because I mashed the cranberry sauce in the bowl so it would look more "natural".  My dad said I "ruined" it and had to run to the 7-11 to get another can because in those days grocery stores were not open on Thanksgiving.  I think he paid like $3.25 for that can of cranberry sauce.

I have a vegetarian friend who buys organic and wouldn't eat anything that I bought.  She is very true to the idea of clean food, as close as possible to its natural state.  She bemoans the state of food in this country.  I am very thankful for this friend.  I am also thankful that I am not eating Thanksgiving with her.  (Just kidding M!  You can come to our house if you want!  Bring your own dinner, 'kay?)

I am also very thankful that the bounty we receive is nothing like the Pilgrims.  I don't have to kill anything.  I don't have to clean much.  I just open the can, and yum. 

I just hope the Cool Whip lasts until Thanksgiving. 

Maintain-No Gain

There is a new challenge put forth by my awesome employer:

The Holiday Challenge:  Maintain-No Gain.

They say that the average American will gain 8-10 lbs during the holiday season.

Of course I am always above average.

For those of us participating, we weigh in on Friday, then we weigh in AGAIN on January 13.  If we maintain our weight within 2lbs, we get a t-shirt.

I guess if we lose 5 lbs, no t-shirt.  Oh well.

I wonder if I can weigh in naked.  Hmmmm. . . .

Personal Best part II

There is a reason why I rarely post on weekends.

It's because of my miracle baby.

He really is a miracle. The doctor told me that I was too old and too fat to have any more kids.  He didn't say it just like that, but that's what he meant.

When we found out about baby #ooops, my husband said "get a new OB".  I did, and I love her.

She didn't say I was too old and too fat, she said that my age carried certain risks.  And she tested me for everything.

At 13 weeks, I thought I lost him.

He's my third kid.  I've been through this before.  I won't tell you exactly what my symptoms were because they are very personal.  And also really, really gory.  But I was certain that my oooops was gone.

Of course, I had an ultrasound to make sure.

And he was ALIVE!  And he was perfect!  And he stayed perfect! 

And now he's a very normal, healthy almost 3 years old.

And he is the reason I can't get ANYTHING done on the weekends.

He wants to sit on my lap whether I am watching TV, reading, on the computer or in the john.  That's right.  He wants to sit on my lap when anyone else would have to hold their breath just to walk into the room.  Sometimes -- not often -- Greg will let me lock the bedroom door.  Then I get to go potty and read.  Pure luxury. 

Anyway, before Mr. Miracle kept leaning on the keyboard, I was TRYING to tell you about my 5K.

I jogged the whole way (except for about 100 yards when I had something in my shoe).  Three laps.    Three. 

It took a loooooooooooong time. 

As I was starting lap #3, Victor told me that the 5K was actually a 5+K.  A 5K is 3.1 miles.  Apparently 3 laps around our campus is 4.2 miles.  Wow.

My personal best was really a personal best!

And of course, at the finish line, people were cheering me on.  I think they may have been thinking "For God's sake when is she going to get here?  We can't sit here all day."  If they were thinking that, they didn't let on.  They were super awesome. 

The best part was that Gabe won!  (remember him? the meanest ever?) He won the whole thing!  He ran 4.2 miles in like 20 minutes.  I can't even drive that fast.  He rocks.

After the race, I came home to my family.  I sat on the couch.  I tried to get up. I screamed in pain.

Apparently, running 4.2 miles makes you really really sore.

And it chafes a little. 

So I spent the rest of the weekend holding my miracle baby.

Personal Best

I ran my (technically) 4th 5K yesterday. 

I actually jogged it.

I jogged the WHOLE way.  (except for 100 yards when I had to shake something out of my shoe).

I ran with my friend Kathy, the one who has been training with the Couch to 5K program.  I started jogging, she started walking, within 5 minutes she was faaaarr ahead of me.  See you in about an hour, friend!

Actually, I have lots to tell you, but right now the almost 3 year old and the 5 year old are hanging off on me like Spanish moss. 

So I have to tell you later. 

Dammit!

No Mail Today

We don't get mail today.

Because it's Veteran's Day.

GOOD!  We don't need mail.  We need to gather our children, get on our knees and thank God for our military and military families.

We need to explain to our children what this country means to us.  We need to set an example of how to be a good American.

Here are some things you can do today to be a good American:

1. Pledge your allegiance.  Seriously. 

2. Pick up a piece of garbage somewhere.  I know you don't have to.  I know you didn't put it there.  Pick it up anyway.  Want to be totally crazy set an example for the whole community?  Next time you are at a stoplight, put your car in park, get out of the car & take a piece of trash off the road.  Be safe -- don't go into traffic or anything.  But show others how to care for our country.

3. Be respectful and kind to people from other countries.  Especially immigrants.  We have a great nation, and great nations honor their neighbors.

4. Thank those who serve.  In the military, our firefighters, our police, our teachers, our sanitation workers, our service workers -- even in retail.  If you see someone serving others, thank them.

5. Say a prayer of Thanksgiving.

Thank YOU.  Thank you for reading me, for being supportive of me, for correcting me when I need it (and even when I don't). 

God Bless America!

If I Can Do It, You Can Too and Other Big Lies. . .

I admit my magazine rack is filled with heartwarming, inspiring stories of formerly fat people who "got their life back" after dropping a lot of weight. 

I don't know why I read them.       

OK, yes I do.

Why do they always say the same thing?  I got my life back, I was disgusting, If I can do it, anyone can.  Blah blah blah blah blah. 

For one thing, if you didn't have a life when you were fat, that is your fault.  Not the fat's.  I have a life already. Losing weight does not magically qualify me for some extra experience that was heretofore unavailable to me.  Except maybe being able to see my toes when I look down.  And honestly?  That would just piss me off more because if I can see my toes that means I'm too skinny and I'm flat-chested. 

It totally rankles me when someone says they were "disgusting" when they were fat.  You were?  Were you like a pedophile or something?  Because that is disgusting.  Fat is not disgusting. 

And the shout out they give to all us other fatties:  If I can do it, SO CAN YOU.  Shaddap already. 

I feel a little conflicted now I am the workout queen.  I am losing weight.  I am gaining muscle.  (Can I tell  you how incredibly hot I looked in my LBD on Saturday night?  I don't mean to be conceited.  But I looked awesome and I wasn't even wearing Spanx.)  I must remember: it's not about how I look.  It's about my fitness.  But I looked great. 

Does this qualify me to tell all my size 18+ pals "If I can do it, so can you?"

Nope.

The truth is, there are very specific circumstances that are enabling me to do this.

1. I began as part of a challenge for work.  IT WAS MY JOB to do this.  Well, not really.  It's not like I would have gotten fired or anything.  However, I did feel that the College's commitment to the program should be taken seriously.  I am the face of the College.  I take it seriously.

2. The first 3 months were FREE.  Who doesn't love free?  It was actually better than free.  It was like someone handed me $2,000.00 only I don't have to pay taxes on it. 

3. My kids are all big enough that it's OK for me to be a couple of hours late two nights a week.  One of my girlfriends was telling me how frustrated she is that she can't exercise more.  She has a one year old.  When I had a one year old, I sure couldn't work out.  At all.  He won't be one forever.  When he's ready, you can think about getting ready.

4. My husband has been willing (and able) to pick up the kids on workout days.  He gets them dinner, gets them bathed and in jammies.  This is huge.  Without this, forget it. 

5. The studio is right near my office.  This convenience is critical.  I guarantee if Vic ever decides to move, he better consult with me.  Because if he moves too far away, I'm done. 

6. We have enough left in the budget to pay for it.  Believe me -- no budget, no Vic.  It's that simple.  I know that there are those who say that you don't have to pay to work out.  You can do it on your own.

You might be able to, but I can't. 

I don't bake my own bread.  I don't sew my own clothes.  I don't even mow my own yard.  So I am not going to feel bad that I don't manage my own workouts. 

Even if I did do it on my own, know what my workout would be?  A few laps around the park.  That's fine if there are no other options, but Vic challenges me.  He has dome more with my fitness in four months than I was able to do on my own in a year. 

So, to all my friends out there who think "Jeeze -- if a big girl like Mary can do it, I should too". . . .

If you can, do.  If you can't -- don't pay attention to those stupid magazines.

I only read them for the recipes anyway. 

What the hell time is it anyway?

Fall Back used to be one of my favorite times of year.

An extra hour of sleep!  Yeay!

And then I had children.

Last night Greg and I were invited to an engagement party.  We got all dolled up, left the kids with a sitter and spent the evening with some awesome people laughing so hard my abs hurt.  (That part is Victor's fault.  I can't even frigging LAUGH without it hurting.)

On the way home, we thought that maybe. .. since it's Daylight Savings Time. . . maybe we can um, you know, because we get the extra hour of sleep in the morning.  Surely the sitter would have been able to get the kids down before we got home.

We can't even get the kids down.  Why did I expect a 15 year old to be able to?

As soon as we walked in, the two littles shrieked "MAMA!" as if I had been gone three days instead of four hours.  (I know, I know . . .I'll miss it someday.)  I took the sitter home, with a meaningful look to my husband that clearly said "If these children are asleep when I return, you will be rewarded."

They weren't.  He wasn't.

So. . .the kids weren't asleep.  I figured it wasn't a big deal, as we still have that extra hour in the morning.

We forgot to tell the kids about the extra hour.

Because they were awake at what used to be 7am, but is now 6 am.  Right?  Or did it used to be 5am but is now 6 am?.  Whatever it was yesterday, TODAY it is freaking 6 am in the morning and this is NOT A SCHOOL DAY.

SO, my long awaited extra hour of sleep was punctuated by 15 minute intervals of taking the almost 3 year old to the potty, getting the 5 year old some cheerios, and telling the 9 year old that I have no idea where the green sharpie is. 

I was the one who kept getting up.  They never want cheerios from Greg.  He got his extra hour. 

And that's all he gets.

The Meanest Thing EVER!

I have been trying not to whine about my workouts too much, because A: every time I whine, Victor makes them harder; 2: people are sick of hearing it; C: my arms are starting to look like Michelle Obama's.  (When she wears a pink down parka.  But we're getting there.)

I haven't whined.  Much.

I've blogged about Halloween.  Voting.  Maxipads. 

I only called Vic a basterd that one time. 

But today?  I am going to whine like a rusty goddam hinge.

Forgive the typos because I can barely lift my arms to the keyboard.

Do you know what Victor Bin Laden had me do yesterday?

Actually, Gabe made me do it.  I am working out with Gabe.  I don't talk about Gabe too much.  He's just kinda quiet.  He's a pretty nice guy.  He's encouraging.  I like him.

At first, I was bummed that I don't have Ricky as my trainer, because everyone knows that I pink-puffy-heart-with-sprinkles-and-glitter Ricky.  I really do.  I think the world of him.   If I was 20 years younger. . . .

Maybe that's exactly why I don't have Ricky as my trainer. 

Also, Ricky trains my friend Mary, and for some reason, they always put us at opposite ends of the studio. 

Geez -- what is this?  Third grade?  We don't talk that much.

Anyway, Vic has me working with Gabe.  Steady, calm, reliable Gabe.  Sweet, kind Gabe.  Focused and intense Gabe. 

Horrible mean sadistic Gabe.

I've blogged about the pit.  The frickin' stairway to hell that we have to climb up and down over and over and over again.  I have learned to live with the pit.   (And after Vic reads this, I know I will spend much more time there.).  The pit is HARD!  I have been working out since July and it's still really really hard.

Yesterday?

It was tortuous.

Gabe handed me 2 -- yes TWO -- 15 lb weights and made me walk up & down the pit 15 times.  Let's do the math, shall we?  15 x 2 = 30.  THIRTY POUNDS I carried up the stairs.  Not once.  Not twice.  FIFTEEN TIMES. I could have carried my 2 year old up and down those stairs.  He would have wiggled more, but at least I would have gotten a sticky kiss out of it.

I'm not stupid.  I know Vic is the evil creative genius behind it.  He thought it up.  But did Gabe protest?  Did Gabe say "Vic, I think that making a nice lady like Mary carry 30 pounds of dumbbells up and down the stairs is sorta sadistic.  Why don't we do push ups instead?"

No.  He didn't.

That's why GABE is THE MEANEST THING EVER!

See you Tomorrow at 3, Gabe.   

Halloween Aftermath. . . .

I make it a point to always buy Halloween candy that I don't particularly care for so that I won't eat it all by October 27th and then have to buy another bag on the 28th.  And on the 29th.  And the 30th. 

This year, it was Smartees.  I like Smartees.  But after one pack of Smartees, I've had enough.  For the year.  Really looking forward to next year so I can have another pack of Smartees. That's what you call that little cellophane sleeve with the twisted ends, right?  A Pack?  Anyway -- one is enough.

I must say that I was a little disappointed in my neighborhood. 

Everyone bought Reeses.  And Snickers.  And Milkyways.  And Tootsie Rolls.  And M&Ms.

Come ON people -- you can eat those any time. 

I want DOTS.  And Peanut Butter Taffy.  And Candy Corn.  And those jawbreaker balls.  And the really sour Jolly Rancher sticks.  (Or the really hot cinnamon ones!).  And that gross caramel with the white chalky centers.  I want HALLOWEEN candy.  

Thankfully, my friend Kathy (the one who left me in her gritty dust on Saturday) takes her kids tricker-treating for about 6 hours.  They get TONS of candy.  And they don't like most of it.  So she brings it to work. 

In the meantime, all we got left at my house is Smartees. 

Thank God for Kathy.

Just When I think I'm a Badass. . . .

For about four months I have been coming to work every week regaling my colleagues about my hard workouts and how much Vic made me do this week.

I was starting to feel pretty proud of myself.

Which I shouldn't do. 

Inspired by my tales of glory, my friend Kathy decided to start preparing for a 5 K.  She has been doing the Couch to 5K plan.  Good for you! I said patronizingly as I whined about my own - really really hard - workout.

Saturday, Kathy & I participated in the American Heart Association Heart Walk.

It was PACKED! 

And Vic was there!  And Ricky!  And Gabe!  I was so excited.  I showed off my beautiful boys to my friend Kathy.  She rolled her eyes at me.  What else could she do?

The walk started.  SLOWLY.

The problem was, there were a lot of people there.  Like, a million.  And we were all trying to go around the "track" which wasn't a track at all, but the perimeter of Whataburger Field.  (Which is a gorgeous facility!  Come to Corpus Christi & Check it out -- it's awesome!).

So it was sort of a heart stroll.

Which is fine.  Many of the walkers were heart patients -- the whole point is activity, not speed.

But Kathy and I were there for a workout.

And the stroll wasn't working us.

So, as I happily chatted about Vic & Ricky & Gabe and how much they love me, Kathy started to walk fast.  Then she started to run.  Then she started to run fast.

I sort of kept up with her the first mile.

By the second mile,  she was no where to be found. 

And, believe it or not, I still wasn't getting much of a workout.

The event had Workout Stations where you could participate in other fitness activity.  Like Zumba!  And Step Classes!  And Vic had a station!   Yeay!  I can work out with Vic! And Ricky! And Gabe!

He did. 

And then I took a step class.

I got my workout.

A really really owie workout.

I shoulda stayed with Kathy.

One more Halloween post. . .

There has been a lot of talk on the bloggosphere about tween's costumes this year. 

Know why?  Tween slut costumes.  Read this post and this post.  I actually saw some of these for myself at the CATHOLIC School Carnival last week.  Scary! 

I don't have girls.  I don't have to worry about thigh high tights or push-up training bras.  At least not until  my boys hit puberty. . .and then I will worry for a different reason.   You know I wanna get all judgy about the moms of girls who let their daughters dress as Little Ho Peep or Slutty Red Riding Hood.  I wanna. 

Maybe I should just shuddup.

Becasue I have boys.

I worry about:

Weapons.

Bloody, gory, hurty weapons.

I have one kid who will be dressing up like Einstein.  No issues there.  One will be an Oompa Loompa.  How adorable is that going to be?????  One will be a seafaring thief/vandal/rapist/murderer -- I mean Pirate.

Pirate is a good costume, right?  Pirates are cute.   Jack Sparrow (played by my very-second-choice-for-a-husband, Johnny Depp) is downright sexy.  I know that Pirates II & III were really really sucky movies.  Johnny Depp was still dreamylishious.  Even though he looks like he'd smell.  He's still hot.  I'm getting all drooly.  Sorry. 

Why do we think pirates are cute?  Is it because they are from a bygone era?  Will kids in 2210 dress up like doe-eyed versions of Charles Manson? I shudder at the thought.

At any rate, a pirate he wants to be and a pirate he's going to be.  An adorable pirate.  With a sword.  And maybe a gun.

He wants to be a pirate because of the weapons.  I could dress him in a suit & tie and he wouldn't care as long as he got to carry the sword.  He LOVES weapons. And toy stores LOVE to sell weapons to little boys like him.

Here are some of our choices:

Be careful not to get that blood on your sister.

Because kids can't get enough of bloody chainsaws.

This looks less like a weapon and more like an instrument of torture. 

Elegant, yet effective!

My personal favorite.  This one is called "Sacrificial Dagger".  Just in case we run into any virgins. 

All sold at a Toys-R-us near you! 

So, moms of girls?

Tell Little Ho Peep to beware of Pirates. 

No. Oh no. No no no no no no no.

I am totally and unapologetically ripping off Jen Lancaster's post. 

She'll understand. 

Read this. 


So.  Anyway.  What Jen said.

I Hate Wings

This post is for girls.

All the boys should go outside and play kickball with the Social Studies teacher. 

Are they gone?  Good.

I have "been a woman" since I was 11.

That means that Aunt Flo has been coming to my house every month for 33 years.  Well - 30, if you don't count the 3 times I was expecting.  And, I probably shouldn't count those.

30 years then.  30 years times 12 months equals 360 months.  I probably have about 10 more years to go before menopause.  That's another 120 months.  Considering the average cost of monthly products, I will have spent approximately $3,800.00 on Kotex before I am done.

Kotex, please, for $3,800 --  enough with the wings already.

I know they are supposed to keep your undies pristine.  What kind of undies do most of us wear during this special time, anyway?  Old granny panties.  With holes in them.  I could care less about pristine.  And after 3 C-Sections, pristine isn't happening for me anymore anyway. 

These friggin' wings are driving me nuts.  They don't stick where they are supposed to, they climb back up into the, uh, main compartment and get all tangled.  At least mine do. 

They actually have pads to wear with thongs.  Wow.  I have been known to wear thongs with certain outfits.  I can't even imagine wearing one during fright week.

I know that we've come a long way since the dark ages when women had to wear belts to keep their products in place.  That?  Would totally suck.

I know some of my post menopausal friends want to tell me to be grateful for this special time.  That it's nothing compared to menopause.  Well DON'T.  Irritibility is a common symptom. It says so right on the box of Pamprin.  I don't want to hear it.

I can't wait for menopause.  I know, I know. . hot flashes. I get 'em alreddy.  Night sweats.  Got 'em.  Panic attacks. Got 'em.  Increased facial hair.  Yep.  The only thing I don't have about menopause is the break from the curse.

I mean a break longer than 9 months.

What Fit People Really Think of Us. . .

Since I have been working out so much, I figured that I should start to run in 5K type races.

I HAD to participate in the American Diabetes Association's Dancing Thru Downtown event.  That was the finale of the V-Fit Leadership challenge.  I walked it.  It was about 3.5ish miles.  Didn't come in first, didn't come in last.  Wasn't any big deal, really.  I didn't even think of it as a 5K. 

This past weekend, I participated in the V-Fit 5K, benefiting Mission of Mercy.  In case you're wondering which one I am, I am the bright red one coming in dead last.

I am not disappointed that I came in last.  My goal was to finish.

I tried to stay as close as I could to the 2 lovely ladies ahead of me.  They are in their 60's, and they run 5K's all the time.  Before the first mile was up, I was eating their dust. 

I was also lapped pretty quickly by the mom pushing her 3 year old in the stroller.  She rocks.  She is in my age class, and she came in first.  (I came in second.  The moral is:  more people 40-45 need to run 5Ks).

We ran through a pretty neighborhood, down streets, through a park.  It was a lovely day.

Motorcycle cops were on had to ensure the traffic was clear, and also to ensure no one was hurt or injured along the way.  I tried to hitch a ride with one of them, but he wouldn't take me.  I am going to complain to the city.  What do we pay taxes for if our policemen won't even help us cheat in a 5K.

What was amazing to me was how others reacted to me.


Most of the runners are very fit, active people. Some are full on athletes.

No matter our fitness or experience, everyone was very supportive.

They were more than supportive.

They were genuinely pulling for me.

My friend Laurie (the one who Victor makes do really really crazy hard things), finished the race in about 30 minutes.  She is awesome.  She came to find me so she could help me run the last 1/4 mile or so.  She kept my energy up.

Tim, one of Vic's Super-Fit clients, ran with me to the finish line.  He was SO incredibly affirming.  He delivered me to the home stretch and cheered me as I ran up the hill to the finish line.

The finish line was on top of a hill.

Because Victor does things like that, the basterd.

Victor, who I love dearly despite the fact that I just called him a bad name, ran alongside me as I ran up the hill.

Everyone else was on the sidelines cheering.  They cheered for me as if they had bet money on me. 

I can't begin to describe the feeling.

I am pleased that I ran.  I am proud that I finished.  The best part, however, is the incredible feeling of support and solidarity I got from the other runners.

To my fat brothers & sisters:  I know that sometimes you don't like to tackle things like this because you feel weird being around all these gorgeous fit people.

I am here to tell you -- they want us there.  They want us to do well.  They are pulling for us.

I have 3 more runs to finish this year. 

By the last one, maybe I can cheer someone else on!

I Am Going To Tell You How To Vote.

First, decide who you should vote for. 

Second, go to a polling place.  They are all over the place.  If you aren't sure where to go, click here.

Third, show your ID to the old person sitting behind the table.  I don't know why they are always old, but they always are.  They are nice though.  They will look you up.  Then they will have you sign a paper saying that you are you. They will show you how to use whatever voting machine is at your particular polling location. 

Fourth, enter the voting booth, read your options, select the best option.

If there is no best option, select the least horrible option.


PLEASE NOTE:  You will have the option to vote all Republican or all Democrat.  This is for stupid people.  You are not stupid.  I know, because you are reading my blog. 

Fifth, cast your ballot.

Leave.

Sixth: call your friend who always bitches about how lousy the government is.

Tell them to vote.

That is how to vote. 

It's Fall!

More accurately, it's Autumn.

I love Autumn.

Even here where it tends to be steamy.

Plus my favorite color is Orange.

So the Blog gets a new look.

Hope you like it!

The Annual Fall Tradition

What is it about fall that makes me drag my kids to the "Pumpkin Patch" to take their photos?

I mean every stinkin' year.

I have 9 years of pumpkin patch pictures.

9 years of pumpkin patch scrapbook pages.

And my kids all look alike, so if I don't immediately write down which kid is sitting on the goddamn pumpkin, I'll never figure it out.

It's not even a real pumpkin patch.  It's a bunch of crates with already harvested pumpkins on them.

Because October is generally humid & steamy in Corpus Christi, you gotta get to the pumpkin patch early or you will be taking pictures of your kids sitting among slimy rotting vegetables.

Maybe it's because I have a fall fantasy.  I imagine crisp, chilly air and warm soup waiting for me at home.  I think of long tweed skirts and turtlenecks and boots.  I wish for colors and crunching leaves.

The pumpkin patch is as close to fall as we get around here.

It's my favorite fall tradition.

And the Winner is. . . .

Jana J!

Greg took Kathy's advice and used http://www.random.org/ to generate the winner. 

Jana's comment:

Best movie: Gone With The Wind

Worst: Son Of The Mask


Craziest costume: I was a man's worst nightmare...missing teeth, robe, slippers, curlers and big ol' preggo belly. One year I was broke so I bought a bag of purple balloons, fastened them to a hefty bag and was a bunch of grapes. It was actually very cute!



Jana

Congratulations Jana J!

I have to agree that Son of the Mask was 10 kinds of horrible!  And I bet the grapes costume was fun!

Enjoy your luxurious Starbucks gift card!  Suitable for re-gifting if you don't drink coffee!

More giveaways to come!

Is it Safe?

I just returned from the Dentist.

I had a crown set.

It hurt.

They took the temporary off (OW!) cleaned the stub (OW!) and put the new crown on (OW).

I don't mean to sound like a baby or anything.  But OW!

As she was cleaning the tooth, I couldn't help being a smart ass.

"Is it safe?"

She didn't know what I was talking about.

"Is it safe?"

"Is what safe, hon?"

"From the movie.  You know!  Marathon Man.  Dustin Hoffman,  Laurence Olivier, Roy Schneider.  You know!"

"I didn't see that one".

"But you're a dentist.  It's one of the greatest movies featuring dentists EVER.  That, and Little Shop of Horrors."  (No, Finding Nemo does not count.)

"I'll have to rent it."

"Okay.  Can I have some oil of cloves now?"

OW!

Should I laugh, or should I cry?

I have a close friend whose oldest child is a freshman at Texas Tech.  Texas Tech is in Lubbock, and it's pretty far from Corpus Christi. 

That makes moms worry.

It especially makes moms worry when their oldest child is an attractive, vivacious 18 year old girl.

This particular girl, Heather, is the nicest kid you can imagine.  She babysat for us occasionally, and my boys love her.  Heather is the kind of kid that makes you think that having teens might be OK.

It's still hard on her mom.

This is the e-mail I got from Amy (Heather's Mom) today:

So I read on my daughter’s FB post to her friend, “Sorry, but I had to delete your post because my Mama doesn’t know anything about that.”


Ok, I tried to let it go, but I couldn’t…she IS a teenager and that IS her “wild friend” so I texted her, “Ok, you sparked my curiosity, what doesn’t Mama know.”

About 30 minutes pass and no responsive text and then my phone rings……

“Hi, Mama, what’s up”

“That’s what I want to know”

“What do you mean? I didn’t understand your text, what do you want to know?”

“Oh please Heather, I’m talking about your FB post….”

“What?”

“So you’re going to sit there and play innocent…..remember, I was a teenager once and I’m also not naive so I know that you AND your brother do stuff I don’t know about…”

“Mom…..”

“The evidence is there, Heather, don’t deny it…..you get mad because you think I’m “creeping” on your FB but the truth is you don’t call or write me that often so I have to find out through YOUR FRIENDS what’s going on in your life (I’m choking back tears here)…..I always want you and I have to have a close relationship (now I’m crying) and that you could feel like you could tell me anything. So if you’re not going to tell me what you did, let me ask you one thing, ‘are you still a virgin’?” (You know me, the eternal pessimist and Queen of Gloom and Doom)

“Mom! GAH! Yes, I am……listen, can I call you back in 5 minutes”

“Fine!” And I hung up…I figured she was going outside so her friends wouldn’t hear her discussions with me in her dorm.

So I open my front door and Pete sees me crying…..”what’s wrong?”

“Oh, I just had a fight with your daughter….”

AND OUT SHE STEPS FROM BEHIND PETE…..THE POST HAD TO DO WITH HER COMING HOME AND SHE WANTED TO SURPRISE ME…WHAT A LOSER I AM!!!!!!!

On the one hand, this cracks me up.  Heather is the nicest kid!  She's still a college student though.  And, as Amy pointed out to her, we've all been teenagers before.  My heart sort of breaks for Amy, because I know how upset she was.  And I know that I am only a few short years away from having teens of my own.

What do you think?  Laugh or cry?