Pinterest

     As you well know this is the place I like to flaunt my weakness.  It feels good to let people know not to expect much when you deal with this hot mess.  My newest form of addiction is Pinterest .   It's kind of like crack in the way that it just won't let you let go. 
     Pinterest is a lovely site.........hey I should be getting paid for this advertisement!  Pinterest is a site where you can catalog, or pin, pictures of your other obsessions that aren't Pinterest.  I've been pinning crafts I woud love to do, but who am I kidding, never will.  I have been pinning food that I might make a fraction of.  I have been pinning interior design for the mansions that I will never own, nor will they have enough bedrooms, bathrooms, living rooms, kitchens.....or doors (how I love a good door! MMM) for that matter, to ever fit every dream I have.  I've pinned a zillion funny things or awesome quotes to live by that I savor for that second and then go back to that comfy place in my little dark heart where I don't really live by a higher standard of sweet sentiment.  I've pinned fashion out the wazoo.  I love pinning.  Oh the high I get. 
     Somewhere in my stone cold soul I believe there has been a glimmer of insight.  I think this pinning thing is making me a bit covetous.  Well super covetous.  Is that bad? I want to be crafty and chic.  I want to look glamourous.  I want to eat wicked yummy food.  I want a mansion.  Is this another satanic ploy to waste my time and dull my senses?  Probably.  Sometimes I tell myself I am only allowed a certain number of pins...but I never keep to it. 
     I'm not saying I'm stopping.  I'm not saying you shouldn't start....well because I could really use some company here.  I'm just saying I might have recgonized my control is slipping in another area.

Dear Stress, Let's Break Up

Dear Stress,

     We started out together at such a young age.  We were together so often.  You were there when everyone hollered at Grandma during lunch and made me cry.  You were there when I spent 19 years in school and I wanted to be home.  You've been with me on dates, with every church calling I have ever had, through all of the pregnancies, with each job.......from the one with cold calls to the ones where people could die at my hand.  You stuck it out through renovations and house building.  We have paired up for delights such as homeschool and living with a police officer.
     I'm afraid this may come as a shock, or that you will be upset and feel that my actions and feelings up to this point have not been authentic.  I feel that it is time to break up.  There.......I said it.  We are no good for each other.  I want to have some space and find out who I am.  You put so much pressure on me.  I feel like I am smothering.  Who are we without each other? 
     I hope you read this soon.  It would hate for you to find out on Facebook, when I change my status to <3 single.
     I will put your things in a box on the front step.......Tylenol, chocolate (what's left anyway), Coke, the bitten nails, 2 white hairs plucked this morning, Tylenol PM, the journals full of swear words, and the acne ointment.  I am keeping the shelves of books that you caused me to buy and the soaking tub as I cannot remove it. 
                                                                                                     Sincerely,
                                                                                                              Maimy

Cruella de Vil

I was doing dishes this morning when Piglet decided to have one of her bizarre conversations. 
Piglet: Mom we got to choose our moms in Heaven.
Me: Why did you choose me?  You could have gotten a rich mom, or a nice mom, or a cute and funny mom.
Piglet: You are nice......sometimes. And you are cute and funny.  And I don't know any rich moms. 
Me: You could have had another dad too.
Piglet: Other dads creep me out.
Me: So why do you think you chose me?  What were you thinking when you saw me? 
Piglet: You looked like you needed a lesson and I thought, "I can teach her a lesson."
Me: Oh ya, what are you going to teach me?
Piglet: To be nice......or Spanish.  Wait what does cruel mean?
Me: To be mean.
Piglet: Ya, I'm gonna teach you not to be cruel.

I guess she feels like not getting her way 100% of the time is cruel on my part.  Even I haven't learned that lesson yet.  Lesson # 12: You Don't Always Get What You Want......And How To Move On Gracefully.

I Bit The Bullet

Er, that is a picture that I took while I was waiting to board my ship to paradise....the boarding happened to be much later than expected.


Something else I didn't really expect. I pulled the eldest son, Farm Boy out of school. There wasn't one big reason. I have wanted to homeschool all of the kids for a long time. He was being overlooked and not challenged. And he HATED school. HATED it. I felt like I owed him to try something else since four continual years of hating 75% of his day didn't ever make him wake up with a different attitude. I knew it would be a challenge. Still...I didn't really expect what I got.

We quickly formed a sweet little co-op of our own with two other families and two fun mamas. The kids are pretty awesome and it is nice to have a group for the male child to hang with, especially around holidays. We meet on a weekly basis and have a fun project which the kids get through with gritted teeth so that they can move on to challenging each other on the Wii (yuck).

For the first few days while Farm Boy and I were on our own, it was like all of the dreams I had about homeschooling.....except for the missing ten other children and the long farm table. I tested him out of 3rd grade and moved him on to some other things that didn't glass over his eyes. He read, he wrote, he did algebra. And then the honeymoon adjourned rather quickly. Despite how terrifying and wicked mean I find myself, Farm Boy is not ruffled or intimidated. I hate it. If I don't have intimidation I have nothing. Even love doesn't pack the punch pure meanness does. Farm Boy and I are a poor personality match. I pray that someday he finds a girl just like his dad that can put up with the shear amounts of stubborn that spit out of him like lava. He has yet to actually win one of our scuffles.....but he is getting close. Ssh don't tell him. I'll flat out let it be known I dream about starting to drink.

All of the field trips, organic learning in situation, brain bending science experiments, leading Farm Boy to find internal motivation, and break out literary adventures......they are in the crapper and I am about ready to flush. I think my expectations were too high. I think learning is so fun. I want it to be amazing and exciting. I think he should pick up on whatever I present him before I am even finished. I think that I don't want to have to stand behind him with a bull whip and physically press him into doing a teeny weeny bit of work.

At this present moment it is 4:38 p.m. mountain standard time. He has done nothing more than eek out a few words of writing. He has yet to attempt his math. He did not read anything. There was no science experiment. He did however move all of the chairs from one room to another, make cup upon cup of chocky moomie for Nugget, play football with Nugget, make two meals for himself, poke me everytime he walked by, help unload groceries, and explain a movie that I haven't seen. And still......still! Even though I want to drown myself or put my passport to good use by disappearing.......I STILL think that for right now, this is a better choice for Farm Boy than going to an organized school institution.

If I Could Trade Places With Someone Else For A Day.....

I struggle right now whether to be straight about my answer here or not. There are lots of people that I wouldn't mind trying their life out for a day. I could live with being rich, I could live with having toned glutes and abs. Frankly I could live with being my toddler, which would mean drinking chocolate milk and hanging out naked all day. I wouldn't even mind being the love o' my crush. But if truth be told I would like to be someone.....and I don't even know who she is.......that has the energy to do it all; be a fantastic, sweet tempered mother, a smoking hot wife, a real Betty in the kitchen, the skill to bring all of my home decorating fantasies to fruition, the wherewithall to squeeze in some sort of intense jump training workout, and the baffling ability to be lead by the Spirit in all my doings....to know what it would be like to be able to do the right thing without feeling like every step I took wasn't happening underwater with weights around my extremities....to have peace in my home and in my heart, to not struggle with feeling like I am tempted beyond my capacity at every turn. I don't know who this person is.....but I wouldn't mind being her for a day. P.S. It would really be icing on the cake if she had great hair to boot.

A Letter To Someone That Has Injured Me Recently

This is another Challenge from my private blog.  Who thought this would be a good idea?  Probably a teen forwarded this challenge until I somehow stumbled upon it.  I gaurantee there are people out there that are publishing their 'smack down' on a pulic site.  'Not gonna do it.'   Plus I'm not really harbouring any seething hatred worthy of a public take down.
My only options are writing a letter to the child that pulled my hair too hard while giving me a great comb through (which I forced the child to do).  Or.....this bread bowl.


Dear Bread Bowl,


You crusty little sucker with your pious smirk. Your insides are soft and delicious. You hold things I greatly desire; chicken salad, creamy soups. You tempt me despite the high caloric intake. My weakness for you is repaid with your injurous crust slicing through my tender thumb. You will live long enough to regret this....as I rip you piece by piece to feed to the birds off of the pier.

                                                                                              Ever,
                                                                                                      M

Set Goals You Can Accomplish

On my private blog I am doing a 30 day challenge.  Today I am supposed to be posting my goals for the month.  Yeppers, I am going to post goals to accomplish in the next three days.  Some of you may feel that is cheating and I should post of  all of November.  Nah.  There is a much brighter possibility that I will accomplish a small list in a small amount of time.
Sometimes when I have to make a To Do list.....I like to add some things that I can already check off.  You know, just to get my engine started.  Help me feel like I can get something done.
My Short Term Goals For October
1.  Get out of bed.
2.  Dispose of dead bodies.
3.  Make soup for ward Trunk or Treat party. (This is looking sketchy.)
4.  Eat Chinese food.  (This is looking like a sure bet.)
5.  Launder every stitch of clothing not being worn or having already been put away.  (I will NOT make a goal to put all of the laundry away.  In essence setting myself up for failure.)
6.  Trick or Treat
7.  Halloween party
8.  Pack clothing, food, toys for 6 people for 7 days.
9.  Finish reading Abraham Lincoln Vampire Slayer.  (This is also looking like it will have a positive outcome.)
10.  Drive to Disneyland:)

Dirty, Messy.......Life

Challenged by my dear, dear friend  http://liddell6.blogspot.com/ I decided to post about what makes me dirty, messy and loveable:)
This blog has never intended to make anyone feel inferior.  I am pretty sure that it never has.  I think I am fairly upfront about the fact that I am frantically trying to keep my head above water.  If anything you should surf to your next web address feeling uplifted that you are succeeding where I am trodden down in the mud. 
Thus I will leave you with 7 dirty, messy, strange things that I accept about myself.....yet find myself adoring anyway!

1)  I do not like even numbers as a general rule.  I find 4,6,8, etc...offensive in their desperation to be even.  I do not like that they try so hard.  It is very hard to watch. It makes me uncomfortable. (For some reason 22 does not bother me.  Infact I like it.)

2) I have phenominal pregnancies physically if you don't count that my hips disengage and I totter around like a pure bread dog, awaiting euthenasia.  Mentally I am a mess.  I teeter on the verge of hysterical, raging, mania.  As the birth nears I feel like a trapped animal.  I also feel like my agency has been taken away and I am being forced to proceed with something that I do not want to be part of.  I refuse to return to the doctor just to prove that no one can make me go into labor.  I am not a pleasant person to be around.....BUT after I have accepted the fact that I cannot physically or mentally survive without medical intervention (epidural!) and that warm, safe feeling courses through my lower body......there is a time in there that is the very greatest time in all the world.  And it is not the drugs I refer to.  When that little tiny nugget that is all yours is born, after such intense deranged fear and trama.  There is no other time that is more ROMANTIC!  It is even deeper than romance.  I don't think I have words really to say what I mean.  When it is just you and your little baby and your hubby........that is the deepest love and adoration, the safest and most loved I have ever felt.  And when I mourn not having more babies....this is the thing I mourn for.  Well, that and the irresistable baby.

3)  I love to sort money.  I seriously L.O.V.E. it.  Our family saves all of our change in a huge bucket for our vacations.  When it's time to dump it out and roll the coins I am stoked.  I love sorting it because there is no guess work.  You are either a penny, a nickle, a dime, or a quarter.  Really this speaks volumes about me.  I like when things fit neatly.  I don't like when there are things that I don't know where they belong.  Therefore there are stacks of mail and paper on my counter because I am undecided what to do with them.  I hate not knowing.......in general, all across the board.  Just lay it out for me. Do you love me, hate me, do I irritate you, what should I be when I grow up........the list of things I need to know are exhausting.

4)  I did this fantastic workbook which took me months.  It literally ravaged my soul.  I learned things about myself that I do not like....I do not like them with a firey intensity.  I crave adoration.  I am lazy and desire only what comes with ease.  I have dark recesses so terrible that they are like a red velvet lined coffin.  There are parts of me that want only what is impossible, or risk damnation.  No joke.  And guess what.  Although I was trodden down like a wet leaf in the mud.......I liked it.  I liked that I could look at all of those things and admit that I knew they were there, but that I am still a pretty rockin' chick.

5)  I have hideous, grotesque, Quasimodo like nodules that grow on my scalp.  They are not many in number, and not frequent. There you go.  I have surgically removed some myself and had others removed by someone more professional.  Now for everyone that was soured by my striking beauty and raged with jealousy over my perfection.....you know the sick truth.

6)  I love that texting was ever invented.  That is because I do not like making phone calls.  That is because I am afraid that I will interrupt someone doing something much more important than speaking to me.  And while their phone rings, they will look down, see my name on caller ID and roll their eyes.  As I have an issue with desperate numbers (see #1) I also do not wish to be seen as desperate.  This causes me to act aloof and uncaring when I am secretly not aloof and I care so very deeply.  I employ this trick on many people. 

7)  I once snuck into a Stake dance when I was underage.  I find this hilarious for more than one reason.  a)I lied to get into a church function.  I showed fake ID even. b) I did not dance.  c) When I was of age to attend, I could not have been dragged there.  d) I did not even attend school dances.....even though I assure you dear readers, I WAS asked.  Then why, pray tell did I do something so flat out dumb?  Because...and this is the real #7, I succumb easily to peer pressure.  When pressured by the right person, for the right or wrong reason....I'll cave, especially if I love you. 

Now go ahead and spill your guts on your own blog and PULEASE tell me all the messy little things about you so that I don't have writers remorse.

Airing My Dirty Laundry.....

I have resentment toward my laundry......it always looks at me with a smug entitled look that I can't stand....like it deserves to be washed instead of lying there in piles.
I don't mind a good sort every now and again.....putting clothes in piles of color is a bit fulfilling.  I admit that is a little on the OCD side.
I can even put it in the washer and add all of the fantasticly scented detergent.  Let's be honest.  I buy for scent.
But then it comes to taking it out of the washer and I find myself staring off into space, distracted by other more interesting things.  I could be reading or sleeping or eating or shaving my legs or staring at the wall.  I don't like the work that comes along with drying the clothes.  First you have to decide if you are going to put each piece of clothing into the dryer.  I hang lots of items.....er well, I should hang lots of items.  Mostly I drape many items because Maimy is too lazy to go to each bedroom and collect hangers.  Then, if I am really on a laundry roll, I run out of room.  This dilema will not cause Maimy or I to break down and get hangers.  It's just too unpleasant and frankly taxing on the system to troll the closets for hangers, plus my ADD will kick in and I will get distracted by some other chores rolling their eyes and waiting for a turn.
May I complain here about taking the clothes out of the dryer?  How many times is it legal to 'fluff' the clothes because you forgot they were there?  If my clothes were my children.......well I won't go there.....'neglect' would the the optimum word here.  DCFS would get a report that I left my little darlings in a car with the windows up.
Let's say I finally get to the stuck up, self righteous clothes that made it through the dry cycles.  And they are smug, let me tell you.  Now they feel like they deserve to be put away, and promptly. 
I like to make them wait a little.  Take them down a notch or two.  So I sling them over the upstairs railing....sorted by person of ownership of course.  And just because I like to show them whose boss.....I may let them stay there for more than a day....sometimes with hangers inserted into their little necks.  That's right.....I tease them......and then let 'em sweat it out.
I know you'll be surprised here, but Maimy hates to hang the clothes in the closet.  She gets a little anxiety ridden.  I like to color code my closets.  That is perfectly normal and acceptable behavior.  If you haven't tried it, I highly suggest you do.  But if you start to run out of hangers or the clothes start to press against each other in a snug, personal space invading sort of manner......well, I breath a little more heavy and I start to feel unsettled.  It's just too much work for clothes with an attitude.  And once it's done, it will be no time at all before they are back in the laundry room.......right where they started, with a little "I told you so," smirk pasted all over their dirty little faces.

The Second Time Around

So that's about all I remember from the second baby.  Superman hid behind a hunting magazine for a few hours and pretended I wasn't white knuckling it 4 feet away.

I've never claimed to have a handle on my emotions.  When I came to the realization that I may have to deliver the second child....I bluntly told Dr. D that I would not return after the 36th week of gestation unless I was knocked out cold and unawares.  Living up to my end of the bargain, I refused to make further appointments or discuss the possibility of giving birth. 
Duty had called loud and long.  Superman was at the 2002 Olympics keeping us safe from terrorists.  This aloneness really helped me compartmentalize...I found it quite easy to pretend that I was not 9 months pregnant. 
Dr. D, realizing that I truthfully intended to never return, called in a little treat to the pharmacy.  He felt that if he could, in fact, render me unconscious, someone could perhaps drag me to the hospital.  Superman returned from his post in time to pick up the drugs just as the contractions began.  Knowing that I would put up a struggle if he suggested that medical attention may be imminent....he brought home a little bottle of sleepy dust.
Anxiety has long been a companion of mine.  I am curious ....... does anyone else have that thing where the fear of what is to come in the morning stops you from going to sleep because the dreaded event will come faster?  Well that is about where we were sitting.  I knew the contractions were leading somewhere.  I tried to play it down, but I am sure that trying to lock myself in the bathroom piqued Superman's keen senses. Night was coming on and he knew that he was going to have to get me to the hospital by morning.  If he could just get me to eat the little doggy treat stuffed with Ambien.......home free.  I wasn't giving up without a fight.  On one hand being drugged and comatose would really aleviate the intense sense of doom...but the sooner you go nighty night, the sooner you are propped up on a table naked.  Not in the good sense....where you are dancing to boom chicka bow wow and making cash hand over fist, but the bad sense where there are blood and guts falling out of your bottom.  Superman calmly and lovingly tried to get me to partake of fruit.  Nu uh.  He became testy.  At one point he held me down.  Feeling backed into a corner I took the little pill and put it in my ear.  It pains me to admit that childish act, but you really have to understand how much I hate every part of labor and delivery........I hate it right up to the point where you are one year post partum.  You would think a man trained to detect deceit would have picked up on this......it took some time.  Finally when I didn't pass out cold, he became suspicious.  After grilling me under a 100 watt light bulb in a dark room and smashing my fingers in the desk drawer, I copped to the fact that the drugs were in my ear.  The only thing I remember after that was everything taking on a blue cast and not being able to use my legs.  I became cognizant at the hospital when the nurse in her best cheerleader voice chirped, 'Oh my heck.....are you so excited to have a baby today?"  I immediatley burst into tears and said, "NO!"  She hooked me up to an IV anyway. 
Superman, not learning his lesson the previous time, lent me his fingers to grasp while the anesthetist used a screwdriver to give me an epidural.  Once he regained the use of his bloody hand, he picked up a hunting magazine and didn't speak to me again until it was baby birthin' time. He requested more ringers be hung on the IV pole in order to block his view.  He didn't understand yet that only one of us could be scared witless...and it was my turn.  Luckily, my babies have been coached from the pre-existance and they are able to birth themselves, as I am useless with fright.  The Farm Boy appeared quick as a blink:)

Stage Mother

Who out there would have thought that I have the personality to become a 'stage mother'?  I am sure you've seen this obnoxious gal at a variety of events......the chick at the gymnastics meet that has put her toddler's hair into knots so complicated an accomplished old sea dog couldn't get them out, the baby's hair is strained at the roots, scalp barely able to hold on to the follicle.  Said child has glitter and makeup galore......and mother is uptight and pushing the child to excel beyond what her short, roly, two year old legs are capable of.  How about the parent that goes ballistic at the soccer game and goes to fists with the coach out on the field?  I would like to tell them to get a grip......it's only a game! 
Little League season is starting here.  Our lives will be held at gun point until June by the rigid schedule of games and practices.  Truth be told.....I don't really like have my life run by a sport.  You should get the feeling here that I'm not really even a fan of a game that I am not personally playing in.  Watching other people play sports is very much like watching another person play a video game........it's lame.  But when Maimy and I go out on opening day, when our girl is on the mound or up to bat.....Maimy can literally lose control.  (If it ever comes to the point where we are prosecuted for assault on a ball field, I WILL pretend I never posted this.)  If we are your friend in our regular lives, yet you have a child on an opposing team.  We are not your friend now.  Do not approach us at the ball field.  Do not sit on our stands.  Do not sit where we can hear you......especially where Maimy can hear you.
I have the heart of a marshmallow.  I try to do my visiting teaching.  I bring treats to nursery and read the little tykes stories.  I kiss and cuddle all 25 kids in my class at school.  I hope people don't look at me and hate all of the other Mormons they know just because they know me.  But please allow Maimy this one moment (or 2 months) of firey emotion.  She wants to win.  She doesn't want you to win.  I will cheer.  She will scream.  We will bash the umpire.....with enough restraint as to not be lead away in handcuffs.  When The Fire pitches, Maimy might, in  a loud voice, give her tips on what to do better.  When The Fire is up to bat, Maimy may become vocal when she wants her to swing.  We will only allow her to cry if she takes a fast pitch to the kidney......you know "There's No Crying In Baseball!!!" 
I'm already getting uptight.......Maimy can feel baseball in the air.

The Crimson Tide

Yes.......that is a cloth sanitary pad :)  Why is it so cute?  I mean really.  Who will see this besides you and the inside of your undies?  Not to mention.......how long will it stay this cute?  Which then begs the question....do you REALLY want to clean and reuse?
Maimy and I contemplate this question and others like it as we sit bleary eyed with fatigue, angry for no good reason, having wept greater than 5 times in a twelve hour period.  As we write, we also consume an extra large BK fry, an extra large BK Coke, rest our elbows on what appears to be a four month pregnant pooch (in reality an amazing amount of bloat), try to reach around our tender lady lumps, and mindlessly scratch at our deteriorating skin condition. 
Ah, the joys of womanhood.  Brought to you directly from the two miniscule ovaries smack dab in your pelvis.  How is it that two little balls of power, each under two freaking inches, can run (or is it ruin?) your life from the time you are thirteen?  Every day, every week, these two little puppies can make you happy, sad, angry, hungry, bloated, hot for a handsome man, vindictive, demonically posessed, giddy, thin, weepy, and give you cravings Gandhi couldn't have fought?
Week #1  The Crimson Tide, aka The Red Witch, Aunty Flo, My Visitor, Bloody Mary, Riding the Cotton Pony.....etc.
      Pull out the ugly panties girls.  Stay close to the potty and open your baby name books for those clots large enough to qualify for a name.  Don't forget the mind bending cramps. Who among us doesn't live for this week?
Week #2  The Thin Week
     This is the week where your skin looks decent, your hair isn't greasy, your bloat has shed and that spare tire and full on banana nut muffin sitting on your hips are a shadow of what they will become in the weeks ahead.  You finally love your man and don't want to rip off his arms and blugeon him with them.  This chicks, is the week we live for.
Week #3 Ovulation Celebration
     Ah, finally the shooting pains and semi uncomfortable cramps that signal your fertility is at its max.  Unfortunately your tender pelvic region makes er......fertilizing painful in certain circumstances (read positions).  Dang those little balls of egg. They never give up.  Week #2 is really just there to taunt you. 
Week #4  The Depths of Hell, Crossing the River Styx, PMS or for you sorry sisters PMDD.
     This is where Maimy and I sit right now.  We were wondering if we suffer from PMS or the more sinister ugly sister........PMDD.  It is normal during this week to have varying degrees of cravings, salty and sweet.  Generally the cravings take over the suffering body and as if in a trance Maimy and I NEED (yes, we classify this as a need not a want) chocolate, coke, potato chips and french fries.  It's just a fact of life.  We also have varying degrees of anger.  People close to us may use the word 'rage'.  This is when you are most likely to hear the empty, yet hostile threats such as; 'I will rip off your arms, use them to beat you, and then shove them down your throat', 'One more sound and you will be pulling the teeth I punched down your throat....out of your rear end (rear end is only the clean version)', 'If you don't stop fighting I will run screaming into the night and never return', 'Heaven help me but I am going to break your bones', 'Touch me and I will rip your face off'.  These are mostly Maimy, considering I am a tame little puddy cat.  One or both Maimy and I can be found openly crying in public places for reasons severe or........not so much ie, the death of a fallen officer, leaving Max while I go to the store, loud noises, a sad book, a sad movie, talking about a sad book or movie, accidentally hitting my fists while boxing a pretend speed bag, not liking my hair, not liking my clothes, not liking that I am angry, not liking that my husband is at work, having my husband leave the house, being asked the same question more than once........really the list goes on.  Frankly anything, great or small during this week could make me a) cry or b) be consumed with rage or c) both.  And the sick thing is, the only way to stop PMS is to........er, ride the cotton pony.  Life is sick and twisted.
Maimy and I are a little despondent to see the facts laid out so formally.  Maybe it is the PMS, or the sleepiness from the double Whopper that we don't want to own up to.  She and I are going to bed, where if we lie on our backs and suck in our gut we look only mildly bloated.  Then we will close our eyes and dream of Week #2 where thin is in and our mood is pleasant.

Eat, Pray.........Sweat

Maimy has been on a roll lately.  She convinced me to stop working out......among other things.  She is wildly persuasive and soothing when I let her be.  She always seems to know the right things to whisper in my ear to make everything seem alright.  Alas, I had a moment of nagging conscience. I had an insane burst of......lets better ourselves.  Even though Maimy had advised against it......I began reading The Miracle Of Forgiveness.  Life seemed bleak.....like going up a down escelator.........in a wheelchair.  It hurt.  It hurt to tears.  It hurt to 8 hours of tears.  Maimy said it was only PMS.  I hate to give her credit, but I think she was partially right.
I decided the best way to exorcise Maimy was to exercise the heck out of her.  We went back to Tae Bo, but not in the morning.  Maimy feels sluggish without 6 square meals and a few Cokes to really ground her.  So one evening we donned some terribly ugly workout clothes to match our ugly mood and red rimmed eyes.  As I made full body contact with a public floor, 45 minutes into one form of Hell on Earth, with Lady Gaga belting out Poker Face.........I realized that for that short time Maimy had fled AND that it was distinctly possible I didn't comprehend the full spectral meaning of Poker Face.  Maimy couldn't take the cramp in my firm, firm gluteus, the heart rate above 65 beats, or the sweat between my boobs.  Even though hours before I had been feeling at my weakest in possibly years.........I KNEW I could beat that little hussy if I really wanted to.

Maimy Lacks Compassion

I remember back when I was little.  When I was sick, there was no one I would rather have than my mom.  It could be that I was concentrating more on puking into my hair than I was my mother's attiutde, but I never remember her being gruff.
Maimy lacks compassion and patience when it comes to puke.  I will be sure in the future to make sure the kids know it is Maimy that is screaming,"You are going to throw up whether you want to or not!!  Put your head over the toilet/garbage/bucket/tupperware!!!  DO NOT throw up on my sheets!!".  She isn't very soothing.  If the children happen to remember this in their later years I would hardly want the blame.  I prefer that my voice remain even and sweet, possibly tinged with the sounds of warm honey. 
The nuggets have a deep and dark fear of allowing themselves to puke.  Each one will scream out like they have been stung by an army of wasps, chanting, "I don't wanna throw up! I don't wanna throw up!".  Ah, nonetheless, child, your body doesn't care what your mind thinks. You will puke.  In recent puking activity we have had Piglet puke on the new carpet.  Actually putting your head over a receptacle shows acceptance in their minds.  Farm Boy woke with a shriek and tried to pull his head away as I had him lose it into a diaper pail.  His disdain for vomit caused him to pull away and string the said emmission onto his pj's and sheets.  Paws, for a wee one, had enough strength to pull from Maimy's fierce grip, turn his head away from the garbage and reach for Mama.  Paws, Maimy and I (and our bed!!!) were showered with popcorn and curdled chocolate milk.  Maimy said some choice words and left Superman and I to bathe and cuddle the pale, whimpering lump of baby. 
Maimy didn't show up again for quite sometime..........that is until I found the bedding in the dryer, tangled in a damp reeking knot 5 days later.  Maimy was back and at her best.

Maimy

I am closing my personal blog to only those invited.  This blog will remain open and consist of my ramblings about Maimy.........my evil BFF and our mortal struggle to someday part ways.

My BFF (Meet Maimy)

My BFF (best friend forever) is a bad influence. I hate everything she stands for...........but I can't seem to break ties. We've been together our whole lives and I don't know what I would do without her. Every single thing I do wrong is 100% her fault.


From my first moment of consciousness I can't shake her. She doesn't want us to get up, especially if it is because Paws wants a cup of milk. Uugh, that girl sets me on edge. Of course I have to do all of the work and drag both of us out from under the down comforter and stumble down to the basement to wake up the big guys. 'She' thinks we should just holler from upstairs, but it hasn't ever worked.

I am dedicated to making lunches at least three days a week. School lunch is an atrocious amount of money for an eeeh meal. BFF hates making lunches in the morning. I tried to tell her that it would be easier to start it the night before, but she REALLY likes to put things off.

By the time getting in the sport van to hit the road rolls around..........she actually wants me to leave the babies at home because she doesn't want to strap them in car seats. I can't believe her. BFF is one freaking lazy chick.

I am semi committed to working out a few times a week. I can't take looking like I put on 20 pounds. I will never actually know that for a fact because I don't let BFF weigh herself. That is forbotten at our house. It's about the only rule I can hold her to. She and I strap on our brand new, heavy duty sports bra and hit Tae Bo. BFF HATES Tae Bo and it's all she talks about the WHOLE work out. There have been a few times that she actually talked me out of going. We went back home and cuddled with the baby in bed. I had to enroll her in Tae Bo because the only way she will workout is to have someone yelling at her.

BFF really lacks energy and drive. When we are home during the day with the kids she doesn't want to help put the laundry away, unload the dishwasher........even though Max is willing to help, go to the store (she truly despises putting away the groceries), or mop the floor (she can't get past the fact that she has to sweep first and move all of the chairs........plus I like to hand mop and dry and she says it hurts her knees). Really, can you even stand her? BFF doesn't even like to shower. It's like pulling teeth. Come on........showering is necessary to even feel human. But she says she hates having to get out and put on lotion, six kinds of hair product, makeup and then style her hair. I secretly think she doesn't even like to raise her arms above her head, but I can't get her to admit it.

Eventually it's lunch time. BFF waits all morning for lunch. I try to make her wait until at least 11 am, but there have been a few times that she convinced me that 10:30 was just as good. Even though she is dying to eat, she doesn't really want to fix anything. She would eat Chinese food everyday if I let her. On one hand I can't blame her. I am about 95% sure that the rice noodles she loves are spiked with meth. I don't think an addiction level as high as BFF has could occur from mere food. I have her held off to only eating out once a week. She is still wringing my pockets dry.

BFF could spend the whole day with a book. No matter what pressing matter is at hand she carries one everywhere. Her book fettish is only rivaled by..... nothing, not even the rice noodles. In fact, the more she has to do, the harder it is to get the book out of her hands. The only things I can't get her to read...............are the things she is supposed to read.

I realized that if I were going to feed the kids a) before 8:00 pm b) something besides a pb&j or c) not cold cereal........that I was going to have to plan. BFF is the LEAST organized girl I have ever met. She doesn't want to plan ahead. It makes her out of breath. She actually told me once that she doesn't want to do anything that causes her to sweat, increase her heartbeat beyond resting heart rate, and that makes her uncomfortable physically or emotionally. I have goaded her into crock potting here and there, once with the promise of using a whole stick of butter because she loves butter.

When it's time to start getting ready for bed, BFF really puts up a fuss. The kids need to be showered and she hates it. First she doesn't like their whining. She has an amazingly low tolerance for noise. Superman once gave her a box of earplugs for Christmas. She also doesn't like water on the floor of the bathroom. I tried to tell her it makes it easier to mop when the puddles are that big, but once she has bed in her sights...........she's like a cattle stampede....unstoppable. If the kids make noise, take too long, laugh, run through the house naked, leave towels on the floor, spank each others wet bottoms, spill Victoria's Secret lotion on the carpet, or leave their dirty clothes in the bathroom, she thinks it's okay to tell them to go to bed without a bedtime story. I keep telling her that is a bad punishment.......even the 'experts' say never to take reading time away........but she's a tough cookie to convince.

Paws likes to push my shirt up and lay on my stomach when he's tired. BFF actually will go along with this one because she can do it in a prone position. But once you get her laid out like that, you can't get her back up. If only I could convince Superman to cuddle with Paws sometimes....... She claims she tired, but if the day went the way she likes, I can't figure out what from. I'll tell you who is tired..........ME.

BFF is exhausting. I get so sick of battling her at every turn. Everything is out of her comfort zone. She reminds me of a trickle of water...........just dripping and running around the resistance. I question all of the time what happened to the BFF of everyone else that I know. They seem to have ditched the little hussies..........or maybe they never got that attached. BFF has a demon like personality. I wonder if exorcism could part us?

My New Motto

I do love a clean house......really I do. I just can't seem to get from cluttered to clean. I start off in one area and bounce around distractedly from one room to another. I have ADD in the cleaning area of my brain. I'm pretty sure if I were to have a CT scan it would show a pile of books, papers, laundry baskets and a wee farm full of cows, just like it had been copy and pasted right on to the cleaning part of my brain (that is in the hypothalmus or is it hypocampus?).


I sometimes wonder if I could get a diagnosis and medical coverage. Maybe my health insurance would pay for a maid. I wonder where that would fall in the DSM IV?

Until then.........I say, "A clean house is the sign of a wasted life.".

Facebook is Satan's Handtool

I'll outright admit that I am a Facebook addict. I'm not proud.....just like I probably wouldn't be proud to admit I was a meth addict. Nevertheless, the truth. FB has it's good points. It's easy to get updates on your pals........and you don't have to do it by phone (another gimmick used by the horned one to aggravate my life.) Keep up with the chicks from out of the area. Honestly.....a great spy tool. Look up those people you just want to see what's up, but you don't want to SEE.


The downside is that FB smacks of high school, better known as the worst time of ones life, whether you want to admit it or not. You probably weren't at your best in high school. If you think that you were.......I'm really sorry for the life you have lead since then. FB kills off all of the flowers of high school such as math, biology, and English and leaves the weeds; drill team, pep rallies, the hallways, the bathrooms, cone ball, classes taught by coaches, pot between class. You know what I mean.

As with any addiction, copping to the problem is the first step. But until I am only getting out of bed to check FB or cruising the streets with my air card looking for an unprotected connection....I'm still using. Pathetic. Maybe when my teeth start to fall out I'll learn my lesson.

Trying To Get Down To The Heart Of The Matter

Even if, even if you don't love me any more. Thanks Don Henley. What I'm really trying to say here is that auditory issues aren't my only problem. You could make a fairly firm case for me falling somewhere on the Autism spectrum. My inability to cope with sick and unnatural things spills over sensory boundaries to tactile peculiarity. Come on now...........I know some of you have the same thing going on down at your house!


Velour.............
Better known as Satan's track suit. This stuff is made purely of hebee gebee's. When I was little I had this shirt that I called my spaghetti shirt. It was royal blue velour and had rainbow colored lines on the stretchy knit material cuffs. If I wore this shirt I was P.O.'ed for the day! I can't bear the feeling of velour rubbing on my hands. I could literally crawl out of my skin. My kids have had baby outfits made of velour..........if I ever dress them in one..........yeah, I have to wrap them in a blanket in order to hold them so that I don't get any direct skin contact.

Sponges........
Okay I can't fathom that could be used for contraception.......what a diabolical creation. Sponges were not meant to be touched by human hands. When I own a robot to do all of my chores I will then buy her sponges. Until then I do not use them. Right now I have to stop blogging to ball my fists so I can't possibly feel sponge.................ugh. Dry sponges are even worse! Whose with me on that one? Let's hear a little cheer. Sponge also covers many forms of synthetic foam material. I can sleep on an egg carton mattress per say, but only if someone can get it onto the bed and covered with a sheet before I touch it.

Packing Foam.......
You know the kind made of a zillion little foam balls pressurized together and molded into a shape..........that stuff makes noise when you touch it. Not only will I not touch it because I do not want to illicit either the squeak or the rubbing sound (grit your teeth, you can get through this...) but I don't appreciate being in the same hearing range of ANYONE touching the foam. These are the times at Christmas when I excuse myself and go to the bathroom and contemplate my true skin age until the packing foam is discarded.

Socks........
After years of self talk and fits of rage I can now wear socks without going off the deep end. I try not to wear them........but sometimes you just have to man up and put on a pair of socks. When I was little I can remember days when I had to wear socks and I could barley function for the day. They are so restraining I feel like I have to fight someone near me just to get free. The WORST thing you could do with a pair of socks on your feet...........get in bed. Oh OH OH!!! Oh just stop the mental imaging........ggggggrrrrrrr. That is like being in two jails at the same time. The socks are already there and THEN you have covers on your feet. That is like putting a plastic bag over your head......how can you even breath?

Dirt...........
Thank goodness for garden gloves and work gloves. Dirt on my hands......oh the dryness and tightness of skin. If I ever find myself in such a situation.........I'm shuddering hold on..........I have to ball my fists up so I can't feel the skin pulling. This might have some bearing on the 12 open bottles of lotion around the house.

Warm air on my face...........
It feels like suffocating. Warm air in my nose, gag, in my mouth yuck. I have to shut the vents in the car so they warm air can't penetrate my orifices. It's like breathing some one's saliva.

Mechanical Pencils........
Okay this is mostly an auditory issue. I like mechanical pencils because they come in such cute designs and they are always sharp BUT.........they make a high pitched noise when you write on some kinds of paper with them. This is a true statement. So in many cases it's better to err on the side of a pen.

Chalk............
First of all if you touch it there is that dust like film that makes your hands dry. Yes that is a problem. Then the sound.......I think that sound is probably played on the airwaves of Hell. The rubbing sound is the one I am talking about, not the high squeak you get now and then.....that's nothing. It's the RUBBING that I can't deal with. I always felt immense peace when my teacher would put that little sleeve on her chalk. Then I knew it wasn't touching her hand. It was the only way I could fathom becoming a teacher.........I knew I didn't have to bare hand chalk.

I know there are other people out there that agree with some of these, or something LIKE these. Don't think I'm the only nut. I'll have to cover my social issues at a later date just to reaffirm that I do fit somewhere on a social spectrum disorder in the DSM.

Verbal Assault

I'm probably really putting myself out here........revealing my kryptonite....but are there ever any words that really rub you the wrong way? We have banned words in our house. I'll only give you a few because I can totally see people using these against me. I beg you not to. They send me into a state of frenzy.
#1 Poo

I can handle POOP but not sans the P. That is just SO stinkin' ugly. I mean seriously I hear adult say this even. How can you consider yourself an adult and say this word? There are so many other possibilities.....crap, defecate, spoor, dookey, shat. Come on world......lets let this one go......no more poo. (Sheesh, I almost can't even type it.)
#2 Moist

This word makes me want to vomit. All I can think of is spit when I hear this word. Spit in the corner of your mouth......spittle flying out of an open mouth, snot, mucus drainage, pus. Please, no matter how good my meat or cake is NEVER tell me it is moist. I don't even care if you say 'Man lady, you make a damp pork chop!' or 'That is one wet pudding cake you got there!' Lets all make a pact now to steer clear of the word moist. Oooh I still see spit stringing from dry chapped lips.....make it stop.
#3 Belch

No joke, that is one step away from puking in your mouth. I'm not even that offended if you let one rip.......just call it something else. Or better yet don't even name it.
I know that I have auditory issues. Really, I am aware. The ugly words are only the tip of the ice berg......I get insane over hearing food. I may actually commit a violent act over the sound of someone chewing ice. I have had to ban the chewing of cereal and popcorn while I am near. I have been known to put a pillow over my head to stave off the sound of taffy in ones mouth. I'm making myself sick right now. Bananas.......you can't help that they are soft and sticky...but they are, and that is exactly how they sound in your mouth. I almost can't eat them myself just because I am tempted to swallow the whole bite just to avoid the chewing sounds coming from my own mouth.

I don't even think behavior therapy can help me.