Unlike Bruce, I Was Not Born To Run

Unlike Bruce, I Was Not Born To Run

I have a sneaking suspicion that The Universe does not approve of my running. She didn't seem to have a beef with my walking, bike riding, my wii fitting or my step aerobics, but The Big U definitely has a problem with the running. As most of you are aware, I have never been a runner. In the past, I have chosen to do whatever it takes to avoid it, except possibly in the early 80's when there was a neighborhood game of Kiss Tag going on, and my cute neighbor was playing. For some reason, on those particular nights when I was "It", I could run like Prefontaine. Except, of course, when He was "It". Then I somehow always managed to either trip over a stick or get a massive leg cramp.

So I am fairly certain that The Big U is trying to send me a message, and the first way she chose to send me that message was by way of my knees. Basically, my knees are completely rebelling against the entire idea of running. They've gone from just an annoying pain, to just deciding to fold up on me when I'm simply walking across my living room. I went to see my Doctor this week, and he has referred me to an Orthopedist and told me in the meantime, no running on cement and to try running on my treadmill. I explained to him that I had recently tried just that, and it failed to turn out well. As a matter of fact, if someone had been videotaping it I am sure it would now be one of the most watched You Tube videos of all time, since it involved not only a flying telephone, water bottle and remote control, but also an elaborate fall and subsequent filing cabinet slam by some idiot who forgot to attach the safety clip to her pants.

Anyway, he gave me this "advice" on Tuesday, and on Wednesday I met my running group for a run on the cement, because I am a rebel and that's how I roll. (And I may indeed be rolling once I completely eff myself up and get my very own tricked out mobility scooter. Bad news with that scenario is that I will have severe butt growth due to not being able to exercise. Good news is that nobody will be able to see it since I will be sitting on it while I roll around all day.) Since I chose to ignore my doctor and go running anyway, The Universe got pissy and decided to make me run right through a dog turd that must have come from some freakishly giant Marmaduke/Horse crossbreed. In my opinion, if The Universe wanted me to run, she would have had me step into a pile of something more pleasant than poo. Perhaps money, wine, or Paul Rudd would have done the trick. THAT would have been positive reinforcement. Unbelievably huge pile of poo? Not so much.

Since today was a non-running group day, I agreed to do something completely unlike me. Yes, even more surprising than running. I decided to go to a Jazzercise class. I will now pause for a moment so you can all laugh at me......................................................................Okay. Are you done? I know, I know, it is a funny image. I GET IT! When one of my readers (the lovely Melissa Bland) invited me to join her, I laughed as well. I had an image in my mind of those old ladies on TV doing Sit And Be Fit, and since I didn't own a pastel leotard, leg warmers or white tights, I almost said "no", but in an uncharacteristic moment of agreeability, I decided to give it a try. While it was actually a really fun workout, I am certain that a video of me in the act of Jazzercising would surpass even my top-ranking treadmill fall on You Tube.

Suffice it to say that today I discovered what I have always suspected to be true: I have no rhythm. Sure, I had my first clue back in '87 when Dirty Dancing came out and I painstakingly tried (and failed?) to recreate some of Baby's moves, but until today, I always held onto the dream that I was an awesome dancer. Well, unfortunately I realized that I am a mess, and that I am not so good at the whole "Do what I do" premise of an exercise class. I quickly understood that I am not a good mimic, and at some points, when I just couldn't seem to even slightly recreate what our instructor was doing, I would just go into a more sedate version of the "Elaine Dance" and do my own thing.

When I talked to the instructor after class and told her this, she said that my crazy dance was fine, as long as I kept moving. Say what? Have I actually found a place where my inability to follow directions will be accepted (as long as I stay in the back so as not to distract the other participants)? A place where, if I'm just not feeling the side-step lunges, I can instead break into Baby Houseman's merengue? Indeed, I think I have. At least until I get too carried away and try the big "I've had The Time Of My Life" finale, and try to jump into the instructor's arms. At that point, I think I may be asked to leave.

Goodbye Funky Town, Hello Good Vibrations

Goodbye Funky Town, Hello Good Vibrations

Previously, on Insane In The Mom-Brain: After enduring many trials and tribulations such as ugly hair, lack of wine, unexpected and unwelcome rain, a whiny child, and a menstrually challenged lunch date, our heroine was stuck in a funk. (Yes, I am choosing to call myself "heroine" because that makes me feel better, so whether or not it is true doesn't matter. I do not mind living in a fantasy world one bit.)

As I was saying....our grumpy HEROINE was stranded in funky town due to no fault of her own, because she is awesome. Things didn't improve much Thursday, when she found out she would need to get braces this year. Metal, wiry, braces....in this, the year of her 20th Class Reunion. Nor did things perk up much Friday morning, when she had to go to her running group. Nothing "bad" happened at running group, but running does not equal happiness. The mere act of making oneself run from absolutely nothing, is in and of itself, an act of complete and utter stupidity. Yet inexplicably, she runs.

Although things stayed pretty blah throughout much of Friday, They actually got better Friday evening, thanks to the occurrence of a much-needed girls night out. Your awesomely cool, amazingly smart, and very sore runner's kneed Heroine Patti went out with her friend Jennifer for dinner, drinks, and a late-night trip to the home of her crazy (in a good way) friend, Maureen. I won't bog you down with details, but they ate too much, were almost set on fire, nearly chipped a tooth, had something slipped into their beer, were mad that they were leered at by old dudes and sad that they weren't leered at by young ones, re-enacted scenes from the amazing cinematic masterpiece "Nell", staring Jodi Foster as "Nell" ( a role that, in a perfect world, would have, SHOULD have, gone to Patti), and narrowly avoided being ninja attacked by wild, elementary school-aged deer. These sorts of happenings can definitely bring one out of funky town, and into just plain being Marky Mark and The Funky Bunch kind've funky (which, in case you didn't know, is a cool kind've funky).

So, to all of you who were worried about her stint in the town of funk, let it be known that she appreciates your concern (but would have appreciated it much more if it had been given in the form of baked goods and/or wine), and she is feeling better this week. Even after enduring yet another bad hair day today, as well as being forced to run much farther then she ever has before, she continues to feel funky-cool instead of funky-grumpy, and she will try to get her act together and write another blog soon. Fresh-baked cookies may speed up the healing process....I'm just saying.(Photo Courtesy of my.spill.com)

Won't You Take Me The Heck Out Of Funky Town

Won't You Take Me The Heck Out Of Funky Town

I am in the midst of a blah week. I am stuck in a funk, and I don't mean the American musical style that originated in the mid to late 1960's when African American musicians blended soul music, soul jazz and R&B .... I'm just kind've in a bitchy mood today, and it's not even PMS. When I got up today I knew it was a running group day, which made me bitchy because that meant I could only have one cup of coffee, because if I have any more than that my old lady bladder will hurt the whole run, and damn, I really needed those extra 2 cups of coffee today.

When I got home from running, I rushed around to clean for the cleaning lady, take a shower and get ready to meet my friend for lunch. THEN she called and said she couldn't make it due to the fact that her Aunt Flo is visiting and not only won't leave, but is wreaking havoc around "the house", if you know what I mean. So then I was bummed because I haven't seen her since pre-Christmas and there is alot of crap to discuss, such as how much I hate running and how adorable Adam Lambert was on Oprah. So I was depressed and low-blood-sugared and I abandoned my usual lunch of raw veggies and hummus, and scarfed down an organic veggie burrito topped off with a pack of non-organic hostess cupcakes. Feeling bad about myself, yet energized in the way only refined sugar and carbs can accomplish, I left some money on the island for the cleaning lady, and headed out to run errands.

Now, it is a fact that I straighten my hair, and it is also a fact that a few months ago I ended up with bangs during some kind of freak hair-cutting accident, and I am trying to grow them out. It is yet another fact that Houston is especially humid, and today was one of the worst humidity days I've seen, which means that my hair looked like crap the minute I walked out the door, which made me even more moody, because what woman can really stay happy when faced with bangs that make her look like a child of the 30's whose mommy pin curled her hair? Not this woman.

Even though I looked like I had a stupid Shirley Temple wig on my head, I went to Lowes because I needed some hardware stuff. I chose Lowes because I have a Lowes boyfriend. Well, he doesn't know about our relationship, but I do and that's all that matters. Anyway, even though I was looking like crap today, I knew he could help me find what I needed, and possibly cheer me up in the process. Well, not only was he off today, but the guy who was working was an idiot who knew nothing about hollow wall anchors, and had no British accent to boot. Stupid Lowes. So then I went to Wal-Mart, which rarely happens because, well, go to people of wal-mart dot com and you'll see why. Anyway, I got what I needed there and even though my one coffee bladder was now ready to burst, I refused to use a restroom at Wal-Mart, as I have repeatedly refused since witnessing, a few years ago, "the incident in stall #3". So I thought dry thoughts (sand, flour, the skin on my legs, etc...) and kept on truckin'.

Next I headed to World Market to get a particular wine, which they were out of. Nothing makes me angrier than being denied my favorite wine. Deeper and deeper I went into the funk. When I came out of World Market it was raining, which I didn't even know was in the forecast, so I got rained on. Then I went to Academy to get more of the underwear that I like to run in (underneath pants, of course. I don't run in only underwear), which made me get mad all over again at what Steve said last night. Get this: I told him I was going to get more of the aforementioned underwear and that I needed to go today because last time they only had a few smalls left. Then, my husband said "Don't take this the wrong way, but, um, you wear a small?" The flashback of this made me leave Academy even more angry than when I went in, and of course I got rained on again. Then I went to Target, where I perked up a little because I got a cute cardigan for $4.00 and anyone who know me knows I love 5 things: Cardigans, Hoodies, A Bargain, Wine, and Paul Rudd. So I left Target with a little spring in my step, until I realized some douchebag's cart was rammed into my car. Back to the funk.

Although I had more errands to run, I decided it was time to go home to my freshly cleaned house and have a little down time before Ethan got home from school. In the car, I put on some Arctic Monkey's, which always cheers me up, then added in Regina Spektor's "Folding Chair" for good measure, because nobody can hear that song and be grumpy. Then as I came down Sienna Parkway I checked to see, as I always do, if the miniature horse was out in the field, which he was. That combined with my good music helped me climb back out of the funk. Then when I got home, I expected to smell "clean house smell" since it was housekeeper day, but surprise! She was a no-show. So I was mad again, until she called to tell me she'd been in a fender bender, but was okay and would be here tomorrow. I was glad to hear that she was okay PLUS would be able to come tomorrow, and that news along with half a bag of Sour Skittles, and a bunch of new Facebook/Blog friends, got me back out of the funk. So I sat down to write this blog, toes tapping, singing out loud, happy even though my hair looks like Orphan Annie's. Then Ethan comes home, whining and complaining before his backpack even hits the floor. And as I send him to his room amidst ear-piercing screams and hear the door slam, I realize I'm right back where I started.

Rub Me Long Time

Rub Me Long Time

I love massages. Getting them, definitely not giving them. Giving them sucks. As a matter of fact, I have no understanding as to why massage therapists will rub all over someone's naked body for eighty bucks. You could offer me eight-thousand bucks and I would still have to do some very heavy thinking before I said "yes." Before my decision, I would also require the submission of nude photos of the client, including close-ups of the back (to check for hair), the feet (to check for dryness, scary toenails, bunions, etc...), and a smell sample to make sure that they weren't inflicted with B.O. or halitosis. Add to all this the fact that my hands get tired after approximately 18 seconds of light shoulder massage, and I think you can understand why I never became a massage therapist.

Honestly, it boggles my mind as to how massage therapists can rub the flesh of anyone with access to a credit card. Remember: most of the "People of Wal-Mart" have credit cards, and they get just as tense as anyone else. When I got The Best Massage of My Life on Sunday, the questionnaire said, "Please remember to shower the day of your massage. If you did not, we have a shower you may use." I asked my masseuse if this happens alot, and she said that it does. I also asked her if she has ever had to rub someone that grossed her out. Again she said "yes". Do not worry, people. I will ask these hard-hitting questions that we all have. I have no boundaries, as evidenced by the fact that I once asked my Gynecologist if he has ever had to do a Pap under terrifyingly disgusting conditions. The answer to that, was also "yes." I shudder.

Anyway, I LOVE massage, although we got off to a shakey start back in the 70's when my dad's friend used to offer me 50 cents to give him a back rub. This could have definitely ruined my love for massage before it even began, not to mention caused me years of therapy. But, as I mentioned before, money is not a big incentive for me when other peoples bodies are involved. So although I could have scored two games of Q-Bert per massage, I always turned this lucrative offer down. As a matter of fact, I never really became interested in massage until college, when during a stressful finals week, my friend gave me a shoulder rub. It was awesome, and it totally opened my eyes and kind've turned me into a massage whore. I admittedly took advantage of my friend, who would never say "no", and when it seemed as if she was finally getting tired of me, I became friends with a guy in my Math class named "Chip"who was an actual licensed masseuse. I thought I'd found the Holy Grail of friendship, so I decided to let slide the fact that he shared his name with a salty, crispy, potato snack and a cartoon chipmunk. We hit it off right away by making each other laugh during class, in lieu of actually listening to the professor. He was cool, funny, AND A MASSEUSE, so I befriended him with dreams of free massages, relaxed muscles, and the smell of eucalyptus body oil. Unfortunately, a few weeks later I found out that he didn't just give it away. He had learned to save his gifts of massage for use as a weapon of seduction, and since I had a boyfriend, that was never gonna happen. So, I gave him to a friend of mine who thought he was cute, and instead of getting my free dream massages, I listened to her tell me about hers. Torture.

Although I am a massage junkie, they're not all great. I have definitely had some bad experiences over the years. I've had the guy who nearly caused internal organ damage, even though I repeatedly told him that he was applying enough pressure to shatter bones. I've also had the girl that wouldn't shut up. She talked in her annoying cartoon-character voice for one hour straight about her boring-ass life. I've had the girl who had some major sinus issues going on and sniffled/snorted the entire time, not allowing me any relaxation whatsoever due to the fact that every time she squirted on more oil, I would convince myself it was her dripping nasal secretions. Lastly, I had the large German woman who spanked me. Everything was going fine, the massage was good, then she just began to spank me. On my naked butt. Now, I am usually very outspoken, but since she was over 6-feet tall, had a scary accent AND WAS SPANKING ME, I kept quiet and just waited for it to end. Eventually it did. And while I had a suspicious feeling that she had just made me her legal "partner" in some weird German spanking ritual, we never saw each other again, and I went home to Steve, feeling ashamed and violated.

And yet I still love massage.

Resolution Smesolution

Resolution Smesolution

Every year I make a New years Resolution to not be one of those people who makes a New Years Resolution, because we all know that nobody ever keeps them anyway. They tell every Tom, Dick and Harry that they are going to lose weight, stop smoking, quit biting their toenails etc..., and Tom, Dick and Harry are like "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Never gonna happen." And 9 times out of 10 the boys are right. But this year I thought that maybe it would be a good thing if I made some resolutions on this blog, that way you can all keep an eye on me and make sure that I am following them. I am not completely sure that this will work, because I really have no shame and could care less if I fail in front of people, but hey, it's worth a try!

I would like to lose 10 pounds, even though I swear to Pete that as I type this I have chocolate icing on my fingers from the Hostess Cupcake I just crammed down my throat. Does it help that it is a Hostess 100 Calorie Pack?

I would also like to tone up my flabby bod. Since Ethan is almost 9, I can no longer use the "I had a baby" excuse, although technically it is true since I did indeed have a baby (in 2001). Those little whine bags ruin your body. That's a fact. They never apologize for it either. In a related story: A few years ago Steve and I went away for a spa weekend. I had a full 8 hour day of treatments, for which I requested all females. So anyway, I had all women until the final treatment of the day, which was a 90 minute body scrub. Not only did I have a dude for this, but it was a college boy who was cute. For those of you who have never had a body scrub, let me tell you about it: You are nude, in a well-lit room, on a table. When you are on your back, there is a tiny washcloth on your girls, and one on your cha-cha. When you are on your stomach, there is a washcloth on your crack. That is all the coverage you get. Then, for 90 minutes the cute boy scrubs every inch of your body with scrubbing salts, lotions, rinses, repeats. Some of these salts go into your "areas" and he has to hose them out with a special attachment. As you can imagine, this entire process was less than relaxing due to the fact that I held my muscles as tightly as I could to make myself look more firm. When he asked about my life, I told him I had 5 kids, including a newborn, because although my body may be pretty sad for a mother of one, it rocks for a mother of five.

I want to become a runner. Nothing fancy. No marathons or anything, just a very short distance runner for exercise purposes. When I saw those Biggest Loser people run a full marathon it made me feel like a lazy piece of crap, so I have joined a beginners running group. Although we are told we will be able to run 3 straight miles in 2 months, I just don't see it happening. I was the girl in Junior High who dove into the woods at the beginning of our gym class run, and jumped back out to blend in at the end. I know that some of my long-time readers are in shock at the news of my running. If you are not, you can go to my archives and read "The One About Running" from September of 2009, where I made the following statement: "I don’t believe in running. In fact, I am fundamentally opposed to it. It is against my religion. I am pretty sure it causes cataracts or diarrhea. The only time I condone running, is if something really badass is chasing you. Even then, I prefer the strategy of 'playing dead' instead of running. If it works against big scary bears, I am sure it will work against a mugger." Yep...I said that. And I am still fairly certain that I would run much better if instead of running alongside us and cheering us on, our instructor would run after us with a big knife, screaming psychotic phrases like "Ima cut you, bitches!"

I am going to try to stop thinking about Paul Rudd so much. It can't be healthy, and I think that my husband may be getting just a tad sick of it. It will definitely be hard. Just look at him:

I would like to start remembering to take my grocery lists with me when I go to the grocery store, as I am positive that it would not only save me from going back to the store 5 times per week, but would also save me money. On this same topic, I would like to start making it home with everything that I purchase, since I usually come home missing at least 1-3 items that I paid for, and often the answer to Steve's question "What's for dinner?" is "Well, it was gonna be Thai Chicken night, but somehow I lost the chicken."

I would like to move up to "Hard" on Rock Band. I know, I know, it's a big dream. I'm probably more likely to lose the 10 pounds, or stop thinking about Paul Rudd.

I would like to fix the part of my brain that makes me start talking about inappropriate things when there is a lull in the conversation. I have shared lots of things with lots of people that were maybe not such a good idea. Does my cable guy need to know about my irregular menstrual cycle? Probably not.

I would also like to fix the part of my brain that tells me to beat the crap out of Steve when he wakes me up with his snoring at night. No matter how good it would feel to teach that snorer a lesson, truth be told, a gentle tap will suffice.

I would like to stop singing the Miley Cyrus song "Party in the USA." I really, really want to stop, but I just keep noddin' my head like "yeah" and movin' my hips like "yeah."

To Barth Or Not To Barth

To Barth Or Not To Barth

I am sick. Again. I was sick from day 3 of my Christmas break until the last day, and I am still congested. Then, Wednesday evening I started to feel terrible after eating a frozen organic enchilada. At least that's what I'm tracing it to. When I took it out of the box the plastic wrap was open so I almost didn't eat it. I had a definite moment of "This doesn't look right. It could be contaminated or have a dead mouse in it." But I was hungry so I ate it anyway. And it was good. About 3 hours later I started to feel like crap and I have decided it is the curse of the organic enchilada. My tummy hurt all night and was just generally pissed off at me. I laid on the couch until midnight doing that breathing/swallowing technique one does when one does not want to barth, as Ethan calls it. Today I feel like I have a hangover...headache and slight tummy ache, although not as bad as last night. Looking back, I really think I should have just let it fly with the barth instead of holding it back. I may have felt better today and I surely would have lost a few pounds. What was I thinking.

So anyway, today was a blog day but my brain still isn't working and I've had to abandon my planned topic and instead resort to asking for sympathy from my readers because I have a boo boo in my tum tum. I was supposed to do day 3 of my running group today, but had to call in sick (Yes, I am running. More on that later.) I was also going to have lunch with a bunch of ladies who call themselves the T.R.A.M.P.S., and we were going to eat Mexican food. So today kinda blows since my running partners think I am a wuss and I stood up a bunch of T.R.A.M.P.S. and I look look like a greasy old hag to top it off.

At least I made it to the computer to write this note. That is progress since I pretty much stayed in bed all day watching "Brideshead Revisited", texting, and napping. A short note on the subject of texting: The iPhone does a thing called "Predictive Text" in which it finishes a word for you that it thinks you are trying to type, when 99% of the time, the word it chooses isn't even close to the word you are trying to type. It does this in such a way that most of the time you don't even notice it has changed anything. This has caused me many problems. Last month I was trying to tell someone that I was having an orange, and it told them "I am having an orgie." Today I told someone I was home feeling sick and it went out "I am home feeling dick." Now everyone thinks I am a housewife hooker. Plus, I have no idea why it keeps changing things to sex-related words. When I am feeling better, my first order of business will be to write you all a halfway decent blog entry, and the second will be to figure out how to turn off that damn predictive text before neighborhood men start showing up at my door with wads of cash.

My 13 Days of Christmas

My 13 Days of Christmas

Forgive me, people. I haven't written anything in 2 weeks, and I am so congested that all of my neurons are not firing, so my first blog entry of the new year may be lacking a bit of zing. Anyway, I have chronicled my 13 days of Christmas vacation, so when you see me don't ask me how it was, because this, my friends, is how it was:

Day 1-After Ethan's class Holiday Party, we drove to a hotel just North of Dallas. On the way we passed a restaurant called "Twin Peaks". I decided to google this, as I have never heard of it before. As I suspected, it is a big-boobied waitress establishment whose website claims "Eats, Drinks, and Scenic Views, as well as Twice The Fun of Other Restaurants!" And I thought Hooters was tacky.

Day 2-We drive another 6 hours. I realize that the drive through Oklahoma is mind-numbingly boring, and I am amazed to discover that we could get absolutely no radio stations. You'd think we'd at least get some bad country station, but you'd be wrong. To pass the time I decided to use a point system to judge the various fields of cattle. Size, color, shininess of their coats, how many were laying vs. how many were standing...these were all things I took into consideration before handing out any final numbers. Riveting stuff. Anyway, we got to my mom's house in Springfield and had a big old pot of ham and beans (yum), and made the discovery that one of my sister's was sick. (This will come into play later)

Day 3-Family Christmas at my Uncle Larry's house, where I had the most delicious mulligatawny. It was during this family function that my Aunt Billie asked me if I watched Chelsea Lately (hells yeah), and asked what one of the regular panelists names was, to which I replied "Oh, you mean that ugly one with the brown hair", to which Billie replied, "Well, I was gonna say she reminds me of you", to which I replied "What a nice person would have done in this situation, when the person said the girl in question was ugly, is to make a quick change of plans and decide to keep your mouth shut and not tell the person that they remind you of that girl, but instead keep that information to yourself to spare the feelings of that person." But I did also tell her that this outspoken and honest quality is what I love most about her. She did try to salvage the situation by saying that it is the ugly girl's mannerisms that remind her of me, and not her face. Too late. Damage done.

Also at this Family Christmas was my Aunt Bengie, who happened to be infested with sick germs. (This will also come into play later)

Day 4- Went to lunch at my favorite Mexican place and had a puffy taco. I can't even describe in words, the sheer pleasure of eating a Maria's puffy taco. Went to see a lame movie, but it had Hugh Grant, so it was watchable. Went to my best friend Kim's house for dinner. Kim informed me that the local sex toy shop has been advertising a "Cash For Clunkers" vibrator sale. True story. We found this hysterical, yet disturbing.

Day 5-Last day in Springfield. Had pizza at my favorite pizza place with my mom, who had to leave early because one of my sister's had to go the ER after a fall at work. I guess I am a bad sister because I finished my pizza, then left town to go to Kansas City. Everything was fine...1 stitch in the lip, so although I may be a bad sister, I don't think I am terrible. Anyway, I had my turn behind the wheel for the 3 1/2 hour trip. I am a major singer/dancer when I am doing the driving, as this keeps me perky and attentive. But, for some reason my husband decided to turn off the music and force me to endure what could possibly be the most horrifyingly boring, brain-melting experience of my entire life, including all those childhood Sunday's sitting in church: Steve made me listen to some terrible history podcast that he found to be "very interesting" but nearly made me kill us all by driving off a cliff. In case you didn't know, my husband is a nerd.

Day 6-I felt like crap. Trace the cause back to sick sister and sick aunt. Bitches.

Day 7-(Christmas Eve) Since I still felt like crap, Steve took me to Urgent Care where it was discovered that I had Strep Throat, which is a disease that only myself and Elementary School children seem to get. I got loaded up on antibiotics, lozenges and Nyquil. It also snowed and iced all day and night until we had at least 8 inches. It was also insanely windy and about 15 degrees, but I was high as a kite on cold meds, so none of this mattered to me.

Day 8-(Christmas Day) Still felt like crap, but got presents.

Day 9-Still felt like crap. Still blizzard conditions, but put our lives in the hands of Steve's dad to get us to Des Moines for yet another Family Christmas. I was in such a medicated fog that I doubt I would have felt any injuries incurred were we to have a weather-related automobile accident anyway. Things I learned on this trip: Nobody has a bladder as small as mine, Ethan talks even more than I do, and Steve's dad owns a Garmin, yet does not trust the Garmin, choosing instead to believe that the Garmin is nothing more than a tool to lead us into the wrong neighborhood so that we can be robbed and our car stripped of its tires...at least that's my best guess.

Things that happen at this Family Christmas: I spend most of the evening talking with Steve's 20-year-old cousin Jacob, because I am honestly so immature that he is the one I connect with the most. Ethan gets an ear infection (Big shout out to Dr. Cousin Eric for helping us with that one. See Eric...your dream was to make it into my blog and here you are. FYI: The more drugs you supply me with, the more I will include you in my blog in the future). I also learn that Steve's Uncle Doug has said that he likes my blog and my "acerbic wit." Steve's mom says that she doesn't think this is positive, and since I am too dumb to define the word acerbic, I looked it up and found out that it is defined as "harsh or severe, as of temper or expression." So Doug, I don't take that as a compliment and you have also made it into my blog, but not for good reasons like your son, Dr. Cousin Eric.

Day 10- Feel like medium crap. Last day in Iowa. I take the elevator down to the hotel breakfast room thinking about how last year there was a whole slew of people in there in their pajamas, and how I didn't think it was appropriate to go into hotel common areas in your pajamas, and how I might mention that in my blog, and then when I get to the breakfast room I see that Steve's sister is there in her pajamas and so I briefly re-think my idea to write about this in my blog, then obviously, I change my mind.

That night, during a game of Charades, my niece, Jillian does Aunt Pat Pat (me) and this is what we get:

**MISSING PLUG IN** 

What does this say about me??

Day 11-Back in Missouri. Still feel like medium crap. Drug myself up on sinus meds. Celebrate Steve's 40th birthday by going bowling. Steve rents me size 16 shoes to try and be all cute and funny about how big my feet are (size 10). Ha ha. If I wasn't so weak and spacey from the cold meds I would definitely take that size 16 shoe and smack Steve over the head with it, but because I am such a good sport even when I feel like dying, I pose in the giant shoes for the following photo, and am slightly disappointed to see that they really don't look that out of proportion with my giant body.



Day 12-Do my first "Sinus Rinse", which is a misleadingly gentle name to put on the box for something that, in all actuality, shoots salt water into your brain at approximately 500 mph. I find it slightly painful and panic-inducing, but feel a bit better. Steve and I go see Avatar and I discover 2 things: #1) That Sam Worthington is one hot piece of man-meat, and #2) I found myself wishing that I had a body like one of those 10-foot-tall blue Na'vi women, even though they have tails. A tail is a small price to pay for that tiny waist and those long legs. Plus, Sam Worthington is hot for blue chicks with tails.

Day 13-Day 1 of the drive back to Houston. This time we drive through Kansas and Oklahoma. I have trouble deciding which state is more boring to drive through, and I get angry that neither one has any decent radio stations. We stop at a gas station somewhere in Oklahoma and although the bathroom was clean, I am 99% sure there is now video of my going peeps somewhere on the internet. I just got that vibe.

Day 14-(New Years Eve) Day 2 of drive back to Houston. The drive from Dallas to Houston seems about 10 times longer than it actually is. At least we have radio stations. We hear that ELO song "Don't Bring Me Down", and Steve and I wonder why some guy named Bruce is bringing them down. Who is this Bruce and why don't they just kick his ass? We also hear Elton John's "Hold Me Closer Tony Danza" and we wonder when that affair took place and how we managed to miss out on the information that Tony was gay. It does make his house-keeping "Who's The Boss" character much more believable when you have all the facts.

We arrive home. I am still congested and tired, yet so happy to be able to spend a cozy night in my own bed. We go to bed around 10:30, but unfortunately some douchebags behind us are setting off fireworks, which seemed cool earlier in the evening, but are now completely annoying. Since it's New Years Eve, I try to deal with it. By midnight I am sure I hear the finale and will now be able to get some sleep. Unfortunately, they still had a buttload of fireworks left. By 1:30 am I was on the computer posting a funny yet slightly psychotic rant on our neighborhood women's group. I believe I mentioned manslaughter with a roman candle and I may have said I was going to make a voodoo doll of the perps, but I was high on Tylenol pm and it was late and I can't be held responsible for what I may or may not have written. By 2 am I was finally asleep, but was awakened many times during the night by Steve's newly adopted snoring habit, until finally he went to the couch around 6 am, I assume because he was tired of getting gently "tapped" by me. I slept until about 10:3o am due to the fact that I didn't take the Tylenol PM until 1 am. I awakened assuming that Steve and Ethan were scared that I had slipped into some sort of Strep Throat-induced coma, but they were doing their own things, oblivious to the fact that I had yet to get out of bed. Boy, I feel loved.

So there you have it. My exciting Christmas vacation. Don't be jealous. Not everyone can have my life.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa

I have been a very good girl this year, as evidenced by my ability to keep from hurting anyone while I do my Christmas shopping. These past 2 weeks have been brutal, especially when I get within a 1 mile radius of a shopping mall. I admit I have come thisclose to not only hitting people with my car, but to almost beating a woman with a copy of that big-ass Stephen King book, "Under the Dome" at Barnes and Noble, and I had to hold myself back from forcing someone to eat an entire Ugg boot at Dillard's. When my temper nearly got the best of me, I just took a deep breath and thought "What would Santa do?", and that simple question usually calmed me down. I am almost positive that you would remain jolly in the presence of even the most crazed and selfish shoppers, although I have a feeling that those Elves of yours might kick some suburban ass.

Since I am sure that I am on your "Nice" list this year, I have decided to write you this letter to let you know exactly what I want for Christmas, in hopes of avoiding the gift fiasco's of 1985 and 1991. I don't wear mini skirts, I don't wear leather, and scented body powders are for the women on "Golden Girls", not a 14-year-old who's looking to get into the dating scene. Here is a list to help you make my Christmas just a little more merry:

A new Roomba. I'd appreciate it if you could keep this just between us, but my love for my current Roomba has died. I tried to work things out with her, I even went so far as to suggest we seek couples counseling, but I've finally come to the realization that we just weren't meant to be. Her relationship with Tiger has driven a wedge between us, and I just can't take anymore. Please replace her with the latest model, and make sure this one has a lot less back talk and a lot more spinning of that rotating brush.

A vacation with Paul Rudd. Someplace tropical would be ideal. A beach, a couple of lawn chairs, someone to brig us beer. Heaven.

A magic laundry fairy. She doesn't even have to actually do the laundry. All I ask is that she fly around and pick up Ethan's socks and Steve's underwear off of the floor and deposit them in the clothes hamper.

I would like you to tell Obama to make December and January, National Sweatpants Months. My pants start to get too tight around October 31st, and the problem only gets worse in November and December, until finally January hits and my New Years Resolution kicks in. Since I can't get my pants buttoned, nothing would feel better than to spend every day in my comfy sweats, but I don't want to be the only one looking like a slob. This would help my comfort level, as well as my self-esteem.

I would like for Elisabeth Hasselbeck to go away. You know what? I think she'd make a good elf. Maybe you should take her back to the North Pole with you. She did pretty well on Survivor, so I'm sure she could handle the pole.

I would like shopping malls to stop putting massage places and eyebrow places out in the open. Getting rubbed and/or getting hairs plucked from your body, are both things that should be done in private.

I would like a Tempur-Pedic mattress because my mattress is 10-years-old and it's starting to mess up my back, and those Tempur-Pedic mattresses make you feel like you're being gently rocked to sleep by an angel, or by Paul Rudd.

I would like for it to be cool to love the song "Highwayman", because that song is freaking awesome and I fly a star ship across the Universe divide, and when I reach the other side, I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can, perhaps I may become a Highwayman again (and again, and again, and again...).

I would like to invent a pill or something that makes your hair grow in whatever color you want it to, because I am tired of having to "enhance" my color. If scientists can grow a human ear on a mouse's back and then sew it onto an earless human, could blonde hair really be that big of a problem?

On the topic of inventions...I would like someone to invent a machine that makes junk foods healthy and healthy food junky.

I would like for my husband to stop snoring. After almost 20 years of quiet, he has only recently began this snoring frenzy and I am already sick of it. I believe in living together before marriage, if for no other reason than to make sure you are not getting stuck with a snorer. If you are not a snorer when you say "I Do" then you cannot turn into one later. It's false advertising and I'm not having it.

I would like a magic button that I can push to erase "Two Girls and a Cup" from my mind forever. I tried massive amounts of wine, but that didn't work. (P.S. if you don't know what I am referring to, save yourself the trauma and DON'T FIND OUT! Trust me, Trust me. Trust me.)

I would like my husband to stop flipping channels so much. He may be able to keep track of 10 shows at once, but I certainly can't. When you get up to go pee during a biography of George Clooney, and come back to see what turns out to be a documentary about firearms, topped off by an episode of Orange County Choppers, your entire relationship with George Clooney is shaken and things get confusing really quick.

I would like to turn back time to before I bought Ethan that can of "Insta Poop" and tell myself not to buy that darn can of "Insta Poop", because let me tell you something friends..."Insta Poop" causes nothing but insta problems.

I would like to be as good of a singer as Rock Band makes me feel like I am.

I would like for all of my readers to have a great Holiday Break. I now have 72 subscribers and I feel the pressure, but I'm taking some time off to get my Fa la la la la on. I'll catch up with you in January....

Fa La La La La, Rubik's Touch Sucks!

Fa La La La La, Rubik's Touch Sucks!

I like technology as much as the next girl. I can't imagine a world without my iphone or my DVR, and if you'd asked me a few months ago, I would have included my Roomba in that list, but now she's yelling at me, refusing to clean, and I am fairly certain she has been having "relations" with Tiger, so we are on the outs. Anyway, my point is...technology is good, and often makes our lives much easier. BUT sometimes technology is completely irritating and unnecessary, and the other day I saw a commercial for the item that most fits this description: The Rubik's Touch Cube.

Thursday morning when I first saw the commercial for this toy, I nearly choked on my Raisin Bran. It is a block the size of the classic cube, but with touch screens that you swipe your finger across in order to emulate a "twist". It even plays a recording of the classic cube's "twist" sound to give you that "nostalgic experience". Was it really that hard to twist the original cube? I have a pretty good memory, and I definitely don't recall ever injuring myself in a Rubik's Cube twisting incident. Is anyone actually willing to pay $130.00 extra to get a cube that they don't have to twist? If you are, I would like to meet you, at which time I would fully expect to see you either sporting a wrist cast or living life completely handless, due to a freak Benihana accident.

This stupid toy got me thinking about all of the toys I loved as a child, even though most of them didn't even take batteries, let alone have "touch technology". Here is a list of a few of my favorites:

Easy Bake Oven (Holly Hobby Version). Ok, so this one takes electricity and the amazing baking power of a 60 watt light bulb, but it was still a pretty basic toy, that awesomely took only 5 hours to cook a cake the size of a coaster. My desire for this toy resulted in lots of prayers and ultimatums to God. After He failed to follow my very specific instructions for delivering this gift to me, I told Him off big time, and bought myself one at a garage sale.

Perfection. This is the game where you wound up the timer, hit "start", and tried to get all of the shapes into their respective holes before time was up and all of the pieces popped out loudly enough to give a child a massive heart attack. I loved this game. I got this for Christmas when I was 7-years-old. Unfortunately, when I unwrapped it on Christmas morning it was broken and my dad had to take it in for a replacement a few days later. What my parents don't know is that the reason it was broken is because I spent the 2 weeks before Christmas unwrapping it and playing with it when nobody was home, then re-wrapping it afterward, accidentally breaking it a few days before Christmas. I also spent many hours in front of the mirror practicing my "surprised face" for when I opened all of the gifts I had not only already opened, but already played with.

Tape Recorder. When I was about 8-years-old I got my very own tape recorder. I used this for various activities, including the following: Recording my dad while he napped so that I could prove to him that yes, he actually did snore; Recording episodes of "Laverne and Shirley" so that I could replay them over and over until I memorized every word of dialogue, at which point I could re-enact a full episode for my very patient family; Pressing "record" and hiding it in my parents room when they were arguing so that I could play it back later and hear what they were arguing about; Recording phone conversations between the old ladies on our party line (remember those?) so that I could play them back over the phone the next time that they were talking, causing much confusion in their old lady heads; Recording farts and sometimes making an entire show called "Mr. and Mrs. Fart", because we were 8-years-old and that's just funny.

Hula Hoop. I spent many, many hours practicing my hoop moves. Arm hooping, leg hooping, neck hooping, and multiple hoop hooping. I was amazing. After not hooping for at least 25 years, I participated in a Hula Hoop contest last summer with the daughter of a childhood friend. Although I didn't win, I did clock in at 45 minutes, and since I fully expected to barely make it to 5, I was quite pleased that I still had some mad hooping moves, although truth be told I would have given big money to beat the trash talking 8-year-old who had spent months emailing me videos in which she sasses me while hula hooping.

Cork board and string. Yep, you heard right. Cork board, string, push pins and paper. I had a cork board over the desk in my playroom, and I turned it into an old fashioned switchboard like Mrs. Olson had in Nellie's Restaurant when Walnut Grove finally got a telephone system. I used to spend hours talking into an empty salt shaker while connecting calls all over town.

Fashion Plates. Remember these? You put together an outfit made up of small plates, then did a crayon rubbing on paper to miraculously transfer the picture to paper so you could color it with the colored pencils (included!), thereby making the most amazing outfit ever. If my mom had not sold this at the yard sale of '82 I may have been the next Vera Wang. Thanks, mom.

Shrinky Dinks. Come on, who didn't LOVE Shrinky Dinks? In my opinion, this was one of the best toys ever. Color a piece of plastic, bake it, voila...you have a necklace and earrings! No other toy gave you "permission" to use the oven, your mom's cookie sheets, etc... I mean, what could possibly go wrong with that? Whoever invented this toy was a genius.

Yarn and Crystal Gayle Albums. Specifically the "Don't it make My Brown Eyes Blue" album. I painstakingly fashioned a floor length wig from yarn, put on my album, grabbed my tin foil microphone and sang my little heart out for hours.

Play Doh Ice Cream Truck. The best Play Doh item EVER. I made soft serve, push pops, sundaes and fudge pops, and drove all over my playroom to my various Barbie Towns so that they could buy some cold, frosty treats. Don't tell my mom, but I often ate the "treats", or at the very least licked them until I got sick. So salty. So good.

Flower and Junk Wagon. We used to load our wagon up with dandelions, rocks, and other glorious items, and go door to door to sell them. I was very persuasive, and often came back with plenty of coin.

Barbie Dolls and Barbie Styling Head. When I was little, Barbies didn't come with all of the stuff they come with now. All you got was a Barbie and a few outfits. I used to make extra outfits out of paper towels and markers, and since I didn't have all of the dream houses and stuff, I made houses out of shoe boxes. I like to add some excitement by having tornadoes and other natural disasters hit their shoebox neighborhoods. One time I tore Barbie's arm off and drew bruises all over her with a black sharpie to make her twister-related injuries seem more realistic. As for my Barbie Styling Head...she suffered severe facial burns after a perm gone wrong, and that's all I wanna say about that.

So there's my crotchity old lady moment for 2009...my tribute to when life was much simpler and we had to walk to school every day, uphill both ways.

*Please list your favorite childhood toy in the "comment" section. If you're getting this post via email, you need to click on the post title (Fa la la la la Rubiks Touch Sucks) and it will take you to the actual blog site, where you will find a comment section at the end of this entry. Because of some glitch I can't seem to figure out, you must enter your comment under "anonymous" and then enter your name in the body of the message if you want. Whew! I'm exhausted.

ABOUT ME

ABOUT ME

Behind the 'stache

I am:

A wife and mom

A little left of center

A lover of tiny animals

A (wanna be) lover of Paul Rudd

A guacamole addict

A coffee whore

A "very interesting woman" (says my husband)

A filterless speaker

A daydreamer

An awesomely bad singer/dancer

An over-thinker

An under-thinker

An overly-imaginative mess

A spider hater

A book lover

A math hater

A margarita lover

A seafood hater

A drag queen lover

A John Denver hater

A Bob Denver lover (Gilligan, yo!)

A Zombie huntress

A mustache afficionado

A Pirate Ninja wannabe

Not at all country and 100% rock and roll

I am woman.....hear me whine, bitch and make fun of things.

I don't really plan to roar. 

Silence Of The Snowman

Silence Of The Snowman

So, as you learned in my last blog entry, Ethan and Steve built an awesome tropical snowman Friday afternoon. Later that evening, Ethan decided to name him "Snowy". On Saturday morning, I looked out the window and saw Ethan talking to "Snowy". It was a pretty long chat, but I have to assume that Snowy wasn't contributing much. Did it bother me to see my 8-year-old in deep conversation with a snowman? Of course not! As a matter of fact, I was unbelievably proud that he can carry on a one-sided conversation almost as well as I can. Honestly, I could talk to a can of soup for longer than most people can talk to an actual person. Not that I've actually done that or anything, but sometimes when Steve comes home after a long week at the office, his vital signs are almost indistinguishable to that of a can of Campbell's Minestrone.
Anyway, back to Ethan and "Snowy"....so they're having a chat, and next thing I know Ethan's hugging "Snowy", which I thought was adorable. I mean, come on! My sweet, Texas-raised child was so thrilled and excited about his first Houston snowfall and so in love with his first Texan Snowman, that he is hugging him! So I smiled, wiped a tear from the corner of my eye, and had a sip of hot cocoa. As I stood at the window thinking about how lucky I was to have such a sweet, innocent child, I noticed that the "hug" began to look slightly violent. Upon closer inspection I realized that Ethan wasn't "hugging" Snowy insomuch as he was holding him in a frosty death grip while he ate part of his snowy abdomen. Was this how Hannibal Lecter got started? I read all of those books, and I know that the last one was all about Lecter's childhood, but it's been 10 years since I read it. However, I do recall that there was lots of snow where he lived. Plus, when I was having my evening wine the other night, Ethan asked if he could have some....and it was a Chianti! Oh. My. God. I think I have something to re-read today.

Monday morning, between the weather and the "hugging", this is what remained of our beloved "Snowy":

I'm pretty sure that "Snowy" is a goner, but I think I'm gonna take his aloe vera tongue away, just in case the Snowman Police come poking around. A mother has to protect her son.

Snow Blows

Snow Blows

Well folks, it's finally happened. Hell has frozen over. Okay, so maybe Texas isn't technically "Hell", but if you came to visit me in August and got to experience the pleasure of stepping outside and immediately trying to dodge a flying cockroach and a giant red ant mound, while simultaneously having your make-up melt off and your hair frizz up like Bozo The Clown, you might think so. Anyway, it is snowing here in Houston today, which causes native Texans to go a little crazy. Steve got to come home from work early to avoid "the severe weather" which in Texan means a light dusting of slushy, wet snow. Some parents were even picking their kids up from school early so they could experience "the joy and wonder on their faces." Let me tell you something: If the school doors are unlocked and Ethan isn't projectile vomiting, he's going to school and he's staying at school. After growing up in Missouri, then living in Chicago, I am used to the snow. Actually, while living in Chicago, when we had a sunny, snowless day, people would pick their kids up early to experience the joy and wonder on their faces. As much as it is hot and miserable here in Texas, it was that cold and snowy in Chicago. But at least there we had Oprah and Chicago style pizza.

I must admit, though, that I have enjoyed the snow today. The way I enjoy snow is by snuggling up on the sofa in my yoga pants and fuzzy socks and watching it out the window while I watch Top Chef and Real Housewives of Orange County. I want absolutely no contact with the snow. I do not like to be cold, or wet, so winter activities are really not ideal for me. Of course, when I was little, I liked it just as much as everyone else. We used to build forts and attack each other with snowballs, form "sled pyramids" and slide down my neighbor's hill, and make lots of snowmen and snow angels. One year we even made "snow bunnies" and had the ingenious idea to spray paint them with food coloring. Unfortunately we made a bad choice and picked yellow. We could have gotten the same effect by peeing on them, but we were still proud.

I absolutely loved the snow until sometime in my teens. Actually, I can be much more precise with the date: It was December 1988. It was a cold and windy Saturday. The news said there was "a chance of snow", and you could kind of smell it in the air, but being that I was 17 and I had important Saturday night things to do, I ignored the warning signs. My best friend Crystal and I decided it was as good a night as any to pull the old "I'm spending the night with Crystal, I'm spending the night with Patti" trick. Our friend Dennis informed us that his parents were out of town, so we decided that we would spend the night at his house, as would our boyfriend's. Now, I have to pause here to tell you the first bit of proof as to how stupid I was: My dad was a very popular teacher/coach at my High School, and EVERYONE in town knew his SUV. Which I was driving that night. Which I parked in Dennis' driveway all night. Which was directly across the street from the house of my 2 step-brother's and their dad. Who obviously knew my dad. But I had important partying to do, and that never crossed my one-track mind, or to be more specific, my two-track mind: track one being boys, and track two being beer.

So anyway, our plan was pure magic. We had an awesome night with our friends, and even got in a few hours of beauty sleep. The next morning we woke up, stretched, smiled, and felt ultra-satisfied with ourselves and how amazingly sneaky we were. Until we looked out the window. Unfortunately, we woke up to about a foot of snow and ice. We knew that this would pose a small problem, since neither of us were particularly good at driving in slippery conditions, but what could we do? We had to get to Crystal's house early, to keep our story on track. My boyfriend backed the truck out of the driveway for us, because we couldn't even manage that. Once it was in the street, I took over at the wheel. Unfortunately, I only made it two houses down, at which point I slid and ended up deep into the front yard of a High School football player, whose parents were less than thrilled. So basically, I had to make an unpleasant phone call to my dad so he could come and pull his truck out of the yard of one of his student's, and the jig was up. That is why I hate snow.

Still, my son seems to love it, and he was very excited when he got off of the bus today. I actually witnessed that "joy and wonder" on his sweet little face. He immediately started playing in it, and he and Steve even made a snowman. Although, for a short time my son was having fun, I soon realized I had another reason to hate snow: It turns my son into a huge whine bucket. Every 5 minutes he opened the door to whine about how cold and wet he was, and when he came in he whined until I peeled all of his clothes off and made him a warm bath. Now he's whining just because he's on a roll and can't stop, I guess. So I realize now, more than ever, that snow is bad. Snow has it in for me. Snow wants nothing more than to make me unhappy, whether it be by getting me grounded or giving me a whine-induced headache. So snow, we are not friends. You ruined that relationship back in '88 and it can never be repaired. We had a good thing going up until then, but it's over. I choose my summer's and my Houston heat, my ants, alligator's and flying roaches. Summer may be hot, but summer never got me stuck in someone's yard wearing last night's clothes. Well, except that one time in '89...

Happy Holidays! (I'll try to keep my pants on)

Happy Holidays! (I'll try to keep my pants on)

It's officially that time of year we like to call "The Holidays". How do I know that? Because there is a chill in the air? Because there are giant inflatable Snowmen and Santa's in everyone's yard? Because every time I turn on the radio they are shoving that annoying and stupid Paul McCartney song about "simply having a wonderful Christmas time" down my throat (barf)? No, no, and no. The reason I know that "The Holidays" are here is because I can't button my pants.

Every year about this time, my body goes into some sort of fat-storage mode for the winter. Either I am distantly related to a bear, or my body is under the impression that I still live in Chicago and I need extra fat to survive. I do have some not-so-distant relatives who were Kentucky mountain people, so I guess the bear thing is a possibility, but because of the stigma of being the product of a woodland creature/human love affair, I'm gonna choose to go with the Chicago explanation. I have tried countless times to explain to my thighs that Houston's idea of winter is the same as a Chicago Spring, but my fat cells just aren't listening, and are hoarding every calorie like I'm some kind of Igloo dwelling Eskimo lady.

As I'm sure you all know, "The Holidays" started on October 31st, when our children went running around in the dark, dressed like cheerleader's and ninja's, knocking on the doors of strangers, and taking their candy (Nevermind that the other 364 days of the year we would go ape shit on them if they took candy from a stranger). At the end of the night, they came home with anywhere from 3-20 lbs of candy that, as all mommies know, is mainly going to be eaten by us when we are having PMS or watching a late night showing of "The Notebook".

Halloween damage: 3 pounds and a severe bout of depression after the inevitable sugar drop, coupled with the fact that Ryan Gossling loves that Rachael McAdams so much he built a house for her. WITH HIS BARE HANDS!

Next came Thanksgiving, which is a holiday during which we are supposed to give thanks for the people in our lives and all that crap, but let's face it...mainly what we are thankful for is the turkey, the delicious trimmings, and an endless abundance of pies and cool whip. Don't get me wrong, I am definitely thankful for my family too, as long as they don't eat the last slice of pumpkin pie. Be forewarned: when I've been cooking for 2 days, am high on carbs, and have my new Pampered Chef Slice 'N Serve pie spatula in my hand, it would be in your best interest to step away from the pie. By day 3 of left-overs, I couldn't even do my fancy guitar kicks while playing Rock Band, for fear that I would split my pants.

Thanksgiving damage: 4 pounds, a close call with the Slice 'N Serve, and a somewhat boring and kickless performance of "Give It Away"

I truly wish the nightmare was over, but as we all know, Christmas is just around the corner. This time, instead of sending our children off to take candy from strangers, we are forcing them to sit on a stranger's lap and ask for presents. In my opinion, all this is doing is setting them up for sad and seedy futures as lap dancers and/or trophy wives. But I digress... Christmas, as we all know, is all about a baby in a manger who didn't have a crib and 3 old guys brought him some sucky presents (Really, what's a baby gonna do with some shrub called myrr? Next time, old "wise" guys, bring something helpful like A CRIB). So now, all these years later, there is still an old guy, but just one, but he's fat, like maybe he ate the other 2 old guys, but the important thing is that he brings better presents. Anyway, back on topic: Christmas is also all about food. I am quite sure that I eat enough food during December to last an Ethiopian family an entire year. It is, quite frankly, disgusting and pathetic, but I just can't stop. There's food and desserts everywhere and I just can't say "no". This year, I am publicly asking my Mother-In-Law NOT to make her annual Peanut butter cookies with the Hershey Kiss in the middle. Those are my heroin, and I am afraid that if they are made, not only will I have to wear my elastic pajama pants for the entire Christmas vacation, but I may pull a Robert Downey Jr. circa 1996, and wake up after a sugar high in a stranger's bed. And not in a good way.

Christmas damage: Estimated 5 pounds, with the definite possibility of 8 lbs and a warrant for my arrest, if my M.I.L makes the heroin cookies.