Yes I know I'm supposed to be on maternity leave, but things being as they are, I've had to go into work for one thing or another several times a week...totally not my point, but I wanted to explain why I was privy to the following converstion at work today...

side note...I work for a company that sells tools and equipment for metal working applications...

enter 18 year old strong southern accent having cutie and his adorable girlfriend...

cutie "ya'll got any iron?"

ray (the funniest and sweetest man I actually personally know) "what kind of iron?"

cutie: "oh, anything"

ray: "you wanna to make something out of it?"

cutie: "um, no."

ray: "what then? you just want scrap?"

cutie: "no sir...ummm"...cutie and girl turn and leave the building with a confused look on their faces.

Don't get it? No, you wouldn't, unless you know that what the 18 year old really asked when he walked in was "ya'll hiring?"

Poor little ray almost started a fight, and he didn't even mean to.

Get it now????

The thing about hormones is, they completely screw up that little part of your brain that's responsible for rational thought and behavior. And, my friends, post-partum hormones are no exception to the rule.

I sent my husband to the grocery store. Yes, I know, men are incapeable of grocery shopping as a general rule, but I was prepared...I had a list, organized by aisle, of everything he needed. I was brand specific. I was size specific. I was freaking insanely specific. Now, in his defense, and believe me, it's a weak defense at best, he did take one of our kids with him, which he claims is the reason he was "distracted" and unable to get everything I asked for. This is where I have a problem. When he says he couldn't "get everything", what he really means to say is "I got 3 bags of hot and spicey pork rinds and a tub of vanilla ice cream, so I figured we didn't need any fruit or vegetables." And when he says "I couldn't find the canned green beans or the bags of chicken breasts or the lean sirloin" what he meant to say is "well, I was trying to decide between the smores pop tarts and the blueberry frosted, and I figured that was more important". When he says "your son was throwing a fit and I barely had time to grab a gallon of milk and run for the front" what he meant was "I was standing there in the dairy section and I grabbed the milk, but then for some reason I couldn't find the butter or the yogurt, or the sour cream, or the cheese, or the cream cheese, or the cottage cheese."

He came home with 3 things I asked him to get and about 35 that were not on the list...guess how many of his choices are healthy? I couldn't make an actual meal out of the food he bought if you paid me.

But we were talking about hormones, weren't we? Did I accept this frustrating yet mildly amusing experience for what it was---my husband's loose interpretation of required groceries? Or did I have a complete mental breakdown? Oh, I think you know the answer to that. Yes, in my hormonally altered state I actually had a 45 minute sobbing fit. You see, my husband's inability to follow a list was clearly a deliberate and malicious act, aimed at showing me that he doesn't love or respect me. Clearly, this means that not only does he hate me and want me to suffer, but it means that for the rest of my life I can NEVER DEPEND ON ANYONE TO EVER HELP ME WITH ANYTHING....NEVER NEVER NEVER...I'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO REST BECAUSE NOW I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF...That's right, it's me the martyer speaking.

Okay, so I'm over it now, but still...those hormones are a bitch.

I'm baaaaaack.....

Well, hello there! Where, you may ask, the hell have I been? Well, I'll tell you. I have been hiding in my bedroom trying not to lose my mind, while I ponder the meaning of life and the origin of the universe.

Actually, I've been having long and meaningful conversations with myself regarding the ebb and flow of my life. Isn't it crazy how the good comes with the bad and the bad comes with the good...or is that just me? I'm one of those people that gets worried when things go too smooth, because that means, of course, that something terrible is going to happen.

About 3 or 4 weeks ago, my 11 year old Boxer started to lose interest in eating. I figured, okay, he's getting on in the years, lets try some of that yummy yet extrordinarily bad smelling canned food, which worked for a bit, until he started throwing up everything, including water, and decided to just stop completely. Then, I found a tooth on his pillow, so I thought "well, that poor dear had an absess or something...no wonder he couldn't eat! And I decided to make an appointment to see the vet and check out his poor little mouth. I dropped him off Tuesday morning (the 4th) and then went directly to the hospital, because I woke up in labor that morning. 14 hours or so later, I gave birth to a perfect and beautiful (yes, of course I'm biased) baby girl. The vet called my hubby on his cell phone and said "everything looks fine...maybe he was just stressed out over the impending birth...pick him up when you can". I never really bought that story, because this was the fourth impending birth since I've had the old boy, and he never seemed to mind before, but I took him home and hoped for the best. No luck. He refused to eat, and I took him back to the vet for one last attempt at figuring out what was wrong. He has lymphoma. I have to give him steroids twice a day, and they expect that he'll live for about 6 more months.

see...good...healthy baby girl....bad...dog dying. Ebb and flow.

My daughter, by the way, is wonderful and beautiful and perfect.

Mental problems and the illusion of normalcy

I like to pretend that I have it all together. And, as a general rule, I do a pretty good job of convincing those around me that I'm in control. However, as the song goes "don't believe me when I say I've got it down"...my issues are abundant, and some days I don't even know how I manage to keep all the ends together. It can be exhausting.

Recently, I've been obsessively picking over my food issues. Not that I one day sat down and decided that it was far time I worked out all the kinks, and have since been systematically dissecting my thought and behavior patterns; no, that would be far too healthy. Instead it seems I keep getting side-swiped by illogical and irrational concerns that completely knock me on my ass, and threaten to send me running to the nearest closet with a gallon of cookie dough ice cream. Stupid things like getting angry (don't worry, thus far I'm able to keep it completely internalized), when my husband eats three bowls of cereal. Not stupid play angry, like "geez what a pig", but really in my heart angry that there might not be any left...like he's getting more than his share, and I'm going to be left out. Is that not the craziest thing you've ever heard? I mean, I know it's got to go back to my grandmother and the whole story I've told before, but jeez... time to grow up, eh? This morning I opened the fridge and saw that for his midnight snack last night he ate more than 3/4 of the cheesecake I had put in there to thaw...and I tell you what...it's a damn good thing he had already left for work because I was so irrationally pissed off. So I stood there in the kitchen, 1/2 of me wanting to stomp my feet and scream "how dare he!!!" and the other 1/2 of me telling the first 1/2 to shut up and get over it. And it's not like I'm in danger of starving or anything...I just get this crazy panic thing going when I'm faced with the remote possibility of not getting something...I know...I sound greedy and foolish, and while yes, I probably am foolish, it's really not a greed thing. I don't feel like I want all of anything, I just panic that I won't get any at all. I can't explain it exactly, but it makes me feel like the one place I really belong is in the big padded room at the local mental hospital.

You know what I hate today? People who like their husbands.

I think that the major reason I feel this way is that everytime I hear that someone likes their spouse, it makes me feel as though my choice of a lifepartner proves just how inadequate I am at judging the character of others. I know, I know, marriage is hard...but that statement just doesn't do it for me. Hard is one thing. I could handle hard. I just can't handle impossible. I can't handle feeling taken advantage of. I can't handle a lack of common courtesy. I can't handle being the only responsible one. I can't handle always having to be the bigger person. And the funny thing is, if you can call it funny that is, is that before two years ago when I was walking the path of the seperated-almost-divorced single mother, I was completely resigned to the fact that I was going to spend the rest of my life in a miserable marriage. I was beaten. I was in such a hole of depression that I had forgotten that light even existed. And then, once the shock of seperation wore off and I started to find myself again, I realized how bad it really had been. Find myself. That sounds so cliche. I guess it wasn't so much finding myself as it was waking from a long bad dream. Anyway, during that period when I was finally waking up, I remembered what happy felt like. I remembered what loved felt like. I remembered what respected felt like. I remembered what wanted, and liked, and confident, and capeable felt like.

And I miss it terribly.

It's been so pathetically long since I last ranted and raved. Pathetic, I tell you. I'd like to have some great excuse, preferably having something to do with being in some exotic paradise with no internet access, but the truth is I've just been super crabby and feeling sorry for myself, with a little bit of lazy mixed in for good measure.

I've been so emotional lately--it's a bad bad thing. When I'm around others, I manage to channel all my emotions into an angry or impatient outburst---when alone, I'm usually crying, and talking irrationally to myself. I gained four pounds in the last 3 weeks. I'd lie and say that I don't know how that happened, because the majority of the time I'm eating ice and suffering from heartburn, but the truth is, when I'm not eating ice, I'm eating Reese sticks. And, by the way, what is up with the ice? I swear I can eat an entire bag of ice in a day and 1/2. And it's not because I'm hot, I'm actually usually cold, but still I chew my ice cubes and the heartburn continues. Not to mention the times that I somehow manage to forget that on the left side of my mouth I have an extremely sensitive tooth, and I chew an ice cube there anyway, and then spend 7 minutes with my eye in a spasm, clutching the side of my face and trying to keep upright.

I'm starting to get really antsy to start back on the workout/clean food wagon, which for me, is beyond strange. I even searched through the garage full of un-packed moving boxes that have been sitting there since we moved in November, I know, shut up, I'll get to it eventually, and found my Leanness Lifestyle book---now all I need is the free time to read it. I know in my heart that I'll most likely fall back to the BFL, but in my opinion, it doesn't hurt to be well read. You never know what tips you'll pick up from similar programs, right?

A guy here at work has decided that he wants to train for a marathon in September...

me: have you started training yet?

him: no.

me: when are you going to start?

him: I figure the first part of August

me: are you serious? you can't start training that late!

him: that gives me like 6 weeks...that should be enough

me: do you have any idea how long a marathon is?

him: yeah, I just figure I'll start with 5 miles, and then just add like 1/2 mile or a mile each day

me: uh huh. hmmm. interesting plan.

him: the real problem though, is I know this girl that does like 5 marathons a year, and her best time is 4 hours and 45 minutes, and I like totally can't get beat by a girl, so I have to run faster then that. I figure I'll aim for 15 minute miles, that way I can walk a little if I get to tired.

me: Ummmm...I'm pretty sure 15 minute miles won't have you finishing in 4:45...more like 7 hours

him: you don't know what you're talking about

me: yeah, you're probably right.

Okay...you know what I hate? I hate it when you tell someone that you'll be looking through all the applications later today and then begin making phone calls to schedule interviews, and that person calls you back THREE more times "just checking to see if you looked at my application yet!". Sure, I looked at your application, but I'm not hiring you because YOU ANNOY ME. If I'm looking for help, it probably means I'm pretty busy, and if I'm pretty busy, I am NOT GOING TO BE HAPPY if I have to stop what I'm doing once an hour to talk to you on the phone. Got it?

I also hate it when the boys here say to a woman that walked in off the street for an application "She's on her lunch break...sure she'll talk to you now". It's called a lunch break for a reason, people.

tired, tired, tired

I am so tired of being fat. Not just pregnant, but fat. I'm sick of getting out of the shower and catching a glimpse of the dimples on my ass and once trim thighs and thinking "this just can't be possible". I know, I know, pregnancy, growing baby, miracle of birth, blah, blah, blah, but what I wouldn't give to go for a run. Which, by the way, is even odder when you consider the fact that I hate to run. No wait, I'm not saying that anymore, because I have a tendency to believe the more I say something, the more my brain will believe it, and I would really really like to be good at running someday. So lets just say it's strange for me to say I want to go for a run, because, even when I'm thin and trim, and in good shape, I find running extremely difficult at best. There have been times that I've done it, but I would not say I've ever been "good" at it. Oh, but a girl can dream, can't she? And dream I do. I dream about someday being able to afford my very own leg press or hack squat machine. I dream about the day when I'll be able to do 10 pull-ups again. I dream of a day when I'll be able to tie my shoes without taking them off first. But mostly I dream of the day when I'll fit back into my short shorts, and I'll look in the mirror and think "yeah, baby....now THAT's what my legs are supposed to look like".

Yesterday was my mother's birthday. To celebrate, she spent the last weekend in vegas with her girlfriend. yes, you read that right, my mother is gay. She left my father after 25 years of marriage for a woman she knew back in highschool. Strange how these things happen. Anyway, it was her first trip to vegas, so last night when I made the compulsary phone call to wish her a happy birthday, I got to hear about how wonderful it was. I wasn't surprised by anything she said, as I've been there before, but I started thinking about how vegas is like being in an alternate reality...and frankly, that's probably exactly where my mother belongs. See, I've known for years that my mother is not right...she lives in this little bubble where she chooses her own reality...chooses what to believe and what not to. And for a person like her, vegas would be the perfect place to be. No where else in the world does the impossible happen so often as in vegas, and the same could be said for the space between my mother's ears. My mother has been known to, after the death of a close friend, say that she prefered to pretend that her friend was on an extended vacation. Denial anyone? My mother, even though she left my father for a woman, has been known to say "gee, I really don't know what went wrong in our marriage...I guess we just grew apart". My mother, after being basically dis-owned by my sister (long story, I'll save it for another post), and not having talked to her for 11 years, found out that my sister was in labor, called all the hospitals until she found her, and then showed up in her room, acting as though they had just been to lunch earlier that day. Do you know how weird it was for my sister to have this crazy woman drooling over her new baby and cooing "ohhh sweetie, grandma's here!", while having to introduce this wacko to her husband and her husband's family? My mother, who stood up in court and said to my father "you take him, I don't want the responsibility", refering to my brother (the only dependent child at the time of the divorce), only to say 5 years later "oh, I fought so hard to keep my baby, but that damn man just had a better lawyer". My mother, who after counseling a transvestite, told my father (they were still married) that she was considering living as a cross-dresser, so that she could better understand her clients. My mother who, after I yelled at her for smoking a cig in front of my son (no, I'm not a total prude, but he had a bronchial infection at the time and she promised me that she would smoke outside), looked me dead in the eye, with a smoke still in her hand, and said "I don't know what you're talking about...I haven't smoked all day". My mother, who once told me that she had an affair on my father when I was 8, and that he caught her in bed with her lover...fast forward to the year my husband has an affair and I ask my father "how did you ever get past the pain and the shame of it" and he has no idea what I'm talking about, because, in fact, my mother lied, and it never happend to him. I could go on and on and on, but frankly it makes me a little sick and a little sad, but suffice it to say, I think living in a world of complete imagination, where appearances, while deceiving, are everything, would suit her just fine. Move to Vegas, mom...I think you'll feel right at home.

Almost positive...

don't you hate that phrase? "I'm almost positive". I'm pretty sure you can't be almost positive. You can be positive, you can be unsure, you can be fairly confident, but to say you're almost positive, still makes you negative, right? Let's put it on the number scale, shall we...?

-1...0...1...2... Okay, now positive is on one side of zero, and negative is on the other so if you're "almost positive" you're not. Ok? Case Closed.

the reason I bring it up, is my ob/gyn says she's "almost positive" I'm having a girl. Not positive, but almost. I take no comfort in this statement. I have three other children and each time I was told that the doctor was "almost positive" it was a girl. Yes, that's right, this is my 4th child...It's a deep sickness, I know. Why, yes, I am crazy, thank you for asking, but we've gotten off the point. Four pregnancies, four ultrasounds, four 'almost positives". Three labors, three deliveries (so far), 2 boys and a girl. You see my problem? Yes I want a girl, I would love another girl, and frankly, I would love a boy just as well, but what I really want is just to know. Just once. Just this one time I'd like the doctor to say "well, look at that, you're definately having a _____". I just really really want to know.

On that note...any ideas for a girl's name?

Peanut Butter Results

Okay, I tried the power butter. Yes, I know I said I wasn't hungry...stop yelling at me.

texture: weird. It has that oil on top like natural pb, which is fine, I just stirred it in, but it never got as thick as I expected. Instead of sticking to the roof of my mouth, when I took a bite it kind of spread out over my tongue like a little woolen blanket. It made that weird little muscle on the underside of my tongue uncomfortable, as it seeped underneath. Plus, the "lumps" are roasted flax, which give you the impression not of crunchy peanut bits, but of little ant bodies mixed in with every bite.

color: normal, but with little black flecks from the previously detailed "ant bodies"...

taste: amazingly...delicious. Really. I wouldn't lie to you. It would even give my full-fat Jiff a run for its money. And it has Omega 3 & 6, so no more flax oil shooters.

price: way too expensive in my opinion, but I'll have to look into the larger sizes to see if it's more economical

I know, I know, I can hear your cries..."wherever do we get this miracle of modern science?": well, fear not my friends, I would never leave you in the dark...you can find it here

Ba Humbug

Today I am mean. I'm mad at everyone for everything they've done, and most things that they neglected to do. I'm mad at the stupid boys at work for being their usual annoying immature selves, my husband for being a butt-head and golfing all day instead of getting the car registered and various other tasks he was assigned to accomplish, and myself for not coming up with a good excuse to get out of work early and enjoy the 70 degree day. Willing myself to lighten up, I made the yummiest free day chicken in the world...unfortunately I had eaten so many peanut butter eggs throughout the day, I could only finish 1/2. And speaking of peanut butter...has anyone tried "peanut power butter"? According to the manufacturer, they were able to increase the amount of protein (through pasteurized egg whites) from 15 grams per 2 oz. to 32 grams. Then, they lowered the overall fat content by de-fatting the pb and then adding flax seed oil and whole roasted flax seeds back in. I ordered some yesterday, and received it today. However I'm too full from the aforementioned pb eggs and bad for me chicken to try it yet...Taste test results to appear later. Side note: it better be freaking great for the amount of $$ they charge!

So bad for you that you really don't even want to know the stats, chicken:

Grill chicken breast on George Forman
brush with dijon mustard (mix in a tiny bit of flour so it's like a paste)
roll in frozen shredded hashbrowns
Fry in Crisco till brown and crispy

My uncle is dying. I should feel bad about this. I know I should. But I don't. Me...the one that gets picked on for having "soft feelings", cannot muster up one tiny bit of sorrow, and that freaks me out a little. Granted, the man is a horrible person, but being as he's a relative and all I feel like I should feel something. Anything. And I don't. My mother keeps sending me these guilt-filled emails that say "Not that you care, but..."; "just thought you should know that...not that you care". On and on and on, the emails just keep coming, and I keep thinking "gee mom, if you know that I don't care, why do you keep telling me?"

I don't even feel sorry for his wife, and frankly all his kids are grown and better off without him. I tried to muster up a little remorse for my grandmother, as it just seems unnatural for a parent to outlive a child, but the best I can come up with is a generic feeling of unease. Nothing close to the sorrow that I thought I could fabricate.

See, the man is inhuman. Years ago, when my godmother died, she left me (and my siblings) a good deal of money in her will. He was the executor, and as such, decided to take all the money and build himself a lovely lake house instead. When I called him on it, his response was "fuck you" as he slammed the phone down.

But the money is nothing.

When my cousin was 5, he married her mom. When she was 6, he started molesting her. When she was 12, her mother walked in and caught him on top of her. By the time she was 15, she had tried to kill herself 8 times, was addicted to drugs and alcohol, and had run away from home. Her mother blamed her for "flirting" and "asking for it", and never divorced him. Today, my cousin lives in California, is a recovering addict, and is the sweetest, funniest, most screwed up person I know. This much I know. The rest is speculation. He had one son that ended up in prison for molesting a 12 year old boy. I can't help but think it was a learned behavior. His other daughter was a coke addict by the time she was 16 and had a total of 5 abortions before she finally left the country and straightened up her life on another continent. I can't help but think she had some help getting screwed up.

So, goodbye Bob. And mom, you're wrong. It's not that I don't care, it's just that it doesn't make me sad. Not one little bit.

Doctor's visit

Okay, let me preface this by saying that I am insanely obsessive about my weight problem. There is not a day that 5 minutes passes that I'm not aware of this fat here, or that fat there. I know. Sick and wrong, but still. My personal opinion is that it all started back when I was little and was the same size as my sister that's three years older than me. Normally not a huge issue, I would venture to guess, but in my case I was living with a very petite mother and grandmother (neither of them, or my sister is over 5'4", and I'm 5'7.1/2"), so every morning my grandmother would start the day by saying "maybe you should skip breakfast, since the way you eat, you're going to be as big as a house". I was 7. Now, mind you, I was a gymnast that had practice 5-6 times a week, and frankly could have probably eaten 3 sides of beef daily and not put on an ounce of fat (looking back at pictures, I was very toned, and not at all in danger of being fat), but you believe what you're told when you're 7 and it affected me. Every time I opened the fridge, or sat down for a meal, I knew I was good for at least a 3 minute lecture on how much smaller my sister was and that nobody likes big fat girls. I can remember times when I was 8 or 9 that my grandmother would refuse to serve me the main meal that the family was eating, telling me I could just have the side vegetable, since I needed to lose weight anyway. I started stealing food from the pantry and hiding it in my closet or under my bed, or in the back of my drawers. Anything. Crackers, boxes of cake mix, dried pasta, anything. To this day, when I'm feeling incredibly stressed, I catch myself hiding food in my desk, or on the highest shelf in the kitchen, and on really bad days, I gourge. I hide in the bathroom or bedroom, and eat what ever I can find, as fast as I can. I've just never gotten past it. The first time my husband ever met my grandmother I told him that I would bet him $50, that the first thing she said to me would either be "you're too fat" or "your hair looks terrible"...we walked in the door, she took one look at me and said "you would think that you'd try to get a better haircut so that people wouldn't notice how fat you're getting". I was a size 8 at the time.

Anyway, back to my point...I know this about myself, and I know that on the rare occasions that I look at the scale I can easily freak myself out and send myself into a nasty self-hating binge and purge mode, so, as a general rule, I just don't look. Plus, I've read and re-read Why the Scale Lies, so I know better than to trust the judgement of my worth to a stupid little piece of metal and plastic. Unless I'm doing BFL, because then, of course, you have to know where you start, but, being as I'm pregnant right now, I just don't look. When I go to the office, and I step on the scale, I stand backwards, and I ask that the nurse just write down the figure and not tell me the bad news. My old doctor even knew this, and had the decency to never ever mention to me how much I was gaining. My new doctor, unfortunately, just doesn't get it. I walked in for my appointment yesterday and she said to me "gee, you're the 4th woman I've seen today that's gained between 6 and 8 pounds this month", obviously having no idea that her innocent comment was going to send me off the deep end. But here I am, treading water between the shores of "hey, I'm pregnant, and the baby needs solid nutrition to grow and be healthy" and "oh my god, my grandmother is right and I'm as big as a house". Yes, so far my rational mind is winning and I'm resisting the urge to starve, or binge and purge, but my whole heart hurts.

I spent the rest of the appointment (I had to be there an hour to have my glucose tolerance test), watching women in different stages of their pregnancy walk in and out, wondering why some are blessed to remain thin everywhere but that cute little ball of baby on their stomach, while others, like me, are destined to spread all over, and cursing myself for being in the wrong group.

Ever have one of those weeks? Mine has been about 7 weeks long. I've been trying to stay positive, poke fun at the negative, and all, but it's wearing me down folks. It's wearing me down.

It's not even so much that terrible things have been happening, it's just that everything is just so hard. No smooth sailing here. Nope, every single simple stupid thing in my life is taking 8 times longer than it should, because there's some little hangup, some little glitch in the system, some little mess that always steps in the path of my progress.

Makes a girl want to punch someone square in the eye. And believe you me there are plenty, and I mean plenty of viable options if I were to be looking for a deserving recipient.

Two days ago, I made a new best friend. Her name is Pat the Countrywide Mortgage Customer Service Lady, and she became my best friend by telling me that she would override the late charge on my account that occured not because I'm a totally unorganized slacker that didn't pay her bill on time (which, by the way, is true, but not the reason for the tardy payment THIS month), but because the stupid people that are buying my stupid house are being stupid and didn't have all their stupid paperwork at the stupid closing, so the stupid lendor pushed back the date. But, on the sunny side of the street, I met my new best friend Pat the Countrywide Mortgage Customer Service Lady. Today, however, I have a new best friend and her name is Otter. She became my best friend for her post today that sent me into a fit of giggles when I read #8, which implanted a visual that sent me into such a state that I'm pretty sure I peed my pants just a little.

Okay, so I got my w-2 today, and I just have to say that there is obviously some serious problem with me. There is just no way in this world that a person should make the amount of money I make (not that I'm one of the lucky overpaid executives or anything) and only have $3.98 in the bank, as of 9 am this morning. No way. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, my friends...something is very rotten indeed. Perhaps this is just the wake up call I need to start a new phase of my life...let's call it the fiscally responsible phase. Of course, I can't start today, because I'm almost out of dogfood, and the only things in my fridge are a box of baking powder, a bottle of ketchup, and a bruised green apple. But after the grocery store and petsmart, it's on. No more impulse purchases for me. Starting tomorrow I am the poster girl for living within your means. Or Wednesday, at the very latest.

WARNING

To whom it may concern:
Do not, I repeat, do NOT piss off CRAZYDOGMAMA. As is turns out, she knows evil ways to reap revenge against husbands that golf too much, as well as anyone else that crosses her the wrong way. Don't ask me what she does, because I promised that I wouldn't divulge the fact that this revenge comes in the form of adding something to a drink to result in exploding diarrhea. Nope, I can't tell you, so don't even think you can trick me into telling you. No matter what you do, I'm not going to tell you that she adds....oops, almost got me. Sorry, I just can't take the chance that I'll meet her in person one day and she'll say "here moosemama, have a nice, refreshing glass of tea...muwahh haa haa"

Too Much TV

Did anyone besides me and divaquest watch that who wants to be a supermodel show? The chick that got kicked off was told her boobs were too big, and that she needed to learn how to pose differently...I tell you, only in a supermodel show would someone with a 34 B chest, be told her boobs were too big and she needed to lose weight.

Idol is back, and I love Simon. I can't help it. Except when he laughs right at people, that's just not nice. Funny, but not nice.

My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance is big fat funny. That guy is a total crack up and he is having so much fun driving people crazy! Wouldn't it be fun if tomorrow you woke up and someone said "I'll pay you to act as obnoxious as possible and completely piss off everyone you come into contact with". I'd do it in a heartbeat! Can you even imagine having complete freedom from that little voice that judges you all day? Matter of fact, I might do it tomorrow for free.

I miss Paris Hilton. She makes me feel smart.

I caught the last part of Oprah on Monday...she had her trainer on and he was talking about his great 12 week program. You know, if I was Bill Phillips, I'd be pissed that so many people rip off my ideas, but strangely enough, he's so nice that he's just like "wow, that's great that so many people are getting in shape". He must be a much better person than me, because I want to grab him by the neck and shout "open your damn eyes man! that should be your credit that fool is taking!" Anyway, he (oprah's trainer) advises that you should sign a contract with yourself, which to me, sounded a lot like the whole crossing the abyss, writing down your goals thing, so I went to the oprah web site to print out the contract and it was pretty lame. It just says : I pledge to: exercise regularly for a period of 12 weeks, eat healthy food in reasonable portions, and eat to satisfy my nutritional needs, not my emotional. Sorry "O" but if it was that easy, I'd be 125 and drop dead gorgeous. Newsflash: I'm not.