Reflections

Have you ever walked by a mirror (without realizing it was a mirror) and seen yourself (without realizing it was you)?

That's a trip.

I just did it the other day, and you know what I thought to myself? I thought, "Gee, there's a chick with big ol' hips like mine!" Oh wait, that's me! (I may have also mused about her needing a haircut as well, but I can't exactly remember.....)

Ah, there's nothing quite like catching an unintentional glimpse of yourself to re-calibrate your self-image. Excuse me while I go grab a stick of celery and call my hair stylist....

Not My Cashmere Sweater!

She really is sweet....

Our Brasileira decided to be brave and try her hand at laundry. Wishfully thinking, I had conveniently posted instructions on the side of the washing machine just for such an occasion. (I never really expected them to get used, however.) On second thought, I don't think she actually did use them....

I discovered detergent in the fabric softener cup (which gets dispensed in the rinse cycle), and saw that she'd selected the heavy-duty hot/warm wash and rinse option for all her colors. Hey, whatever floats her boat! At least, that's how I felt until she informed me she'd thrown some of my laundry in with her own in order to make a complete load. Say what? Oh please, oh please say none of my delicates are in there! (Turns out it was the kids' clothes, not mine-- phew!)

Then she decided to hang all of her laundry up. All of it. Socks included. (I admit I hang most of my shirts and pants, but socks? What a pain in the buttsky!) She had so much of it she began to hang it in some very interesting places. Like, I couldn't even walk to the bathroom without getting hit in the head with a shirt or a coat. So I laughed at her as I politely moved it to the appropriate laundry-drying section I have set aside. (Laughing being my gentle way of letting her know she did it wrong.)

Clearly the little laundry tutorial I gave her early on has not been committed to memory yet. I think I will kindly point out the instructions that I so lovingly wrote out. And if that doesn't help, then I think it's time for a laundry intervention. (And in the meantime I'm going to make sure I never have my laundry lying out-- just in case she gets all "helpful" again.)

I Just Might Be Naked

So, remember when I mentioned that our darling exchange student walked into our bedroom one night? Just so you know, there have been repeat performances. Like, lots.

Sometimes I just ignore her. Sometimes I pull the sheets up a little higher to try and clue her in. Sometimes I smile and wave-- goodbye.

The sweet thing is, she's obviously about as clueless as to what happens in married couples' bedrooms as is my 9-year old daughter. (Okay, I'm not stupid-- she's not that clueless.) Or perhaps she's just very aware that not a lot of action happens between a man and his sickly wife-- it's pretty safe to invade our bedroom at any and all hours these days. (Bummer....) Either way, what I find unsettling is the fact that one of these times she'll walk in and I'll be in some state of undress. Sure, I'm not often naked, but it happens periodically, and she might see. Actually, that might cure her of her little habit right quick. (Ah, but it's just too damaging to my pride.)

So, me thinks that the little lock on our door is going to start getting some more use. See, I'm not as dumb as I look!

Great, Just Great!

There's this little side-effect I've discovered from being sick and house-bound-- it's called Pacman addiction. Is anyone really surprised to hear that I've become addicted to yet another worthless, mind-dumbing internet activity? Well, at least I've moved beyond Webkinz World....

Let's Talk About Phlegm, Baby!

I used to always wonder why very elderly people constantly talk about their own (and others') health problems. It always seemed so...morbid. I remember visiting hubby's great-great aunt in a nursing home and nodding my head sympathetically as she recounted her recent bowel issues. Secretly I was aghast that we were speaking about bowels out loud (I have since lost my reservations in that area). Of course, when we were done discussing the ins and outs (literally) of her own troubles, we moved on to which of her friends had recently died and/or would die soon. Not topics a 20-something could really wrap her brain around. Oh, what a silly goose I was!

But, you see, having Pneumonia has changed me. (Oh, I didn't mention that little sweetheart? Well, let's talk about it, shall we?) I now find myself bringing up subjects of great interest to me, like sputum and diarrhea. I like to tell anyone who'll listen about the amount of phlegm I contend with on a daily basis, and exactly what the antibiotics are doing to my digestive tract. (Not a pretty sight, that.) I never fail to comment about the fact that simply walking up the stairs winds me, or that my ribs ache like a mother.

Oh, I try to control myself, I really do. Whenever I begin a monologue about how utterly painful it is to cough, I stop myself and ask, "is this the first time I've mentioned this particular problem to this particular person? Or is this the fifth time I've brought it up in the last hour?" Usually it's the latter. I'm sure many of you are nodding your heads right now, recounting the last time you spoke with me and which of my symptoms I made you more aware of than you cared to know.

Heck, this whole post was just an excuse to talk more about how stinkin' sick I am. But y'all don't mind, right? You like hearing me describe what my lungs sound like when I attempt to breathe in deeply (I sound like an un-oiled machine). You're dying to know that I've been told not to jog-- or walk-- for several weeks. (No problem there-- I can barely make it up my driveway without having to catch my breath.) You want to hear, just one more time, about how much my ribs hurt (like a mother!). I know you, people. These are the things your inquiring minds want to know! Right? Right??

On second thought.... Maybe I should just drag myself on over to a nursing home and have a good ol' fashioned pow-wow with the residents there. We can talk all day about every ache and pain we have. And not only that, we'll love every single minute of it! Hmmmm, not a bad idea.....

Ode To Hair (Part 2)

Okay, so here's the deal; they didn't cut one teeny-weeny bit off my ridiculously long hair at the hair show today. I walked into the show room this morning and was told, "remember what we said about cutting all your hair off and donating it to Locks of Love? Well, we're not going to do that anymore. We're leaving it long. But we'll put some really fun layers in it." Fine. I was a little freaked out about losing over a foot of hair in one fell swoop anyway. It's better to do these things gradually, right? But, through the course of the morning everyone got busy and guess who was forgotten? That's right; me.

So I didn't even get so much as a trim. What I did get was pee-pee hair. And maybe pee-pee face, too. What? What did I just say? Oh, you heard me. Pee-pee. You see, after my part in the show (which involved the Redken colorist painting conditioner on my hair to simulate a highlighting technique) I was whisked away to a bathroom to get the conditioner removed and my hair restyled. Well, one of the stylists working on my hair decided she needed to wee in front of us, because apparently she couldn't be bothered to find one of the many other hotel bathrooms. So we averted our gazes as she tinkled away. When she was done, she went directly to her post at my hair and started running her little fingers all through it. Ummmmm...? Are you really touching my hair with your pee-pee hands? And did you really do my make-up this morning, too? I thought back to every part of my body she'd touched that day and I just barely avoided the urge to hurl.

So, not only do I have long, dark hair (just in time for my Elvira Halloween costume!), I have a special pee-pee styling product in it as well. Wonderful. Just wonderful! I can't get enough of salon divas running their unwashed hands through my hair. Oh, and making comments like, "you have enough hair for 12 villages" and "take a look at Rapunzel!" and sweet little sentiments like that. It's awesome.

But my favorite part of the whole ordeal was being made to wear clothes that only a twenty-year old should attempt to cram themselves into. I mean, I've had two babies and there are certain aspects of my body that should remain a mystery to everyone but my husband and my doctor, ya know? But today I found myself wearing a dress so short my panties showed when I sat down. Yes, this 31-year old mama was showing her goods off to a room full of hair stylists-- I'm sure they all appreciated the view. I know I enjoy getting an eye-full of someone's granny panties. I just can't get enough, in fact!

And do you think I'll sign-up for this again next year? Heck yes I will! Did I say anything that might imply the experience isn't worth it or something? What blog post were you reading anyway?

Ode To Hair (Part 1)

I really don't know why I do it-- the annual hair show, that is. It's a big pain in the patooshky simply for a free cut and color. It's just really hard to resist free, know what I mean? But what I'd really like to do right now is take a moment to say goodbye to my boob-length hair (which is getting shorn off tomorrow). Do you know how long it takes to grow hair down to your ninnies? Years. Years! Do you know how long it takes to remove said hair? Minutes. Minutes! So here is an ode to my hair, a final adieu to a dear friend.

Oh, my hair. My hair. Long, long hair.

Long, long, longy hair.

I admit you were lookin' a little Lindsay Lohan-ish.

I mean, who grows their hair down to their bosom anymore?

Only celebrities of questionable taste, that's who.

Well, no more!

Chop it off. Chop, chop, choppy floppy!

Maybe then hubby will stop rolling on you at night.

That stinkin' hurts, hubby!

Well, just try rolling on chin-length hair. Just try it, hubby!

You can't! Ha!

But, my hair. My long, long hair.

Why did they go and dye you the color of mud?

And why did they spend hours getting you to just the right muddy hue, only to decide to chop you off to my ears? Why, why, why?

It sucks having to lean back in those torturous rinsing sinks, especially when you have a fractured rib (I swear it is!!) from all the coughing you've done in the last 2 weeks.

Mean, mean fickle hair designers.

What a bunch of meanie-weanies!

So goodbye, my hair.

Thanks for all the good times we've had.

Like when I put you up in a messy bun. Every. Single. Day.

Because I don't actually know how to do hair.

I'm 31-years old, for Pete's sake!

Anything I ever knew about style is long gone with my 20s.

So it's just as well you go, dear hair.

But we have this one last night together.

One last night for you to end up in a sticky spit-wad come morning.

Yes, dear hair, it's time for you to go.

I'm SO going to regret posting this lame poem tomorrow.... Oh well, you all know what a nerd I am already. No sense pretending otherwise.

Quotes Again, So Soon?

By the way, I'm not dying anymore. I just feel like crap-- which is an upgrade from dying, I'd say. But that's beside the point.... Here are the quotes:

1. LM: (awaiting my next instructions as we made dessert together) "What now, genius?"

2. Ruby Jane: (after I'd gotten done explaining about Asperger's Syndrome) "Ass Burgers? Mmmmm...sounds delicious! Can I have the recipe?"

(Super-- one kid has "ass burgers" and the other one's a regular smart-ass. I'm laughing all the way to the loony bin.)

3. (At the end of the animated movie we watched, the main character delivered the moral of the story to the homely villain): "You don't need a magic mirror to be beautiful."

LM contemplated this, then asked: "She just needs a makeover?"

4. Me: Do you have any homework, LM?"

LM: "No."

Classmate: "Yes he does! He has math!"

LM: "Don't believe her-- she lies a lot."

5. Ruby Jane: "You know that guy who tattooed his whole body black?"

Me: "Yeah?"

Ruby: "Did that include his tenders?"

Me: "Uhhhh...."

(I'm still wondering when, according to my daughter, "tenders" ceased to have the word "chicken" in front of it.)

6. LM: (as I gathered him up in a spontaneous bear hug) "Ugh, Mom! Let me go! I need some space-- you're takin' up my area."

(And so it begins....)

On The Brightside

Days of constant coughing + eating like a baby bird = the best looking abs I've had in a while! Who knew coughing could be such great exercise....

Oh, What A Lovely Day!

It struck me funny today, although maybe this humor is a little more on the dark side than usual, that the worldwide web is the perfect cover-up for hiding one's true self. I was thinking this because I've been doing a lot of emailing today (a gal has a lot of time for such things when she's been lying on her deathbed all morning, noon and night) and no one would suspect from my communications that I'm Swine Fluin' it over here. (Well, okay, I don't know if it's Swine Flu, all I know is that I want to die.)

And yet, if I end enough sentences with "!" and ":)" and "ha!" I can come across as being perfectly happy and healthy, while in reality I can hardly keep my eyes open right now-- ha! :) (See, I just did it again! Did I fool ya? Or are you picturing me coughing my lungs out at this second? 'Cause I surely am.)

You're not sure if you should laugh, eh? Yeah, I know it's a bit sick (pun intended) but you'll have to excuse me as I'm nearly delirious with fever at the moment-- ha! :) But seriously, would someone please come and put me out of my misery over here? Ha! :) Any method will suffice-- hee hee hee! :) Please? Hahahaaahaaa!

Wow-- time for bed, I'd say....

Oh, Mom, Nobody Saw!

It was when my two sisters simultaneously reached up to grab the mannequin's perky boobs and my mom shook her head in bewildered embarrassment that I realized, "shoot, it's too late for me to give them a feel now because Mom is clearly not approving the gesture-- missed my chance!" Believe me, if you'd seen this mannequin's bosom you'd have hardly been able to contain yourself, either. It was quite intriguing....

Long Time No Quotes

It's been a while since I've posted quotes and believe me, it's not for a lack of good material. I just haven't been writing them down with the same regularity as I used to-- but I'm hoping to get back on top of things again. In any case, here are the latest:

1. LM: "Are you so excited for Christmas? I can't wait for the presents!"

Ruby Jane: (superiorly) "LM, Christmas isn't about the presents."

LM: "What is it about?" (Then with some disappointment) "Oh, yeah...Jesus."

2. Me: "What would you do if Mama was ever late picking you up from school?"

LM: "Go home with someone else."

Me: "What?!? No!!"

LM: "Oh...stay with my teacher."

(That's one I'm going to need to address again, I can tell.)

3. Anonymous Dad: (exasperated while watching his son...get creative...on the playground) "Why would you stick a rock up your butt?"

4. Ruby Jane: "Hey Popi, can I inherit your phone?"

Popi: "But I'd have to die first!"

Ruby: "Okay!"

5. (After being treated to pizza by our exchange student we thanked her for a good time had by all.)

Brasileira: "I'm going to bring peace to the world."

Me: "One pizza at a time?"

Brasileira: "...and with my dad's credit card."

(I could bring a lot of peace to a lot of people with my dad's credit card, too. Okay...mainly just to myself, but that's worth something, right? Let's try it, Dad!)

6. LM: "Mom, will you help me clean my room? 'Cause this is too much mess for one little boy to clean up, right?"

(Definitely.)

Discretion? Ha!

Uh.... Remember in my last post how I admitted to having a lack of discretion? Well, I'm just warning you that I'm going to exhibit that little trait right about...now.

Below is a picture of one of our garden carrots. We like to call him Carrot Boy. (I think you'll agree-- if you look close enough-- that it's clear this carrot is not of the female persuasion.) Yes, his legs are a little long and his arms are a little short (and he has no head), but we like to think of him as a work of abstract art rather than a literal interpretation.

I don't believe we'll be able to bring ourselves to eat Carrot Boy-- it would just feel a tad too cannibalistic, know what I mean?

Maybe we'll find him a nice carrot wife with whom he can have lots of sweet baby carrots. (He's certainly equipped for this task, after all.) Yes, a kind girlie carrot who'll look past his physical deformities in order to find true carrot love.

Or.... We may just feed him to the dog after he ceases to amuse us. (Although I don't see that happening any time soon. Our sense of humor hasn't matured much past middle school....)