In Which My Crazy Manifests Itself Yet Again

I work in an office in the midtown area of the city.

The midtown area is not known for many lovely things, unless robbery, shootings, bar brawls and murder top your Lovely List. But we do have one thing that stands out here in the heart of the city.

Beautiful, gorgeous, ornamental pear trees line the main streets.

In the Spring they are a sight to behold. You can look down the street for miles and see orderly rows of snowy whiteness that give a little wonder to even the most run-down areas. The flowering lasts only two to three weeks before the trees leaf out, but it's a glorious two to three weeks indeed.

It just makes you want to say "Ahhhhhhhhhhh..."

Which brings me to today's story.

Early this week we had a "volunteer" (who needed to get some community service time) come in to work with the maintenance people. Community service "volunteers" are not usually the most hardworking, dedicated people on the team, mostly because instead of "volunteering," they have BEEN "volunteered."

This particular person was assigned to help clean up the outside areas of the building. He was to do yardwork; planting, raking, mowing, etc.

Then someone made the mistake of giving him a gas-powered leaf blower.

Now, this blower is not the quietest machine on the earth, if you catch my drift. Even at idle speed you can hear it over the river and through the woods. But in the hands of our "volunteer," it became a lethal weapon.

The lovely ornamental pear trees have started to leaf out, and because of this they are dropping their tiny white petals to the ground in droves. The petals drop so fast that at one point I even thought it might be snowing again.

Thankfully, I was mistaken.

Our "volunteer" friend decided that it would be best to take the blower and clear off the sidewalk rather than using it for dead leaves. He power-pushed all of the lovely fallen blooms he could into the street. However, since it was a windy day and the wind was blowing in the direction of the building, every time he blew the petals away the wind blew them right back on the sidewalk again, so he'd have to re-blow the area he'd just done. This little pursuit kept him quite busy going up and down, up and down, up and down the street in front of the building.

OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

It wouldn't have been so bad except for the fact that my office is located right on the front of the building with windows facing the street. And the noise wouldn't have been so bad, except that EVERY. THREE. SECONDS. he had to do this:

RRRINGdingdingding...
RRRINGdingdingding...
RRRINGdingdingding...
RRRINGdingdingding...

It sounded like a stinkin' CHAINSAW. And it was DRIVING. ME. NUTS.

Because we all know how very patient and pleasant I can be when confronted with irritating noises.

Ahem.

When it got to the point where I was about to go out there andWRRRINGdingdingding his ever loving neck (in a totally CHRISTIAN WAY of course), I asked the maintenance supervisor to move him to the back of the building instead.

Sometimes it is good to be the boss.

Even if the people you supervise look at you, then at each other, and burst out laughing because of your idiosyncrasies and obvious hormonal tantrums in the face of normal everyday life.

Have I ever told you that I love my job?

In Which I Am Bested By Technology

I know. It's not that hard to do. My eldest son is reading this right now and he's thinking, "So what else is new?" Thanks, Son.

In short, I have been felled by a cell phone.

The little gem you see here is the phone I use on a regular basis for personal calls. I have another phone that I carry with me for work, but it's one of those ugly utilitarian phones that has Nextel service.

Not that there's anything wrong with Nextel service, but boy howdy, that is one UGLY phone. I don't even think its mother would love it.

So.

My family decided to attend the Saturday evening service we have at our church a couple of weeks ago. Now, the pastor there is a very forgiving type of individual, but one of the things that gripes his craw to no end is when he's speaking and someone's cell phone goes off. There have been several times over the years when this has happened, and he has been known to stop the ol' sermon in its tracks and politely ask the offending party to please silence the phone before he continues.

Sometimes you can almost see the steam exit his ears.

And I'm totally kidding when I say that. Almost.

I mean the man is trying to PROCLAIM THE WORD OF THE LORD here, and some yayhoo is getting a call from Aunt Tillie about what time they're going to be there for dinner. Give the man a break. I'd be a bit teed off as well.

So knowing how The Proclaimer feels about that sort of thing, I decided to put my phone in the silent mode for the duration of the service. Which is what I wish I'd done a few years back.

You see, some good friends of mine were getting married, and they appointed me the "runner" when it came to the wedding day. I had my phone with me (a different one), and wrote down cell numbers for almost everyone in the wedding party so that I could save steps. Since I wasn't carrying a purse that day, just before the wedding march started I set my phone down in the vestibule next to the gift table and sat down next to Hubster.

It was a beautiful wedding, and I cried my way through it. Toward the end, the groom went to the piano and started to sing to his lovely bride. Imagine the romance, and the loving way in which he sang to his soul mate....

Imagine a cell phone ringing at the back of the church in the middle of the song.

Yup, it was mine.

So you can understand why I silenced the little bugger before going to church.

But then I couldn't UN-silence it. The silly thing wouldn't ring. It would just show that I had missed calls. So I went to the settings tab and tried to un-silence it, but there was no tab for LET 'ER RIP, so I was stumped.

It doesn't take much.

Thankfully, the people at the phone help desk are smarter than I am. They figured out I had accidentally forwarded my phone to another number. Their first clue was when they tried to call my number and a man answered.

They're smart like that so I don't have to be. They fixed the problem right away, and now my cell phone can interrupt even the most sacred occasion again.

And that's another reason I'm blessed.

I'm Amazed At What I Can Accomplish When I'm Asleep

I have always been a sleepwalker.

From the time I could toddle until now (the time I waddle), I have entertained friends and family with this ability. Mom told me she could always tell when I was asleep because I had glazed eyes. All she had to do was tell me to go to the bathroom and get back in bed, and I'd be snoring away in no time.

Then there was the time when I was in high school. I went to bed early, wearing only a baby-doll pajama top and underwear. Apparently, some time after I went to sleep we had a visit from the neighbor who lived behind us. Imagine his surprise when I came out of my bedroom to visit with him, sound asleep the entire time. I'm told I carried on quite a conversation, even though I looked like I was stoned.

And apparently the gene does not fall far from the chromosomal tree. Son, the father of Cutie, walked in circles in his room until he was told to go to the bathroom and get back in bed. The Girl talks in her sleep, and The Boy makes everyone's skin crawl with his amazing teeth-grinding abilities.

We are such a talented lot.

But wait! There's MORE!! The entertainment doesn't stop there, folks.

Along with my somnambulistic leanings comes an amusing ability to dream. And let me tell you this: I've had some doozies.

There was the time I watched The Lucy Show. Lucy and Viv were having a terrible time with mice in the house.

And you KNOW how I feel about mice.

During one scene, Lucy was in the bedroom trying to go to sleep. As she lay there, a mouse ran up one side of the bed, across it, and down the other side. Apparently that affected me greatly, because that same night I could have sworn there was a mouse running across MY bed the same way. I woke up screaming with my legs up in the air as high as I could reach them.

It wasn't pretty.

Hubster has suffered the slings and arrows of my dream life as well.

One night I remember dreaming about him cheating on me with another woman. The poor guy was sound asleep, and the next thing he knows I'm beating on him and screaming like a lunatic about something that never happened. And I do believe I stayed mad at him for a couple of days afterward. That taught him a thing or two.

Like what a nutzoid case he has for a wife.

Oh, there have been others as well. One of the more memorable ones has to do with me playing volleyball on the beach with a bunch of nuns in full habit, while Andy Griffith serenades us on the guitar. It was clear the music had a great effect on the way we played, causing us to win hands down.

Whoever "us" was. I'm a little blurry on that fact.

Others had to do with finding a bathroom at the local Christian College, a campground, in a closet, the swimming pool, or anywhere else on earth. I seem to be taken with the whole bathroom scene. Of course, there's never a working toilet in any of these dreams. But you'd be amazed what can be accomplished with just a sink or a hole in the ground.

Clearly I have issues that cannot be put to rest with mere blogging alone.

We won't go into the "naked" dreams, because they're just too ugly to even think about.

You're welcome.

So now that I've bared my sleep life to the world, it's your turn. Leave me a comment or two about your nocturnal activities. C'mon, it can't be THAT bad.

Then again....

Stranger Things Have Happened

Sit down, Interweblings, because I'm about to give you the shock of your lives.

No, it isn't the fact that I, an old dog (so to speak) can learn new tricks and have freshened up the blog BY MYSELF WITHOUT THE AID OF OTHERS thankyouverymuch. Although for me, that's an accomplishment that's right up there with learning to ride a bike.

And let me just say this: While it served me well during my elementary and junior high school years, of late that particular talent has been used just about as much as the Algebra that I still cannot figure out, almost flunked, and have had no earthly use for up to now, so why on EARTH did I have to take the stupid class to begin with? I mean really, did they expect ME to be a "nuculer" physicist (and thank you, President Bush, for that fine pronunciation) or something?

I think not.

But I ramble.

No, my dear friends. This is even more monumental than the blog thing or the bike thing.

I WALKED TWO MILES TODAY. Without anyone coercing me, threatening me, or poking me with a sharp stick. All by myself.

I think I shocked Hubster as well.

I've been thinking about it for a long time, and today provided the opportunity. After work I came home, sat and talked with Hubster for a bit, then said, "I'm going for a walk." I went upstairs, changed clothes, got my water bottle and MP3 player and set off, trying valiantly to ignore the fact that Hubster's jaw was still hitting the floor as I left.

I walked out the door and down the street to the cemetery, which covers several acres of land. The roads through the cemetery are great to walk on since the traffic is usually dead, as are the inhabitants.

I can't believe I said that.

Anyway, after a good long walk I began not to feel my thighs or feet anymore, which is an accomplishment in and of itself. Also, in case you're wondering, this is a sure sign you've walked enough for the day. Unfortunately, I was still two blocks from home at the time.

I dragged my behind in the door and collapsed in a chair. I was hot, I was starving, and I needed a shower. You'd think I'd just run a 25-mile marathon or something. So, while Hubster made the spaghetti sauce, I showered and came downstairs in dry clothing.

And promptly ate my weight in pasta.

I believe they call that carb-loading, which is what we athletes do. Only I think you're supposed to do it BEFORE you tax your body to the maximum instead of after.

So I ate a pound of M&Ms for dessert to compensate.

Oh, I'm kidding. It was only half a cup or so. Heavy on the "or so."

I see a great future in this new fitness regimen I'm on. I'll keep you updated as to the progress.

But the M&Ms are all mine.

R.I.P. Joe, We Knew You All Too Well

Joe, you little furry varmint, I hate to tell you this, but we're actually overjoyed that you can now romp and play to your heart's desire in your Heavenly Home. Because, dear Joe, you STINK as a houseguest. And considering the fact that you actually stayed here, unwanted, for THREE WHOLE MONTHS made it that much worse.

I mean, really...what decent houseguest would poop all over every shelf, in every drawer, under every piece of furniture, and still expect to be welcomed? Let's face it pal, your manners were animalistic at best. You avoided our best efforts to capture you. You laughed at our fancy traps for which we paid the princely sum of $4 apiece. You feasted on the peanut butter left on the wooden traps, leaving them unsprung. You skirted around the glue traps with ease, laughing your little mousey laugh at us for even trying to capture a super-mouse like you.

You chewed on the furniture, you ate whatever you pleased, and you ran around the house like it was your own. You took up "residence" in the divan...and I do mean IN the divan, where you squeaked loudly during prime-time viewing hours. Then, after I moved to the office to get away from you, you followed me there. You gnawed and played and climbed and crawled and fell through the drawers of the desk that holds the kids' computer while I was trying to play Literati with someone online not three feet from where you were.

THAT WAS THE LAST STRAW!!

Because NO ONE messes with my Literati and lives to tell the tale. Not even you.

After taking so much of the noise you were making, I couldn't concentrate on my game. That's when I picked up the phone and called in Hubster to handle the situation. Of course, Hubster was upstairs in bed when I called his cell phone to tell him to come downstairs, but knowing how I feel about mice, and knowing my feet were up on the desk and I wasn't about to move upstairs to bed until I had an escort, he obliged.

He heard your shenanigans too, Mr. Joe. And he stealthily baited a trap for you with just the right vintage of peanut butter...just the right amount...and set it where he hoped you would run after trying to ruin what you could.

And that, my fine furry rodent, was the end of you.

I wish I could say we'll miss you, but frankly, after cleaning up mouse poop for the past three months of your residence, I can only shout hallelujahs and praise the Lord!

Enjoy the trip!

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Doctor

In the never-ending parade of physicians I've seen this year, I managed to neglect one. The Neurologist. The man who finally conquered the Migraine Monster. My HERO. However, Dr. Hero has decided he no longer accepts my insurance. And he won't refill the Miracle Med for Migraine Relief without seeing me.

Bummer.

Because of this I had to delve back into the website my insurance company offers to find a new doc. I went, I picked one close to home (relatively speaking), I made the appointment for today.

Today it decided to rain. All. Day. Long.

Because of the rain, traffic was horrible. I drove what seemed like 20 miles in a virtual deluge. Monsoons had nuthin' on this rain. Streets were flooding, cars were hydroplaning, and a speedboat actually had the nerve to cut in front of me on the way there!

Not really. But did I mention it was wet?

In the middle of All The Rain I found I was running late. Just what you want to do when you're meeting someone for the first time. I took advantage of a stoplight and called the office to let them know my dilemna.

"Dawktah's office."

"Hi, my name is Singer, and I have a 5 p.m. appointment. I'm running late because of the rain and traffic, but I'll get there as soon as I can. I'm just crossing the bridge now."

Heavy sigh. "Awl right." Silence.

"OK, thanks. See you soon."

CLICK.

Personality plus, wouldn't you agree?

I arrive at the medical building with the address my up-to-date insurance company has given me, and find there is no doctor by that name. So out comes the cell phone again.

"Dawktah's office."

"Hi, yes...This is Singer again. I'm here, but I can't seem to find your office. I'm in the medical building at 5844, but the doctor isn't listed."

"Could be because we're at 5800. We've never had an office at 5844."

I get directions and get to the office in three minutes flat. The rain is coming down in buckets, and they're all dumping on me as I step out of the car and try to ford the river which used to be known as the parking lot.

I enter the office and speak to Ms. Personality. She hands me a sheaf of papers an inch thick to fill out, gives me a pen, and offers me the couch in the waiting room. And then I begin to write. And write. And write some more.

And all the while I'm writing, I'm thinking two things: 1. Why can't these offices come up with some sort of database on each patient so that the patient only has to write name, address, phone, birthdate, age, etc. ONE TIME instead of FIFTY TIMES??? The same with schools. It's a real pain in the patoot to fill out the same information over and over again. And then there's #2. Why on earth is this guy asking such prying questions from someone who just wants to get a refill?

Questions such as: Mother's name? Age? Describe your relationship with your mother. Would you consider it to be good? Bad?

Spouse's name, age? Are you currently having marital problems?

WHAT??? WHY DOES HE NEED TO KNOW ALL OF THIS STUFF??? ALL I WANT IS A PRESCRIPTION REFILLED, NOT THE SINGER INQUISITION!!!

And then the doctor called me back to his office. Not the nurse, not an assistant, but the doctor himself. As I went into his office I noticed there was no examination table, no white coat, no medicinal smell. There was simply a desk and chairs.

There was simply some kind of mistake here.

As he closed the door, I asked if he was indeed a neurologist. Because Interweblings, something was just not right in the state of Denmark, and being the super-sleuth I am, I decided to get to the crux of the biscuit right away.

"Why no," he answered.

Well then. Now we were getting somewhere.

"So, what IS your specialty then?" Nothing like getting right to the point.

"I'm a psychiatrist." he said. "A shrink."

Now here is about where my friend HeyJules says God lifted the veil and revealed to me what His Divine Purpose was for me being there. She's thought I needed one of these guys for years.

Maybe so, Jules. Maybe so.

BUT NOT TODAY!!

After I explained I merely wanted to get some prescriptions refilled, he was actually kind enough to write them out for me. He wanted me to know my trip was not totally in vain. I apologized for my insurance company and for his wasted time, and took off. No charge!

But the insurance company? The one I lauded in my last post?

They're gonna get a little lesson about keeping databases up-to-date and clean. Because who knows?

I might end up at the vet next time.

Insurance, She Is A Berry Good Ting

Have I mentioned lately how blessed I am?

Xolair Pwd/Inj Sdv 1'S Vial 150mg, BrandGenentech, Inc.

Days' supply: 90
Days' supply: N/A
Qty: 6 ; Pack(s)
Your estimated cost: $0.00
Plan pays: $3,395.33
Your annual cost:$0.00

Yeah. Then WHY do I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop???

You Can All Relax Now. The Crisis Is Well In Hand. Or Not.

I don't know if I shared this with y'all or not before, but I am a woman of a certain age. And being a woman of a certain age, I am entitled to all the privileges and depleted hormones thereof.

Wherein lies my problem of late.

You see, one of my myriad of physicians thought it would be an excellent idea to prescribe Premarin for me, being as I was alternately shrieking like a banshee at him, removing copious amounts of clothing, or bawling my eyes out. Pick one...I could do all of them in less than thirty seconds flat. Or sometimes all at the same time. Or any combination of the above.

And it all seemed perfectly normal to me.

Except that I was a little on the nutzoid side of the fence, if you get my drift. And that tends to make doctors uncomfortable. So they give you drugs. Sometimes many, many drugs.

So I took the Premarin like a good little girl, and all the crazies went away. Only then I found out that the Premarin? It has been linked to cancer.

Hmmm.....

Premarin = GOOD

Cancer = BAD

So I chose to discontinue the Premarin.

Let me just say this about that:

AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!
Today I went to the local Wild Oats, and a very nice Holistic Health person guided me to natural supplements that should calm the beast within somewhat. I really was very impressed with her. She must deal with a lot of women like me.

Know what impressed me the most?

She could understand me through my muzzle.

I think I'll send her a nice Chianti.

Oh yessssssssss........

Because I'm Just Hormonal That Way

Today is one of those days.

WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT????

Yup, one of those can't-stand-myself-or-anyone-else kind of days. The kind where the shrew in me comes out at the least little bidding, in my mind if not out loud.

AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHH!!!!

I should have seen it coming. After all, I not only cooked dinner last night with no prodding from my starving family, but I actually made dinner for tonight at the same time and put it in the crockpot. I did five loads of laundry. I scrubbed out the toilet and the shower.

CLEARLY THERE IS SOMETHING AMISS HERE, PEOPLE!!!

These are the days when I feel like I need to be locked in a padded room somewhere, far away from the general population. That way I can't harm anyone with my knife-sharp verbal jabs, my desire to punch anyone that crosses my path, or my all-around confrontational side. Just give me a nice, padded room somewhere that's temperature-controlled with a quality recliner, good food, books, a bathroom, a great view, and...

NO ONE ELSE AROUND FOR MILES.

Really. I think it's for the greater good of the general population as we know it.

You'll thank me tomorrow.

FREE! Worship Music!! But HURRY!!!

Matt Maher is a gifted and talented writer and performer who wants to give all the glory to God. Witness this:

Go here to listen to it.

Yep, he wrote it. Chris Tomlin (you may remember him) sang it. And now he has his own CD out! It's called Empty and Beautiful, and I can assure you if it isn't playing at home or in my car, I'll have the receptionist playing it in the lobby at work for all our guests to hear.

I'm sure it's that good.

My good friend Brian is making 100 of these available to bloggers with traffic of over 50 unique persons per month. If you are one of those people, please go here to sign up for a FREE copy of this new release.

You'll thank me later. And for now, you're welcome.

Update: The freebies are gone, but you can still get this CD at an incredible price from MusiChristian.com. The online CD is only $8.97. Go. Listen. Rejoice!

Because I Is Smart I Is In Luv

Ladies and Gentlemen, Children of all ages! Let me introduce you to my newest obsession!

This is called the Smart Car. In particular, this is the Smart ForTwo Passion Coupe. And I heart it. I heart it greatly. I heart it so much I want to marry it, but probably because I know it will die before me and leave me all its vast wealth so that I can purchase yet another Smart ForTwo Passion Coupe.

I am fickle that way.

Hubster and I have been discussing this fetish of mine for a while now. And the temperature for this particular piece of machinery on my part is running high. Yes, I've got a fever that can't be cured by mere cowbell, folks. And it has 40 MPG written all over it.

That alone was enough to set my little heart a-flutter.

And from the testimonials I've read from unbiased owners, that's the LOW end of the spectrum.

With me paying upwards of $40 a week for gas nowadays due to the half-hour commute I have each way to work, this seems like a great way to save some moola. The tank is a little over 8 gallons. With only two seats it will be great for me to tool around town, since nine times out of ten I'm the only one in the car anyway. And with gas hitting $4.00/gallon and up, this could be just the boost I need to make ends meet. And besides...

Oh, WHO AM I KIDDING???

It's CUTE.

And I LIKE IT. A LOT.

So last Friday, unbeknownst to Hubster, I drove out to the only dealership in our area, which happens to be 20 miles away, and took a test drive. When he found out what I'd done he chastised me greatly for wasting so much petrol, but honestly, I couldn't help myself. And OH! It was dripping with CUTE and FUN and now not only do I heart it, but I have committed the sin of coveting it in my heart of hearts....not because other people have it and I don't, but just because I don't.

I think that's reason enough. After all, one does not need much reason to sin, now does one?

So I'll be saving my pennies for this one, Gentle Readers. And after I have enough to equal $99.00 worth, I may just order me one. Because in case I didn't mention it, there is a ONE YEAR WAIT after you order this little gem for it to be delivered. Maybe by then they will come up with cruise control as an option.

Oh, and a GPS system. Not that I'd ever need one, of course.

Not That I Feel Threatened Or Anything, But Does Anyone Have Any Bullet-Proof Underwear I Can Borrow?

My Most Excellent Hairdresser does not usually read blogs, so it was with some surprise I learned today that I am somewhat of a celebrity in the salon.

You see, I forwarded her this particular blog post, since it contained information I knew she'd enjoy, yea even gloat over. And little did I know that she forwarded it on to LO! MANY OF HER OTHER CLIENTS!

So now? I'm known far and wide, at least in my own little corner of Hairdom, as "The Bang Lady."

It's an awesome responsibility really, but one I intend to uphold with all my might.

But just to make sure I don't get out of line again, My Most Excellent Hairdresser told me to make note of THIS little article:

Hairdresser Shoots Angry Client In The Butt

Washington - A hairdresser shot an unhappy client after she complained about her haircut, police said.

Lauren Newton, 28, was getting her hair cut on Thursday at the home of Monique Reed when the two began to argue about the style, police said.

"She (Reed) went to the bedroom, got a gun, fired a shot in the ceiling," Police Chief James Blyth said.

Newton, who was trying to flee with her sister, was then shot in the lower back, he said.

Reed, 38, was charged with aggravated assault and reckless endangerment.

She remained in jail in this southwestern Pennsylvania town in lieu of $50 000 bond.

Newton's injuries were not considered life threatening.

She was taken to a hospital in nearby Pittsburgh for treatment.

The district magistrate's office said Reed had not listed an attorney as of late on Thursday.

Um, do you think full body armour is in season now at the Cut-N-Curl?

Yeah, I thought not.

In that case, I'll be askin' y'all to pray a hedge of thorns round about me sometime in May when I have my next appointment. And I KNOW you'll do it.

Because nobody could possibly have bullet-proof underwear that's big enough for me, and besides, it would be just too gross to loan it out. Get serious, now.

Is It Real, Or Is It....

Welcome to the virtual me.

Wanna meet the virtual you? Thanks to Bev for the tip, you can do it at Landsend.com. And here, too. That's where I met another virtual me. She looks like this:
And while I know both of these me-type persons are about enough to knock your socks off, I must point out discrepancies in each. In the clothed model, you will note the thighs and behind seem to be in somewhat normal proportions.

Don't be fooled.

Underneath those jeans that woman has virtual flab that has been condensed to the point of seam rippage. Those jeans are so tight she can't even breathe, much less sit down or walk. Her behind is another good half an axe handle wider than it appears, and she's either got some undergarments of steel on right now or it's just a matter of time before the dam bursts.

I'd head for cover if I were you, and I'd do it fast.

Now Model Number Two obviously has a falsely elevated self-esteem. She clearly believes herself to be God's gift to mankind, even though it is clear God never meant for her to wear those type of garments during the lifetime she has been given. Because if He had, in His infinite wisdom He would have at least given her some that would have covered the parts she should have had enough sense to cover.

But apparently He didn't gift her with any sense, either.

Her hair is too long, and her behind is too flat. It should stick out so much it could be used as a shelf to carry groceries if need be. I mean after all, what good is having a big butt if you can't put it to some use?

And now we come to Virtualista Number Three.

This is what Number Two would look like if she lost 80 lbs.

Her hair is still too long. And excuse me, but if you think "the girls" are going to be that perky after being stretched out to a triple-Z cup without some major surgical intervention, you've got another think coming. Where are the stretch marks? Where are the wrinkles?

Methinks Virtualista needs to get a clue.

In the meantime, you'll have to excuse us. Number One has to get out of those jeans, and Number Two was thinking about raiding the digital fridge.

Me? I'm going to bed.

Battle of the Brands

There is a never-ending battle raging in my home, and it has nothing to do with my hormones.

It has to do with groceries.

Do you do the grocery shopping for your family? I do, and I'm sure as there is rain and sun and God above that if I didn't my family would subsist on nothing but hamburgers, Subway sandwiches, and Cheerios scraped off of the kitchen floor. And if and when they DID venture into a grocery store, they would buy nothing but NAME-BRAND MERCHANDISE, because as we all know, the less expensive generic-type stuff that you can actually buy and SAVE MONEY WHILE DOING SO tastes "different" and "gross" and cannot be tolerated under any circumstances.

Can you tell I'm on a bit of a tirade here?

Yes, I was brought up on all the name-brand stuff, just the same as many of you were. Mom bought name-brand bread, cereal, canned goods, cleaning products...you name it, it was name-brand. I was brought up to think that the "store brand" was less than the best, and we couldn't have ANYTHING that was less than the best! I even remember spending the night with a friend when I was in junior high school and being embarrassed for her because her mother used off-brand plastic wrap.

I have since been educated and am no longer as judgmental or ignorant, thankyouverymuch.

Since I both bring home the bacon AND fry it up in the pan, I decided it would be worth my while to try out some of those "store brands" to see if I could save a little money. And guess what? I DID!

Try to pick yourselves up off of the floor. It's an unattractive position. Really.

Unfortunately, my family has what you might call champagne taste on our beer budget. The Hubster can not only taste an off brand a mile away, but refuses to touch it with a ten-foot pole. He has trained the children well, has he. They have become not-so-little snobs when it comes to drinking any brand other than Kool-Aid drink mix, eating any other snack cracker than Cheez-Its, and using any other peanut butter than Skippy. If I bring home the cereal in the bag and try to pass it off as the cereal in the box by filling the box with the stuff from the bag, they can tell with the first bite.

My problem is that I can and do make small sacrifices in order to save money. I can eat frosted flakes that are thicker in texture than the name-brand. I can drink Wyler's instead of Kool-Aid. I can even eat off-brand potato chips and drink off-brand pop, and it doesn't bother me a bit. Why? Because I know that I'm saving money doing so, and it's not that much different from the "real stuff" I'm used to.

So my question is this: WHY CAN'T THEY???

Tonight the battle was over biscuits that "didn't look right" after they came out of the oven. Tomorrow it may be pancake syrup, or sugar, or who knows what else. But I'm not giving up.

I'm waiting for the day when one of the kids comes to me and says, "Hey Mom, did you know you can save a whole lot of money if you buy the 'store brand' stuff....?"

Then, no matter how old I am, you'll see me dancing the happy dance....all the way to the grocery store.

And Nary A Place To Lay My Weary Head

Oh, Interweblings!

I have suffered a Great Loss!

You know how it is when you take your daughter out of town to a volleyball tournament? And when you go to said tournament you stay in a mhotel that believes in mining granite from the local quarry to use for the things they supposedly call mattresses on the beds?

Yeah, me too.

So to alleviate the pain somewhat, I usually bring my own pillow from home. I once heard tell that if you bring your own pillow you can sleep anywhere.

I'm here to tell you that whoever said that lied through whatever teeth they may or may not have had. Not that I would ever cast aspersions or anything.

So, I took my Beautyrest Queen, encased in my favorite pillowcase with me to our very last tournament this past weekend. And I did NOT sleep the sleep of angels, my friends. Not at all. As a matter of fact, even after taking a full sleeping pill and going to the bathroom 3 or 30 times, I still could not fall asleep. I finally drifted off into fitful slumber in the wee hours of the morning, which, consequently, was when we had to get up and leave for the tournament.

I was not a happy camper.

Add to that the fact that the person who cleaned the room we stayed in at the mhotel apparently thought we'd like to have our coffee made in advance...by the previous occupant. So he or she left the previous occupant's coffee in the pot.

Now, I'm all for recycling and saving the earth and hugging trees and all that, but drinking someone else's leftover coffee is where I draw the line. Add to that the fact that we were going to have to leave before the "free" continental breakfast, and we got TROUBLE! RIGHT HERE IN RIVER CITY!

Because if Mama ain't happy, ain't NOBODY happy.

We all got up late and hurriedly packed up all of our stuff. We loaded it in the car, then left to get some breakfast at the golden arches and went on to the tournament. I was driving through bleary eyes as The Girl and Pseudo-Daughter slept the twenty minutes it took to get to the gym.

The dirty dogs.

Not that I would ever begrudge anyone a little extra shut-eye.

Ahem.

They played long and hard. Along about 3 p.m. I was about to fall over, so I went out to the car to rest. The next thing I knew, the girls were opening the doors telling me it was time to go home. It was 5:30 p.m. and I'd slept through the end of the tournament.

I do believe I even slept through them awarding me the Mother of the Year trophy. Because, after all, only the Mother of the Year would sleep through the last two-and-a-half hours of the last tournament of the year, right?

So we headed home. And just as we entered the city limits and I was minutes away from my nice, warm, comfortable, soft bed, I realized something.

My pillow was missing.

So we turned around and drove the 80 miles back to get it.

Not really.

For the past few nights I've been using what could pass for a rectangular pancake that my son found somewhere in his room and called a pillow. It may, if you blew it up hard enough, be two inches tall.

It's like laying on one side of an A-Cup padded bra and calling that a pillow.

Tonight I decided I'd suffered enough. I went to Wally World and purchased an Extra-Firm pillow. From what the packaging says, it's the best kind to have for side-sleepers like me. I'll let you know after I test it tonight.

But I'm still taking the sleeping pill just in case.

P.S. This weekend? I got lost...again.