2014: Year of the Sexy Warthog.

On the cusp of this newest of years, I have decided to make a positive and exciting new resolution.  Positive and exciting because I'm not saying that I'll lose weight, or that I'll eat less, or that I'll be more organized or keep the house cleaner, even though all of these things are excellent things that I really should get around to doing.  Instead, I'm saying it's going to be a sexy year.  So I've dubbed it: The year of the Sexy Warthog.

According to the Chinese Zodiac, 2014 is the year of the Horse.  But according to the Chinese Zodiac, I am NOT a horse.  I am a Warthog.  And this is my year.  My sexy year.

Quick side note:  When someone, in an attempt to woo you in a bar, asks you for your sign,  and you proceed to tell them that you are a Warthog, they no longer proceed to woo you.  It seems the Chinese zodiacs have significantly less sexual appeal than the other kind of zodiacs.  

Side note to my side note:  All of this is a lie.  I'm pretty sure no one has ever tried to woo me by asking for my sign, and I spend zero time in bars, and I only pretty recently learned that I am a warthog.  I, in fact, have NO idea what would happen if you told someone in a bar that you were a warthog.  For all I know, they would totally dig it.  Maybe, give it a try sometime.  

So back to the point, 2014 is the year of the Sexy Warthog.  I will begin this year as a warthog who does not fit into her pants, and end it as a warthog who looks great in size 4 jeans, and who has really nice skin, and hair in only the places that you would want hair on a warthog.  In other words, I will get fit and toned.  I will dress myself in a way that is both mature and flattering.  And I'll put in the effort to make my skin nicer.  At age 30, recovering from kid 3, this feels like an admirable, but hopefully not unachievable goal.

Husband says he doesn't know what a sexy warthog would look like.  

I told him that pretty soon, he would know.  But in the mean time, here's a taste:

Grrrrrrrrrrrr

Well, that's all for 2013, folks.  Tonight, amidst all of the joyous revelry, spend some time reminiscing, and some time hoping and planning.  And if you find yourself being wooed at a bar, try out the warthog thing for me.  Let me know if it's any good. 

Body Feelings.

I have developed some very mixed feelings about my body. It's a phenomenon I've noticed in the first few months following each of the birth-givings.  I have a great number of feelings about my body that can best be described as "mixed". Or maybe... Vacillating. Clinically freaking bizarre and insane. Really, any of those will work. 

You see, Body and I have recently been through a lot together. We spent the last year making a whole person and then depositing him onto a table. And every part of that hurt. Like, bunches and bunches. But we survived it, Body and I, and we came through the other end, albeit much the worse for wear.    

I'm proud of Body because it survived. I'm proud of Body because it not only managed to produce a whole person, but said person is becoming quite the little chunk. All thanks to Body. You go, Body. 

The baby says he is sleepy, but would really like to stay up very very late, if it's all the same to me. It is not. 

But besides the whole "check out the amazing life-giving things Body can do", there are other reasons why I'm pleased as punch with my current state.

I can see my toes. 

I can touch my toes. 

I can sit on the couch with my feet beneath me and my knees pulled up against my torso. 

I can sit pretty much anyway that appeals to me. 

I can lie on my stomach. Praise the good Lord in heaven, I can lie on my stomach. 

When I hug my husband, it no longer feels like a weird shoulder hug, wherein my behind is shoved out half way to Nevada. 

I can breath. And, as it turns out, it's not even that hard. 

I no longer require a bottle of tums on my bedside table. 

And to top it off, I can even wear my wedding rings some days. 

This list is great. This list makes me feel strong and lithe and sexy and, well, human again. Of course, there's the other end of my swinging pendulum of feelings, and that side has its own, less encouraging list. 

I cannot fit in clothes. 

No really. I cannot fit in any clothes. 

My muffin top looks like it was never fully baked, so now it's starting to droop. 

Stretch marks have found new and exciting places to live. I think I may need skin replacement surgery. 

I started out this pregnancy just under 140. These days I'm stuck at around 170. That is a bigger number than I like and it makes me sad. 

Even though I don't always "see" the chubby chick version of myself in the mirror, I've seen some very convincing photographs to remind me that she is here. 

My back hurts. Kind of a lot. And I feel too heavy and out of shape to move properly. Harrumph. 

And I am sleepy. Always. 

So those are all my feelings. Each one is life-alteringly intense, I assure you.  And unfortunately, Brain is no help either. Because I can never quite decide: do I love and accept myself for who I am today, just relax and go with it? Or do I hate my body every day until I see some real changes?  Both opinions have their merits, but I can never quite decide which to choose. 

For the time being though, I'm doing my best to ignore all of it. Diet starts on January 2, when all the company and fatty food are gone, and enough time has passed to allow me to engage in some mild to moderate exercise. I hope. 

So for now, you'll have to pardon my sweatshirts and yoga pants. A thorough examination of my closest only served to remind me that I'd thrown out all of my jeans larger than size 8, and I am now too fat for my fat pants. Sigh. 

Have a wonderful last few days of 2013, folks, and remember: the diets start NEXT year. And what happens in 2013 totally doesn't count. G'night!

Do not be fooled by my greasy hair or my yoga pants. I am a freakin superhero.

Quick update: I have 3 kids now.  It happened in the super early morning on Sunday, November 24th, when I woke up with one of those classic "oh crap I think just peed on myself" moments.   Luckily, I was sane enough, even at 1 am, to conduct a science experiment on the matter (Develop a hypothesis.  Test the hypothesis. Like, go ACTUALLY pee, then note the basic differences in sensation.  Take thorough notes.) and felt suddenly quite certain that I had NOT peed myself, but had, instead, gotten my water all broken.  7 hours and a buncha stitches later, and boom.  It was done.  We got this:

Uh-dorable.  I know, right? His name is Harper Reid and he is precious to me.

Three kids is... interesting.  Three kids is a game changer.  When my second was born, I would've told anyone who asked that having 2 kids was somehow easier than having 1.  First off, you've been there done that.  You're an old pro.  Then, you have a 2 year old to hang out with if you're bored, and who is happy to do small chores like throwing away diapers and retrieving blankets from the other room.  It was nice.  It was relatively peaceful.

And now I have 3.  And I've forgotten what the definition of peaceful is.

I keep having the same image come to mind.  Basically, having 3 kids is like juggling.  Except I have no idea how to juggle, so having 3 kids is like tossing raw eggs into the air and then watching as they splat to the floor.  And also you haven't brushed your hair in almost a week.

The first evening I spent alone with my children (Real quick: when did it suddenly become so terrifying to be alone with my own children?  When did that become a marker in my life?) was the night before Thanksgiving.  I planned. I made lists.  I hustled.  I reheated my frozen enchiladas for dinner while I boiled yams to prep my side dish for the following day.  I prepped my pie crusts.  I fed the baby then put the older kids at the table for dinner, then pulled out pajamas and church clothes while I prepped their bath.  I smirked to myself that, as long as you're on top of it, having a larger family isn't so bad at all.

And then suddenly I turned around and my eldest was screaming because I had asked her to pick up her toys and she didn't want to pick up her toys. The middle child was screaming because I served him enchiladas when he REALLY wanted corn dogs.  The baby was screaming because he is a baby and babies want to be held constantly, and holding a baby constantly didn't fit into any of my to do lists.   And I wanted to be screaming because they were all screaming.  And also, I was about 3 days post- having pushed an 8lb 5oz human out my hoo-ha, and my everything was still very much in pain.  So there was also that.

With my face distorted in terror, with my eyes bulging out of my face, with my hands shaking helplessly at my sides, I stood there, frozen, and watched the eggs splat at my feet.  What.  The Bloody H. Did I get myself into.

Having said all that, I'd been dreading today.  I had a "Me and the 3 Kids Go to the Doctor" trip planned, wherein each of the older two would be receiving shots.  Screaming, flailing, bolting through the entire clinic... I just couldn't imagine a scenario wherein this would not be a painful, horrible, make you question the existence of true good in this world, kind of day.  Certainly, my biggest juggling feat to date.    And yeah... I'll be honest.  There was screaming.  From all of them (and to a lesser extent me), at different points.  Once, though, the two boys cried in unison, and then stopped at exactly the same moment.  It was FANTASTIC.  I'm thinking of sending them on tour.  Then my daughter cried (or more accurately, made very loud and embarrassing WAAAAAAAAHHHH noises) for a solid 10 minutes in anticipation of her shot, and then all the way to the car and most of the drive home. (PS: All she had done was a TB test and a finger-prick blood draw, get freaking OVER it child and stop acting like someone just tried to remove your spleen without using anesthetics.)  However I was eventually able to convince her to stop by suggesting that maybe, if the shot still hurt that bad, we should head back to the doctor's and have him take a look.  Suddenly, crying didn't seem so important I guess.

So long story shorter, we all survived the day.  I'm learning how to juggle.  And I'm also learning some cool new parenting techniques like scaring your children until they shut the heck up.  And that is why I am a superhero.  The end.

Oh yeah.  So here's a picture of us, first day home as a... "family".

Merry 5 days till Christmas!

It's the FINAL COUNTDOOOOOWN!!!

Today's blog brought to you from my bathtub, courtesy of the Blogger app for iPhone. Blogger and iPhone: helping you talk to the universe from the creepiest locations imaginable since 1973*. 

Now I'm not writing from the watery comfort of my tub for the expressed purpose of being creepy (though it is a fringe benefit) but because such a high percentage of my free time these days is spent right here. As of today, I am 39 weeks pregnant, and my everything hurts, all of the time. I have become one of those people who spends most conversations regaling those around me with tales of my long long list of physical maladies, and no one wants to be my friend anymore. So for now, I will continue to take advantage of my own little gravity free capsul and enjoy every pain free, warm, floaty moment I can. 

Rubber Ducky is masquerading as a Rubber Bunny and he says hello. 

39 weeks pregnant. Today. Officially in the "any day now" category. Any day now, I have to push a giant, breakdancing watermellon out of my mostest delicate bits. Again. And it's pretty freakin terrifying. 

This weekend, following a 3 hour long session of every 2-3 minute "just kiddin" contractions, it seems the baby has taken the advice of Captain Piccard and Engaged. This is the technical Star-Trekkian term for when the baby isn't quite ready to leave the party, but has grabbed his coat and headed for the door. In more experiential terms, it's the time when you are officially walking around with a bowling ball between your legs. It's super neat. 

I've been thinking about nesting a lot lately, and I've decided that it's a whole big bunch of bull-puckey. I have to assume it was invented by men who are trying to convince their wives, after all these months of waddling and complaining and napping that they "will feel a sudden burst of energy that will really make them WANT to scrub toilets and mop floors.We swear!" Nice try, devious men, but I'm on my 3rd go-round here, and I'm sure as heck not buying it. Yes, I'm trying to clean house and freeze a few dinners, because having a baby inevitably means having company, and I don't want to feel ashamed, but the only nesting I've ever actually WANTED to do involves burrowing into a giant pile of blankets and pillows and napping for a month. 

Although I will say, this morning I had a lot of fun raiding the grocery store and filling our cupboards with sugar-things and junk food and dinners that require no more preparation than a few taps on the microwave.  Because I'm a good mom. And I take care of those I love. 

You're welcome, America. 

So this is the end of my post. I finished the whole thing without dropping my phone in the tub, EVEN ONCE, so I'm calling it a win. Sorry if the phone autocorrected me into saying anything more inappropriate than I intended, like at the beginning where it tried to change the word creepiest to creamiest. And if you found this whole post offensive, I assure you, what I was really trying to say was stuff like... rainbows and kitties and fuzzy bitty bunny bumpers.  Dang Autocorrect. 

*ish. And you can't sue us for lying if we say 1973ish. Because grand seem of things, it's true, and YOU look like the dumb one. So ha. 

End of September check in, and some stuff that's been happening and stuff.

This morning I was having a "conversation" with my 17 month old son.  He said Daddy, then he said Baby.  Well, more like Bay.... beeeeee.  But I took it.  So I asked him:
"Kaden, where's the baby?"
"Bay.... beeeee."
"Where's the baby?"
"Bay.... beeeeeeeee."
So I point at my bulging midsection and let him know-
"The baby is right here.  There's a baby in Mommy's tummy!"
He then walks up to me and points his tiny finger directly at my derrière.
"Bay... beeee?"
".... Touche, tiny human.  Touche."

Husband has been outrageously nice about my physical appearance.  Most of the rest of humanity has too, continuously asserting that my over 30 pounds gained is most definitely confined solely to my midsection.  (As if I'm going to have an actual 30 pound baby.  I don't want to have a 30 pound baby.  I don't want to MEET a 30 pound baby.)  So everyone's been very kind.  But children, well, they're honest.

It's been a busy last ... year, honestly, but it's starting to wind down.  I  have a superb staff working under me who is taking over more and more of the job so that I can spend more time in bed as God intended.  I have 4 weeks left before I am allowed by law to ignore my job and all of its responsibilities.  We've moved our office into our bedroom and our daughter into the office.

Yes.  I'm proud of this work, this painting, and this room as a whole.  
It was a lot of work and I think it looks good and I am proud.  So, take that.

I've also started to crochet a blanket for myself (something I've never done before).  It's going supremely slowly, but now I HAVE to get it done before baby boy dos comes along, as I also need to do one for him because that's a rule I've created for myself, and if you can't follow your own rules, then what good are you, anyway?

I tried to take a picture of the blanket to show you how it's coming along.  It's brown and tan an aquamarine, and it's not the softest in the world but it's thick and chunky and will be nice this winter, I think.  If it's finished.  And it will be.  Anyway, I tried to take pictures, but the kids noticed, so the photo shoot... changed.  To something more like this:

This series is called, I had to go help out the boy with some stuff, and someone SUPER enjoys taking pictures of herself.

That was 7 out of the roughly 50 pictures I found when I came back to my computer 5 minutes later.

I finally got a pic of blanket, by throwing it over my daughter's head.  She thought it was a fair compromise.

So as it happens, if we count today, I only have 9 more days left of my 20's.  9 more days left of a whole decade.  In 10 years I've graduated twice, gotten married, bought a car, two computers, and then a house, and I've had almost 3 kids.  It's been a pretty wicked awesome decade, and maybe that's why I'm so loathe to leave it.  And although I have a feeling the next decade won't have as many listable life events in it, I've got some pretty strong hopes that the 30's totally kicks the 20's ass.  Take that, my youth.  

Man, I feel like a....

Pregnancy is super painful, y'all.  Pregnancy is painful, and seems to be increasingly painful each time you do it.  I mean, you expect things like back pain, but you don't ever expect the whole "feels like someone cracked you in the pelvic bone with a baseball bat" thing, or those times when the baby sits on a nerve or something and causes one of your legs to cramp up and lose structural integrity and very nearly causes you to fall to the floor in front of people and make them think you might be dying.  I'm grimacing in public and freaking people out.  I shed 3, maybe 4 actual tears at a client's house, because life is painful and I am exhausted and those things decided to leak out of my face holes.

So, it's the 3rd trimester.  Roughly 12 more weeks till we meet our son.  His name is Harper Reid, and I hope he fits in well, because the first two have been getting on AMAZINGLY well.  Today for example, they took all of their toys out of their drawers and dumped them on the floor, then they had a pretend tea party.  Which was fun because no one was screaming.  I've learned that I'm okay with a messy house so long as nothing smells bad and no one is screaming.  Anyway, it's important to know your limits.

2 Trimesters down, 3 months of growth and discomfort left to go!

So that's a picture of me from last week, right on the cusp of the trimester change.  Aside: right now, it should be noted that my son is doing somersaults inside of me and I feel what I must imagine a pumpkin must feel while someone is scraping out its insides.  Bside:  I'm not sure if I'm looking much bigger, but I frequently waddle when I walk because it hurts to move, and I find it really helps to swing my arms in an excessive manner to keep up forward momentum.

My husband just posed a hypothetical situation to me that began with the phrase, "So, if you were a woman..."

Over 7 years married, who says the magic has to go?

::Sigh::

Street Fighter. That happened once.

These days when I try to find my own blog, the internet gets all sorts of attitude.  What?? You want to go WHERE?  No.  No, I'm pretty sure that place doesn't exist.

Touche, internet.

I haven't found much of any spare time this summer to do things I enjoy like needle work and reading fine literature and talking at the internet.  But tonight, husband has decided that we should watch Street Fighter staring Jean-Claude-Van-DAMN he doesn't look very good with red hair.  That's right.  I TOTES just Fresh Princed your toucases.  Anyway I really don't know what's going on.  I'm not even sure exactly where this is supposed to be taking place, except that it's highly ethnic-ish, with lots of southeast Asians, and belly dancing, and Samoans, and mohawks, and turbans, and there's lots of bones in the decor.  I'm guessing somewhere in South Central LA.  Apparently "this place makes Detroit look like Disneyland", and some guy named Bison is printing money with his own face on it.  So I'm guessing his evil plot has something to do with a counterfeit Monopoly franchise.

Nerdy accountant guy: "Colonel, have you lost your mind?"

Van Dam: "No..... you have lost your balls."

BOOM!!!!!  Take that Nerdy Accountant Guy!!

Husband just pointed out that there has yet to be any street fighting in this Street Fighter flick.  Maybe they're saving that for the sequel?

Anyway, this movie is quite obviously shooting for that magical combination of hilarity and total kick-assedness, but seems to have tripped and fallen into a big steaming pile of stupidity.  And then there's a painting of a clown.  And Van Dam is watching home videos and listening to some poppy 80's tunes while driving his stealth ship.  Woooooaaaah, the stealth ship just went all electric and sparkly like the Delorean right when it's about to hit 88 mph.  That seems like a pretty dangerous feature for a water vessel, and it doesn't seemed to have sped the ship up.  It still took a good 15 minutes of deeply contemplative screen time just to get them to coast out of the bay.

So I came on the internet as a diversion from this terrible movie, but now I can't seem to stop watching.

Evil Monopoly Dictator Guy: "Identify yourself!"

Van Dam: "This is the collection agency, Bison.  And your ASS is 6 months overdue."

Boom!! HE DOES IT AGAIN!!

Holy Chicken Sticks, the bad guys control their weapons by using the ACTUAL STREET FIGHTER ARCADE GAME CONTROL PAD.  With the little ball-topped joy stick, and the primary colored buttons.  Just so you know, when you push those buttons, it seems you are, in fact, dropping giant mega-bombs into rivers in unnamed third world countries.

3 guards just spun around synchronously, screamed CALIENTE! and aimed their weapons at an elephant who happened to be walking by.  Yeah, that's right, screw you, you hot hot lumbering beast.

Oh my gosh, Carrot Top is trying to strangle Van Dam!!  But it's cool because Van Dam reminded him that they used to be friends, so Carrot Top cried and stuff.  And then Van Dam decided to shoot him.  But a scientist told him he wasn't allowed to.

I rate this movie: Unpleasant.

I rate Mr. Van Dam: How Did You Ever Have a Job.

I rate the villain's bulbous eye balls: Impressive.  And a little bit terrifying.

Woah, all of a sudden people are speaking Japanese and sumo wrestlers are making Godzilla noises.

Tip for if you ever find yourself in hand-to-hand combat with Van Dam:  He will roundhouse kick you to the face.  Watch for that.  It's pretty much his only move.  He raises his fists a bunch, but that's just a red herring.  It's all about the roundhouse kick to the face.

The bad guy just came back to life because his suit administered CPR and electroshock therapy and then gave him a shot of adrenaline.  And now he has magical powers.  No sorry, they explained it, it's something something electromagnetism.  My mistake.

In other news, I am now 26 weeks(ish) pregnant, and I have already gained 28 pounds from my lowest weight, and most of the time I feel too tired to breathe and I cannot stop urinating.  Ever.

Don't worry, Van Dam just killed the bad guy with a roundhouse kick to the face that made the whole room explode.  Take that, Bad Guy.

On the bright side, my wedding ring still fits most days, and my abdomen looks like a Jello-mold with a tiny alien trapped inside.  Which is a plus because sometimes it's entertaining to watch.  It still looks to me like there might be two alien's trapped inside, but that's not what the doctors seems to think, and I suppose they would know.

These Street Fighters should be called Street Run-Awayers.

Well this post is almost as long and terrible as the movie that inspired it, so I think it's about time for me to sign off.  Have a nice night, folks.  And by nice, I mean, don't go waste your night on Street Fighter.  It will hurt all of your face holes.

Just one more lapse in brain function.

Have you ever felt like maybe your brain was actively trying to sabotage you?  I just don't know who I can trust anymore.

I went to sleep last night (like ya do), and all seemed normal and well and good.  Sometime later, an unknown time later, I found myself in the position of having to complete various small "pick up-y" types of chores.  The last of which being "pick up this glass, and put it on that table over there".  Done. Chore complete.  Except... oh no... why am I wet?  And why is my husband screaming at me?

"What, WHAT is going ON here?!?  WHY?!?!?!?"

"I just... I had to put the cup on the table, but I guess the table was the bed... and it spilled and... oh gosh. Oh gosh. I'm so sorry.  I'll get a towel."

If it took you less than 5 minutes to clue into what was happening, congratulations, your brain is MUCH more compliant than my own.  It seems that last night (I'm blaming this one on Lil' Accidente) my brain was too low on serotonin or melatonin or one of those other important brain chemicals that I was once upon a time required to know the names of (Epinephrine? Nora Epinephrine?).  And apparently the chemical I was missing is the exact one that keeps your body from living out your full dream potential by paralyzing your muscles during REM sleep.  So when I reached for a glass of water, carried it around and then placed it on a table, my un-paralyzed body found the glass of water on my bed side table and relocated it to the center of my bed, directly between myself and my husband.

It was wet.  It was terrifying.

The worst part was that, even upon waking, I couldn't quite grasp that I'd been asleep.  I couldn't answer my shitting-a-brick husband by telling him that I'd simply had a dream that had somehow gone terribly awry.  Instead it was like my brain set me up, then sat back and said, "You did this.  You obviously meant to do this, so now you deal with the consequences."  I was left scrambling to comprehend myself and my outrageous motivations, and apologizing for what seemed to be a pretty serious lapse in judgement.

Now I have to add this.  I know it sounds like this is all an elaborate way to cover up the fact that I probably actually peed the bed.  If a kid came to you with this story you'd call him a liar and immediately change his sheets.  But I promise you, that is not the case.  At least this time.  And as PROOF, I will remind you that I already told you about once when I sort of started to pee in my sleep, so I'm obviously not above telling the truth here. HA.

I feel like I should probably be more apprehensive about going back to sleep tonight.  I mean, if I can do this, then what's next?  Tea service for five?  But alas, I am sleepy, so bed will just the same.  You can bring the crumpets.

I'm not complaining if I SAY I'm not complaining.

I am absolutely not complaining.  Please hear me say that.  I have been blessed to overflowing.  Blessed in ways that make me fall the floor in humility.  I've been given far more than I deserve, far more than I ever could have expected. I have absolutely, ABSOLUTELY nothing to complain about.

But, ya know.  Somehow I still manage to find something.  Just to keep things interesting.

Truth be told, lately I've been feeling a little down.  A little (okay, a lot), frumpy.  Lumpy.  In general, mushy and gross and mega unattractive.  And although I've gotten pretty good about laughing at myself and shrugging it off (can't take these things too seriously, ya know), over time, even stupid little things can begin to wear on you.

The other day I went shopping, decided to buy the first pregnancy dress  I've purchased in 4 years.  Quite possibly the first ANY dress I've purchased in 4 years, come to think about it.  I got it in my head that it was time for a change.  I wanted something flirty, something feminine.  Something, dare I say, sexy.

Yes, I agree.  I was asking an awful lot out of a maternity dress.

And it didn't go to well.  The first stop to the local maternity store taught me that my boobs are smaller than the dress makers expect.  By a lot.  Even in their smallest sizes.  Apparently, other ladies grow great big gigantor chesticles when they grow babies.  I, it would seem, do not.  Then along with the terror of the saggy top, I was forced, again and again and again, to see my belly button.  Because of the crappy cheap fabric, I assure you.  And my hips look weird.  Gross weird.  Stupid weird hips.

Can I just stop here and ask: why the HECK is it possible to feel like you've you got a giant wonky body when wearing maternity clothes???  Maternity clothes are MADE for giant wonky bodies.  This is supposed to be the ONE FREAKING TIME where they know exactly what your body is dealing with, and work to present it in the best way possible.  Or just stick you in thin, clingy, terrifyingly revealing crap fabric.  Sure.  Either way.

Anyway, second store.  Found a dress.  Very little selection, buy they had a knee length, almost fitted on top (MIRACLE!), flowy black dress.  Just what I'd been looking for.  So I excitedly threw in a cheap-yet-sparkly pair of earrings and ran home to model my new duds for the husband.   And I did.  And he responded: "It's good!  It's... a maternity dress."  Which is when I turned to walk away, almost definitely (yes, definitely) flipping him off in the process.  Because I didn't want to look like I was pregnant.  I didn't want to wear a maternity dress.  I wanted to be hot stuff.  Apparently, the dress hadn't got the memo on these deepest wants and desires.

The dress that doesn't know my life, or understand my undying need for sex-appeal.

Jump forward.  Today, I bought a new maternity bathing suit.  The first one I've ever owned.  Do you know exactly how much fabric it takes to cover my body right now?  Because it's a lot.

A lot.

Anyway, all of the shopping from this weekend, and the coinciding self-loathing sentiments got me thinking:  Why?  I've been pregnant before.  Why do I feel so wretched about it THIS time?

I think I may have figured it out.  The answer, as it turns out, was in the math.  After some quick calculating, I discovered that I have been pregnant and/or nursing now for 23 months straight.  And I will most likely be pregnant or nursing for another 17 consecutive months.  Now another step further.  In the past 4 1/2 years, I have been pregnant and/or nursing a baby for 44 total months.  For all my math hating friends out there, that translates to 3 years and 8 months.  In 4 1/2 years, I've only been free of these periods for about 10 months.  I'm starting to think it's the numbers that are getting to me.

Raising kids is freaking awesome.  Don't get me wrong.  I LOVE the babies.  but that doesn't mean it's not exhausting.  And painful.  And stressful.  For almost 4 years now, a tiny person has ruled my body, dictating what I could ingest, how I looked, and frequently, how I physically felt.  And aside from how amazing the whole experience can be, it can also leave you feeling more like a vehicle, a tool, a device for feeding and breeding, and not at all like a woman.  Sometimes not even like a human.  Which really leaves you wondering when they took that mom on TLC with the 37 children and switched her out for a baby-having cyborg.  I'm guessing some time around kid 6.

Alright.  I've written more than enough tonight, and this is probably the absolute last thing in the world that deserves to be complained about.  Tomorrow I'll write in again, telling you how terrible it is to be outrageously, ridiculously wealthy, and you can all shed a tear on my behalf.

Happy June, dear friends, hope it's been just the Juniest!

Why hello there, the internet. You're looking well.

It has been a long hard couple of months, filled with lots and lots of work, 2 1/2 months worth of day-long nausea, lots of exhaustion, and exciting "extras"like my son's first birthday and, oh yeah.  The stomach flu.  So that was fun.  Also: it was the only reason I threw up the whole first trimester.  SorryIsaidthrowup.

I haven't been here in a month.  And I really shouldn't be here now.  I have work to do.  I have to leave in an hour.  My daughter has decided to be whiney.  I'm behind on my Bible reading.  But for the moment, I've got a delicious cup of coffee (cheers to the end of constant nausea!) and I feel like catching up here.  So hello again, and you are welcome.  Or whatever.  I'm too tired to think.

I'm tired because it hurts to sleep.  I'm constantly exhausted, and my body hurts when I sleep.  My legs are uncomfortable.  My back feels twisty and tweaked.  My pillow feels like a brick.  If I sleep on my arm (and I always sleep on my arm) my shoulder feels like it's been ripped from its socket.  So I toss and turn.  I doze off.  I wake up and watch the blue numbers on the ceiling (it took me 1 1/2 minutes just now to remember how to write the word ceiling, but I think I did it) get slightly larger, then smaller, than larger again. 11:30.  12:15.  1:40.  2:30.  3:45.  ::Sigh::  And then 6:45 comes, and I feel more worked out the rested up, but it's fine.  The torture of night is done, so it's fine.

Besides nighttime, pregnancy is happy now.  I'm showing enough that people think "pregnant" not "letting herself go", and  I get my heart rate checked monthly (97/55 last it was checked, BOOYAH).

Yesterday, I got a couple comments about my appearance.  One individual chose to inform me that my pregnancy was showing in my face.  SRSLY?  Now, maybe people don't really care if they sound nice, or hurtful, or strange, and that's fine.  I'm not here to judge your intentions.  But if you're SHOOTING for nice, "pregnant in the face" is not hitting the mark.   Because besides "fat in the face, with a weird amount of acne", I'm really not sure what that could mean.

The second comment was... different.  Someone SWORE she knew me from "clubbing". Now personally, I do not "club".  I have never "clubbed".  I'm not sure what it entails.  It sounds intimidating and potentially aggressive.  But as it turns out, I didn't remind her of your average club visitor, I reminded her of someone in particular.  A pole dancer, in fact.  NOT  A STRIPPER, she was quick to point out, just "one of those people who dance around the poles, what are they called?"  Right.  She went on to insist that the way I carried myself, the way I leaned against a counter top when I was filling out paper work, my posture as I stood, the way I walk, it all screams pole dancer.  I. just... I don't... huh?!?

So apparently yesterday everything about me screamed fat-faced slut bag, or something pretty close to that.  I don't know how to respond.  I don't know how to stop being a fat-faced slut bag.  So I guess I'm going to have to write these off, and hope that today garners fewer comments from the peanut gallery.

Okay, that's enough of all that now.  Before I go, here is me today (13 1/2 weeks pregnant) and Baby Tres from last week (Just over 12 weeks old).  I got the pleasure of a surprise sonogram, just because my NP thought it would be fun.  I think I like her.  In one picture (s)he is rubbing his/her eye in one, and I think it is adorable.  Even though (s)he looks like a scary alien otherwise.

GIANT!!  Also, this is what a fat-faced pole dancer looks like.  You're welcome, WORLD, for the fact that I choose not to dance on poles.

Awwww

Happy Thursday friends, and VERY happy birthday to my dearest mother-in-law, on the off chance that you find this page :-)  Hope it's the best!

What's a WHAT now?

Wasn't intending to write tonight.  Instead, was intending to peruse the internet while I pretended I was going to do work all the while sinking so far down into the couch that I eventually disappeared.

But once again, the internet forced my hand.

I decided to check out  my site stats (like ya do) and of course, my favoritest part, the search terms that brought people down out of the Google universe to our little corner of the world.  Lots of normal stuff about trekkies and exercise and cats, of course, and then something... new:

"What is vajerna"

That's right, apparently I've become a (the?) source of knowledge and information on colloquial terms for your hoo ha.

Once again, you're welcome, The Internet.

Oh, and for my new vajerna reader, Welcome!  I hope you got your answer, and I hope it made sense, and I hope that one day we can all be mature enough to teach scientists and medical professionals the *right* names for all of our southern bajangles.

G'night folks!

What the FUDGE NUGGET just happened here?!?

Four weeks ago tomorrow, I was 2 days shy of 5 weeks pregnant.  And I looked like this.

Pictured with my brother's wife Janae, who is due in about a month and a half!

Not too bad, 138, with a stomach as flat as it's been these days.  Not too bad at all.  Once again, this picture was taken 1 day short of 4 weeks ago.  This picture was taken 27 days ago.

And this is me today.

SO I REPEAT.  WHAT. The fudge nugget.  Just happened here?!?!

I'm 8 1/2 weeks pregnant, and the baby is the roughly the size of a grape.  A GRAPE.  Now Grape-baby's home is apparently about the size of a grapeFRUIT, so that... I don't know.  That's bigger I guess.  I think the real culprit lies with the severe loss of integrity my stomach muscles have seen over the last four years.  It's like when you blow up a new balloon.  The first time, it almost hurts your cheeks.  The latex is tight and it fights the expansion.  It makes you WORK to blow it up.  But the second time... the third.... you pretty much just need to think about it the balloon is full sized again.  

And now, it seems, I am a thrice blown up balloon.

So besides my giant size, here's the other stuffs:

My Weight: 142.  4 pounds up already.  And yeah.  You can see where those 4 pounds have gone.

Baby:  Sonogram on April 9. Heartrate 139bpm.  The picture is too small and fuzzy and what not to be worth posting, but we saw and heard the heart, and that's money.  

Due Date: November 25, 2013

Symptoms:  Sleepy constantly.  Nauseous constantly.  And (somewhat) cranky.  But I blame the first two symptoms on that one.  Besides that, I'm an absolute PEACH to be around.  I swears it.  Oh, and zero vomitando so far.

Gender predictions:  Husband is adamant that we're having another boy.  Of course, this is because his family had a girl-then-two-boys configuration, and their third (him) was also an accidente, so it just feels natural that our accidente is a "him" too.  The Chinese calendar predicts a girl.
Name ideas:  Madelyn suggests we call the new kid Batman.  Not just suggests, insists.  Like, she really won't let this one drop.



Lastly, and unrelated, here is a picture of my son (Captain Middle Child), who was pouting because I told him that playing with a nightlight plugged into an outlet was a "no no".  I think it's crazy precious.

Happy Friday, Friendos!

Real, Real Beauty. No, really.

I've watched this video a couple of times now, and seen it posted by about 13 million of my closest Facebook friends.  And it's sweet.  Or it's sad.  I'm not sure.  But the basic point is simply this: "You're not as ugly as you think you are".

The video is part of Dove's Real Beauty campaign, and shows us (through the work of crack forensic sketch artist) that we describe ourselves as distorted horrifying monsters, and others see us as... you know.  Humanish.

It's interesting, it's thought provoking, and it probably holds some truth.  Yeah, I'm sure it holds some truth, and that's why it resonates.  We know we are hard on ourselves.  And we hope, we pray, other people are less harsh.  We really want to believe deep down that we are hotter than we think we are.

Some people certainly are, we've all met them.  But we've also met people who could never ever actually live up to their high opinions of themselves.  It simply HAS to be true that some of us are not as sexy as we think we are.  Bummer, yo.

If we're going to be honest with ourselves, most of us probably vacillate somewhere between the two.  I know personally (sad confession, NOT A JOKE) my opinion of myself has risen pretty dang dramatically with the weight loss over the past few years.  In 2009, I was probably a 4 or 5 who thought I was a 2.  And now, I'm a solid 6 who sees a smokin' hot 8 or 9 in the mirror.  (Well, not RIGHT now because RIGHT now I'm bloated and chubby and sleepy and developing that terrifyingly zitty, hairy face that they mockingly call the "glow of motherhood".  Hot dang, I'm a 12 year old boy.  That is what I am.  I am a 12 year old boy with a pizza face and an almost-mustache.  Oye.  Here's hoping my voice doesn't start to crack.)

Towards the end of the video, one of the real-beauty ladies spoke about how your opinion of your own appearance affects your life.  She says it "couldn't be more critical to your happiness".

And my brain let out a scream.

Come on people.  Come on women.  Come on America.  Come on come on come on.  My opinion on my own hotness or notness is the most critical thing to my own happiness?!?  Listen to the words, which are really the crux of this whole campaign, and listen to the problems they bring.

Because according to those women's words, if I thought I was a 2, and now I realize I'm a 5, wouldn't I be happier still with a boob job? Face lift?  Lip... bigger-maker? Wouldn't I be happier if I could make myself an 8? A straight up 10??

The problem with this campaign is that they are trying to fix all of our lady-sadness by having us look into the mirror, past the rolls and the zits and the wrinkles and the just plain weirdnesses we all have, and to call ourselves beautiful.  Which feels sweet and wonderful, and maybe is a lie.  Because honestly, maybe we're not all that and a bag of chips.  Some of us are pretty, some terrifyingly gorgeous, some terrifyingly un-gorgeous, and most of us are so-so.  Some of us are creepy intelligent.  Some of us are dumb as bricks.  Some people are the most interesting man in the world.  Some people are extremely dull.  Those people are called accountants*.  Some people are so nice that pretty little birdies help get them dressed in the morning.  Some people eat those other people.

The point is, I am not perfect.  You aren't either.  None of us is all of the good things and none of the bad things.  If my happiness is based solely on my perception of own personal quality, then I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be getting out of bed any time soon.

The real problem with thinking too highly of myself and thinking too little of myself is the same:  I'm thinking too much about myself.

Who CARES if my ears are too big and my feet are too long and my head is too giant-basketball shaped?!  This story isn't about me.  And big ears give you character.

So here's my advice for the day, that I give to you and to me: Get over yourself.  When you start to worry that maybe you aren't perfect, realize you're right.  And focus your attention a little bit more on the ONE who is.  I heard somewhere once that He's a more reliable source of happiness than good hair days.

*Side note, I apologize directly to my mother-in-law, who is an accountant AND a wonderfully interesting woman.  Except, of course, when she gets to talking about accounting.

Post- Easter Foolishness

Oh gravy, I would like to vomit.

I feel sick for not eating, and then I eat, and then I feel sick for eating.  It is a generally unpleasant experience.

Yesterday was Easter, and I'd like to take umbrage with how many holidays or "food events" take place at the very very end of a month, forcing me to have crap-tastic weigh-ins on the first of every month.  It sure feels like a lot.  Like, an unfairly large amount.

Or maybe I'm making up excuses.  Because today I'm 139, which is a pound gain in the past couple of weeks, and if I gain at that pace during the first trimester, I'll be back up to giant and terrifying numbers in no time.

Which is why I assume it's probably the calendar's fault.

Every day I've been feeling a little extra wretched, which is great.  Because apparently, it's a Very Good Sign.  In the mean time, I'm still trying to find the food that makes the nausea less wretched.  If I find something, I'll be sure to let you now.

Happy April Fools Day, folks!  I was planning to tell you I was pregnant but... ya know.  Redbox just sent us a joke about selling lunch meats through their machines so that people can get snacks with their movies... oh Redbox.  You so crazy.

News. ::Deep breath:: News.

So.  So so so.  It would seem that, once again, I have gotten myself all pregnant.  If you are a supremely observant person and have noticed that I have used the word "again", or you have read this blog for more than 3 weeks, or you are a member of my immediate family,  you will have come to the knowledge that this is not my FIRST pregnancy.  And you have some questions.  So here are your answers.

Third.

About 6 weeks.

Mid-November.

3 1/2 years, and 11 months, respectively.

18 1/2 months.

No, we were not.

3 or 4, but eventually.  Maybe in another year from now.

Math is hard.  I know it because I can see it in people's eyes when they slyly try to calculate when I am due, how old my son is, and what that spread looks like.  It's not a very big spread, I'm the first to admit to that.  It's the kind of spread that has me thinking oh holy hang gliders, I'm becoming one of those crazy people that pops out new offsprings every five minutes or so.  THEY SHOULD GET ME MY OWN SHOW ON TLC.  But I've seen other people do it, and none of them look like they want to kill themselves, so I'm feeling pretty confident.

Now we get to the fun part.  The How We Found Out About It part.

I was depressed.  Like, nobodylovesmeandmaybeIshouldjustgoDIE, weeping at the steering wheel on my way to the grocery store, kind of depression.  It seemed to come out of nowhere, and had grown over the span of 24 hours.  And all this, even though I'd slept (a good night's sleep is normally enough to quell my occasional crazies).  So I'm driving home with my tear-drenched groceries, and I get to thinking: The last time I felt so crazy-sad.  It was the last time I was pregnant.  So I went home, found an old test under the counter, and once again, saw a little bonus-line intent on changing my life.

I told husband.  We laughed maniacally for about 10 minutes, and husband drifted into the stage where you walk around the house flailing your arms, ranting about how you've become your parents and you don't want to drive a minivan and you're GETTING A FREAKING VASECTOMY RIGHT NOW THANKYOUVERYMUCH.  I calmly reminded him that maybe this wasn't the very best day to make that kind of decision, and he agreed, and put the knife down.

So no, we weren't trying, per se.  We were using protection, and my cycle has been a bit erratic, which the doctor said once meant that I probably wasn't ovulating, and I was told by THIS PERIOD APP that I was on a no-fertility day.  And so once we didn't use protection.  And now I am pregnant.  With my son, we tried for about 5 months.  But now, I am pregnant.

Side note:  That app will be getting a VERY strongly worded 3 star review from me later.  It wins points for being aesthetically pleasing and easy to use, but loses them because now I am pregnant.

We've decided to name this child Accidente Miller, because it's both descriptive and exotic.  Also, I think it works really well for a boy or a girl, so that's an added bonus.

That's all I've got for now, folks.  Hope all your accidents are this happy, and remember: absolutely ignore your smartphones.  They are trying to take over the world.

EDIT: Woops.  I forgot to add the link.  So now I added the link.

An argument for nature.

As my son has reached the monumental age of 10 months and 24 days (no gifts, please), today we decided to take his official 10-month-24-day pictures.  

Scrolling through pictures of my tiny man's "almost 1" pics got me thinking back to a few short years ago, when I did this same birthday party invite photo shoot for my daughter.  So I perused.  And then I saw something interesting.  The same front lawn, the same suburban house-backdrop (all the rage in photog circles, I ASSURE you), and, basically, the same half naked baby.  The same blue eyes, the same button nose, floppy ears, and chubby cheeks and... okay.  That much I expected.  I have, in fact, seen these babies' faces before.  But then as I kept looking, I noticed something... more.  Well, you'll see.

CONSUMER WARNING:  You probably only want to keep scrolling here if you have a bizarre interest in my children.  And let's be honest.  If you have a bizarre interest in my children, I would really, really, rather you not keep scrolling.

Just the same, if you're still here, journey with me:

They both like to stare suspiciously over their shoulders.

They're both plotting villainy against you, 

whilst remaining painfully adorable so you never see it coming.

 They believe that clothes are entirely overrated.

They both know their good side.  And aren't afraid to flaunt it.

And they both have lots... and lots... and lots of feelings.  And they would like you to know about it.

Despite the differences we notice (or totally fabricate) between these two, I'm suddenly not convinced that breeding is anything more than an intricate gender-bending cloning system invented by whatever Russia calls their version of NASA.  I'm pretty sure it's Sputnik.

Weigh in ADDENDUM

Okay. Okay. Okay.  Here we go.

This morning I weighed in at 140, like a stupid fat ugly JERK.  But I felt super bloated this morning, so early this afternoon, after doing yard work, running errands, and playing with the kids, I decided to weigh in again.  (And yes, I ate.  Don't think I starved my way to this because that is not the case.)

I weighed 138.  Point zero.

It was incredible.

So that's the weight I'm counting for today, I AM BACK IN THE 130'S BABY.  Take that, The Government.

Also, my daughter is currently pretend-buying her things from me.  And she's haggling.  And she's weirdly good at it.  I think I know who's buying our next family car!

Have a happy Thursday, folks, best day of the week!!

Oh POO BURGERS, I just remembered I have work tomorrow.  Ah well, still a pretty good day.

This is not a drill.

My butt has gotten bigger.  I repeat, this is not a drill.

I can't be 100% sure, seeing as I haven't been keeping accurate and up to date measurements of my derrière, but I'm pretty sure it's grown.  Over the past couple weeks, I've had moments of catching sight of myself in the mirror while getting ready, which was accompanied by the screamed thought "BUBBLE BUTT! BUBBLE BUTT!"  

Now I'm a little conflicted.  Even though I'm not losing weight, I'm certainly not gaining.  And I'm not typically a "Bubble butted" person.  At least not since high school, when I played volleyball and was a cheerleader and did an insane amount of lunges.  Which got me thinking:  Is some of my exercise ACTUALLY WORKING?!?

Every morning, I do crunches.  I'm working up to 200 a day, 100 regular and 100 reverse.  Currently, I'm at 35 regular and 30 reverse, and when I'm done, I feel sore and exercised from my knees to my rib cage.  I didn't really consider whether this daily bit of exercise might effect my back size, I was really just hoping for a tighter stomach.  Also, it's distinctly possible I'm doing something wrong here.

It's weird to see a part of your body get bigger.  Every time I notice my growing booty, I scream a little on the inside.  And not the good kind of scream, the kind that is terrified of having a big butt.  But despite this terror, I'm theoretically pro this kind of change.  It's not a bigger belly, it's just a bigger butt.  And I'm not going to complain about any kind of thickness that adds to actual feminine "curviness".  

And shoot, I can't think of any songs that praise the attributes of tiny, flat butts, can you?

Weigh in, once again: 140.  :-P

This one is called: My Life is a Comedy of Errors. By, Me.

I know it's not a very Christian thing of me to say, but I dislike Sunday mornings.  My husband works early on Sunday mornings, so he's gone by 6am.  On Sunday mornings, I usually have about 60-90 minutes to get myself and both of our children fed, cleaned, and dressed, and into the car.  Which doesn't sound like a lot, but there's something unspoken about Sunday mornings that make it extra terrible.  The children, it would seem, can smell my fear.

This morning was an extra special Sunday morning to boot.  Not only did we have time change to contend with, but we were supposed to take a family picture for the church directory.  Which is terrifying, because not only do I have to get the kids fed and cleaned and dressed, but we're all supposed to look nice.  They only do these books every 5 or so years, and husband and I were not in the last one, so there was no choice.  We had to do it, and we had to look incredible.

So then it's time to get up.  8am, I decide we should leave between 9 and 9:30, and so we've got plenty of time.   We got enough sleep last night, we laid out the kids clothes and my clothes.  No hitches.  I had the morning mapped out to the minute, and we were absolutely golden.

So then it's time to get up.  Madelyn asks for toasts and some orange juice (her absolute favorite breakfast, the thing she eats 95% of mornings, and let me assure you this kid LOOOVES to eat), I got it ready and made some coffee, got myself dressed and came back to feed the boy.  But when I came back I learned that my daughter did not WANT to eat her toast.  She wanted to watch cartoons, and GIVE ME MORE JUICE NOW, MOMMY!!

Eventually (20 minutes later?) I got her to eat something (I don't need her cranky and hungry this morning), and tried to get her dressed.  First, she falls into a full-blown meltdown because I tried to put her in some bloomers and she did not WANT to wear the pretty panties, Mommy, she wanted the regular ones.  When I finally wrangle her into her dress, I find that the dress is ripped. Wonderful.  So now I get to choose whether I can quick-sew it, or I need to wrangle her back out and find something else that'll work for the picture.  At this point, mind you, it's after 9, I'm not yet wearing makeup, my hair is still half witch-frizzy, the boy is crying because I have stopped feeding him to attend to his sister and he'd like more oatmeal and attention, and neither child is dressed.

I decided to go for new clothes.  It seems the safest.  But dress clothes for girls are complicated because every choice has some consequence regarding shoes and accessories and WHAT THE HECK, WHY CAN I NOT FIND A SINGLE FREAKING PAIR OF HER CHURCH SOCKS?!?!  Instead I found some tights.  They're mangey looking, but they don't have any holes and the color isn't offensive so we go with it.  I put something on my daughter, a skirt, plain white top (because the white top with the black frilly stuff  has a bunch of stains and had to be ripped back off), and a crocheted shawl thingy.  Which she hates, apparently, and ripped at it like the Incredible Hulk screaming I DON'T WANT TO WEAR DIS MOMMY I DON'T WANT IT I DON'T!!  Now I don't like to give in to tantrums but it's 9:20 by now, and I'm desperate.  So I find her something to wear that is, apparently, less offensive to her 3 year old fashion sensibilities, and we're off.  My daughter runs out to the living room ahead of me. Uh oh, Mommy, Kaden made a mess.

::Sigh::  I was not amused, but neither was I surprised.  He'd been screaming non-stop most of the morning as he didn't have my full and undivided attention, and the last couple of minutes he'd gotten, well, quiet.  I come into the living room to find that little man has used his brand new crawling skills to get over to the ottoman where I had placed my morning coffee and has knocked it onto the carpet.  But not JUST onto the carpet, onto his sister's nice, white church shoes.  Which was, of course, fair pay back for the fact that I was not giving him 100% of my attention that morning.

So now I've got 1 and 1/2 kids still un-dressed, and I'm cleaning the carpet and rinsing and drying a church shoe, and both kids are screaming and I look like the freaking plot of a Lifetime movie.  And it's 9:30.  And my husband calls.  Hey babe just wondering if you were heNOW IS NOT A GOOD A TIME FOR ME THANKS. Oh... okay.

I got them dressed.  I hid in my bathroom for about 90 seconds so I could "get ready".  I put some spray gunk on the carpet and left some paper towels on it and hoped that I didn't poisoned the cat.  I cried a little.  The children screamed at me.  But of course, when my daughter noticed I was a little, shall we say, stressed, she sought to console me. Oh Mommy, I'm just so sorry that Kaden is being so naughty.  She screwed up her little blue eyes in concern, sighed, and shook her head, because it's just such a shame that her brother is such a bad little boy.

We made it to church.  We took the picture.  I can't even imagine how terrifying and/or ridiculous we looked in it, but we took. the dang. picture.  And later, when my daughter climbed over the pew so that she could sit with another family, and then started digging through a stranger's purse looking for candy, well, I was pretty easy going about the whole thing.  Because we'd all survived the morning.  We'd made it to church.  Everyone was dressed and fed.  And we took the dang picture.

Diet fail. Or Diet FREAKING MEGA WIN!

Tonight I had a trip to the salon.  And by "trip to the salon", I mean that I went to my bathroom and trimmed and dyed my own hair, and then I painted my toenails.  They are pink and it is pretty.  Also, while waiting for my hair to be done, I scrubbed out our shower, which is GREAT because if you go to a real salon, they try and charge you bunches of money and they NEVER clean your shower.  Jerks.  No For You.

So my hair is black again, which is not what I think, it's what the package says.  As of yet I do not know what I think, because my hair is wet.  I will tell you tomorrow.  I just rubbed my head though, and it feels like a super sexy color so I'm hopeful.

Now on to my Diet WinFailThingy.  Last Saturday I woke up to a cheery 139.8 pounds and I felt like a king.  But I did not eat like a king.  I have been being Diet Awesome for almost 2 straight weeks.  Or maybe just a week and a half, but still.  For a bunch of sequential days,  I've been doing great.  But this week, for some painfully confusing reason, I've been gaining weight.  Like, a pound a day kind of weight.  This morning I ended up at a portly 142.8, and I wanted to punch stuff.  Which would have hurt that stuff extra, since now I'm super duper fat.

So you can see how weak my will was when I cruised up to McDonald's today and had my first fast food lunch in a month and a half.  I ordered a diet coke and two regular hamburgers, and I ate those things.  And someone accidentally gave me a bonus medium fry which I did not pay for, but I did eat, because you shouldn't be a waster.

It was delicious.  Every single dang bite was delicious.  Until 20 minutes later when I was driving to my next client with a giant brick in my stomach and a giant shame in my heart.  It was bad.  I tried to make emotional amends with myself by promising I would not be eating anything else for the day.  Pinky swears.

But then I got home, and I weighed in during my salon-sperience, and apparently tonight I weigh 141.4.  I have a few possible explanations:

1) My body was in a 10 day long state of panic because I was dieting, and it wasn't until I gave it some delicious Mc Heartattack that it realized we were okay and could lose a couple of pounds.

2) Guilt has an amazingly strong fat-burning property that I had been, as of yet, totally unawares.

Or:

3) All those fat people with their lawsuits and what not are crazy wrong.  McDonald's is AWESOME for you and will make you look super hot and skinny.

You heard it here first, folks.

WHY?!?!

I gained weight.  Since yesterday.  Two freaking whole pounds since yesterday.  Why, you may ask?  Well I certainly asked.  The best I can come up with is over-indulgence in Mango.

Can you get diabetes from too much fruit?  I should look into that.  

I've been on what I'm going to call the Eden Diet the past couple of weeks.  Part of this is because of my son's medical issues, and the fact that the only foods we're allowed to give him are actual laxatives.  And because I'm too lazy make actual lunches for my work days, so instead I throw a bunch of fruit in a bag and snack on that throughout the day.

It's probably too much sugar, blah blah blah.

Yesterday I decided I AM IN FREAKING LOVE WITH MANGO, and I ate one and 1/4 mangos and so today I gained 2 pounds.  And I'm getting the impression that mangos are the potato chips of nature.

So today: 142.  Net weight loss for the Month of February: Big Fat Goose Egg.  Bubkiss. 

::Sigh::  

When I was looking for an internet picture to appropriately express my emotions, I found this instead.  It made me feel sad for the clouds, who we continue to humiliate with our crazed pee pee dancing.

Think of the sad, shamed clouds, folks.