I hear that 49 is the new Chocolate Frosting On the Face.

I guess this means I'm in for a good lickin'.

Seriously, I'm handling this marker better than I did the 39. Maybe I'm just more stoopit. I dunno.

Anyway. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have a sudden urge to ride the aisles of the grocery store in a motorized cart, and maybe run the wheels up the heels of 30-Somethings.*

::I remember when the characters on 30 Something seemed old.::

*Dear loyal reader 30-Somethings. I'm not talking about you. Really. I'm talking about the imaginary 30-somethings who stole my nice ass and hairless chin(s).

P.S. Thanks everyone, for the Birthday Wishes Already!

Labels: With Grace My Ass

The New Face of Domestic Terror


And related, memorable movie quotes:

"You see, the menopausal lady don’t like people laughing. She gets the crazy idea you’re laughing at her. Now, if you apologize, like I know you’re going to, I might convince her that you really didn’t mean it…."- A Uterus With No Name, from a Fistful of Tampons.

"When a woman wearing an overnight-pad-in-the-daytime meets a man with a Winchester, you said the woman wearing an-overnight-pad-in-the-daytime’s a dead woman. Let’s see if that’s true…" – A Uterus With No Name from A Fistful of Tampons.

"I eat breakfast with 4,000 raging hormones, all trained to kill, so don’t think for one second you can come down here, flash your speculum and make me nervous."- Colonel Nathania Stirrup in A Few Good Menses.

"But being this is a Playtex Pearls Super Suck Magnum 44- the most powerful tampon in the world, and will suck those chinpubes back into your chinbone, ask yourself a question—‘Do I feel lucky?’"-Cherry Callahan in Dirty Cherry

"Here’s to 5 miserable months on the rag and all the irreparable harm it’s caused me."-Jackie Torrents from The Flooding.

"I’m sorry I ate your FSH"- Hotto Flash in A FSH called Wanda.

A semblance of a real post is in our collective futures. First I need to find the cave where my family has taken refuge.

p.s. Please ignore the little arrows around the raging uterus. I don't know how I missed them.

Labels: Hustle and Flow, With Grace My Ass

Not Necessarily in That Order.

The Knuttins


The weekend with the family was fab. The weather was perfect and the only plumbing-related near-catastrophe was a backed-up sink from my having stuffed too many egg shells into the garbage disposal.

But if one is going to exercise one's unalienable right to be a total plumbtard, there's no better time than when surrounded by the loving support of family.

My 76 Year Old Mother: I never would've put all those shells down the disposal.

Me: So where were you 20 minutes ago?

My Mother: What?

Me: I also stuffed a paper plate down there.

My Mother: You did what?

Me: And an avacado. And your camera case. And a tampon. And an ovary.

My Mother: Over where?

If you can't beat 'em, mess with 'em.

As The Egg Turns
We are now home from the cottage. Up until late Tuesday, Cabana was still awaiting further orders on his job, so we stayed at the cottage until late Wednesday. It was actually a good time to leave, as it was getting too hot for even being at the lake. ::Yes, there is such a thing. Humidity,heat,sand and no-AC are the classic ingredients for a motive-for-murder cocktail. And the water temp had reached 84 degrees.::

Boys With Fine Asses Like Girls Who Wear Glasses.
I got new glasses. I really, really like them. As in, I really, really keep going to the mirror to really, really take another look. My husband really, really likes them too, and keeps really telling me so.





Except for weekend mornings or evenings after work, I wear contacts, mostly for cosmetic reasons. I'm now rethinking that habit. And can't help but wonder if I've reached a new level of old, to recognize that I look better in glasses than without. And most amazing of all, I could give a waxed ass.

The Saga of the Saharried Knitter
To be continued....

But only after this sneak preview.
Of a sleeve.
About to meet its maker.



Actually, we've already met.
Twice.
But more on that later.*

Straight From the Sole
En route to the cottage, I usually take my potty breaks at Burger King. While the B.K. loos in northern Michigan are not luxurious by a log shot, they are usually clean and smell mildly pretty.

On this last trip we stopped at McDonalds because Cabana wanted their coffee, but not near as much as I wanted to wipe my ass with this:



Yep. That's toilet paper from McDonald's.

When it's just dangling off the roll, it appears to be of normal width, if not thickness. ::The thickness is Casper the Ghost-like.:: However, when you give it a friendly tug, it turns to that. And yes, I actually stole a wisp of toilet paper for blog fodder.

I wonder what gauge it gives?

*I had meant to give a full update on Sahara in this post, but the post had already grown longer than Great Aunt Nee-Nee's left boob. Besides, it can't hurt to have a post in a back pocket, along the lines of Aunt Nee-Nee's right boob. And I'm tired.::

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, Cottage, Tree From Where I Fell, When Knitting You is Hurting Me, With Grace My Ass

What She Said
There's always one more squeeze in the toothpaste.-My Mom

I realize it's a bit lacking in grammatical integrity, at best, but it's exactly what my mom said to us when we were kids, upon hearing that we were out of toothpaste.

Although it doesn't stand up to any kind of scientific logic, my mother was always right. If we rolled the tube out flat, starting at the crimped corners of the tube, and pressed and pushed and kneaded with our finger tips, there would indeed, be one more squeeze. Again. And sometimes again, some more.

The Neverending Tube. Practically magic.

Of course it wasn't really magic, but mom had a bit of an investment in our belief in a homegrown miracle of perpetual proportions, on par only with Jesus feeding the crowds with a basket of fish. ::Or was it a bucket of chicken?:: Or one peripausal mother single-crotchedly keeping Kotex financially afloat, via a mere 3- week production. So before the truth could not be squeezed from the tube, a replacement tube would appear.

As a result of recent developments at work ::Read: Shit Storms. No umbrella.:: I'm feeling much like that near-empty tube of toothpaste from my childhood. And the powers-that-be are sounding an awful lot like my mother: "There's always one more squeeze. If we roll her out flat, starting at the crimped corners of her toes, and press and push and knead her with our finger tips, there will, indeed, be one more squeeze."

I hope they realize that there's no guarantee that the product they're seeking will come from the hole they're watching, or will be of the substance they're expecting.

And So It Begins
Yesterday, says my husband: "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Cakers has a boyfriend. It's a secret. I promised not to say anything. To you."

"She told you not to tell me? Why?"

"I don't know. So don't say anything."

"How long have you known?"

"Wednesday."

Can a five year-old really be capable of breaking a mother's heart?

What am I supposed to do with the bitterness?

And the fear, for the future of our relationship?

Does she really not trust her own mother to keep a secret?

I'll keep you all posted on any breaking developments.

Oh yeah, his name is Cody.

Hair Spray
I get my hair colored every six weeks and a touchup every three weeks in between. For the three week appointment, my hairdresser applies the color to my sideburns and forehead hairline and sends me on my way, to rinse at leisure when I get home.

This system is a pain, mostly because by the time I get to the car, I look mighty strange and always get odd looks from fellow travelers on the road.

So yesterday my hairlady tells me they have a new touch-up product. Spray paint. For hair. She said it might work better than our present system, in that I could touch it up as needed at home and not have to wait for the three weeks. ::Weeks which are getting longer and longer, in direct proportion to the rate of my hair getting grayer and grayer.::

For about three seconds the idea was intriguing to me. And then I had a vision of reality. A vision of what Spray Paint For Hair, in my hands, would look like. And it went something like this:


I started laughing so hard, my hair lady had to stop cutting, so as not to accidently lop off the nearest orifice cover. My hair lady knows and loves me well. And after a few moments of contemplation of her own, she less than reluctantly agreed with my concern.

The work schedule this week will likely be blog-post/logical-thought prohibitive.
Just sayin'.
Cause I can just say that.
What I just said.

Labels: My Daughter Scares Me, With Grace My Ass

Icehole Drivers
Friday's drive to work was the worst I'd experienced all winter. I don't usually take the expressway unless I know it will be safe and dry. Friday I didn't know it wasn't safe and dry until I was already well into my route.

And far from safe and dry it was. It was windy, icy, snowy and blowy. As soon as my AWD treads hit the pavement, I could feel it was going to be a bumpy ride.

Lucky for me, I was immediately able to nestle behind a semi-truck with his flashers on, evidently in fair warning that he was going slow, no matter. I followed him the entire 14 mile stretch to work.

In fact, he got off at the same exit I did. I gave him a nod of appreciation at the stop light, but I'm pretty sure he had no idea who the hell I was. Maybe he thought he was going to get lucky at the next vacant parking lot. Or not. He looked only about 30 years old and sometimes I forget I'm almost 50 and no longer hold much of a hey-there-trucker-you-want-summa-this? kind of allure.

But anyway, I was appreciative of my little tug boat leading me to safe harbor. This is especially true in light of the gazillion asshole drivers that were going too fast to notice the half-dozen or so recent spin-outs, resting in the ditch, or the flashing lights of police and rescue vehicles along the side of the highway. Neither did they seem to recognize that what appeared to be harmless moisture on the road, was in fact a thin glaze of ice. ::Clue: If it's 20 degrees or colder, not counting a windchill, that water on the road is probably ice.::

Friday through Saturday, we were dumped upon with another 10-12 inches, leaving poor Cheddar with not much room to twirl for his morning poo.



I missed the shot I intended, which was him sitting in that snow hole staring forlornly towards his favorite pooping grounds, now a snow pile too far.

Hustle and Flow
All that being said, ain't no blizzard blizzy enough to keep me from one of the biggest yarn events in the history of our little tri-state region. ::And all that being said, ain't no blizzard blizzy enough to keep me from any hyerbolic frenzy. And I don't know exactly to which tri-state area I'm referring, but I've always wanted to use that tri-state term in a hyerbolic, frenzied kind of way, and personally, I'm glad to have it out now out of the way.::

The Threadbears were having a huge sale, with 20-70% off a broad selection of yarns. But they weren't giving away the farm, as I erroneously surmised in an email to Rob, the previous day. Upon my arrival and after a couple big hugs, Rob was quick to assure me, again, that they were not giving away the farm or the yarn or any other damn thing, which I read as a warning to not stuff my pockets with farms or yarns or any other damn thing, without expecting to pay. Duly noted.

It's been over a year since my last trip to Lansing, and I was not disappointed. After breaking up a verbal-turned-physical altercation between Matt and some guy, I had a lovely shop-about, followed by a recap with Rob of my infamous period piece. Said recap included my yelling "I need a tampon that sucks!" to a complete stranger sitting halfway across the room, in earshot of several other strangers.

Rob made me.

::Gosh. I'd been thinking maybe I need to get out more, but now I'm thinking maybe, uh, no.::

Between the inappropriate disclosures and unsolicited therapeutic interventions, I also managed to snag myself some yarn.

REAL yarn. The kind REAL knitters use.
And it went something like this:



Ummm-hmmm. This is not a filiment of your imagination. Marcia got the shit. Lorna's Laces Lion and Lamb.

Ummm-hmmm. That's right. Me and Lorna's Laces. A perfect match. Like doorknobs and a box. Bags and hair. Baby Jesus and butter.

I also grabbed some Berroco Hip-Hop at 70% off.



I've been fussing all day today, trying to get a good read on an intended purpose for the Lion and Lamb stuff. Rob pointed out that this is the yarn for the Clapotis,a pattern that never seemed my cuppa tea. But I'm definitely thinking a lacey spring shawl or drapey, oversized scarf. And I might now be regretting putting back that fourth skein.

I definitely need to not stay away so long this time, guys, and maybe even come up with some new interesting blog posts in the meantime. Heh. Something in a dangling 'gina, perhaps?

Fur the Love of Feet
La is having a contest. All you have to do is post pictures of cute critter feet from your household, and drop her a comment to come and see.

So here are some pictures guaranteed to give you paws.





Work is wicked crazy these days, and will likely remain so from here through mid-May. Or more. Just sayin'. That. What I just said. I did.

Speaking of no sayin' just sayin' go say hi to Marin, a new blogger I found in my site meter. ::And boy, was she happy to see me. Can you imagine being stuck in my site meter? On a Sunday?:: Just make sure you read her slow. If you go too fast, your heart might start racing and you'll find yourself having to take a break and a deep breath, about halfway through. Of course, if you're not double dosing on cough medicine, it might be entirely different for you.

I apologize for the behemoth post. With my current and upcoming employment demands, this was the only way for me get caught up on my sharing.

But now I'm done.

Okay.

And I'm really leaving.

And I really mean it.

This time.

Starting...now.

No, wait.

Okay.

Now.

Labels: From My Loins, Fur, Hustle and Flow, With Grace My Ass

The following post is sponsored by Costco bakery and Bob Evans' pre-packaged mashed potatoes.

Yesterday I was sitting in a meeting at work, pretending to take copious notes on every participant's every thought and feeling, but instead I wrote out my grocery requirements for Thanksgiving dinner. Unfortunately, the people at the meeting were not speaking in list format, so I had to write out my grocery list items embedded in complete sentences. For appearances, you know.

I thought I was being pretty damn clever until I arrived at the grocery store and tried working from a list that included things like "9th grade Organic Turkey weighs 15 pounds or so. Several attempts were made to reach his Butter and Rolls on Grigio's Celery but it was out of Beans."

Anyway.

While writing out my grocery list essay, I realized my hostess heart wasn't in its usually bright and anticipatory place for Thanksgiving, likely on account of having blown the bulk of my Giving wad on Sunday.

And then I had a brilliant, hostess-heart-lifting idea: Pre-packaged mashed potatoes and Costco pumpkin pie. ::Hey, it's the gravy that matters the most and Costco pumpkins are great. There will still be homemade apple pie. K? Just one.::

Having these two items off of today's to-do list means I can now spend some time with you.

Well,yay.

Marketing Damn-o-Graphics
I used to be in the cool kids direct mailing loop of sales catalogs. You know, like J. Crew and Victoria's Secret.

On my 48th birthday, I came home to two new-to-me fashion catalogs: IOS or Individual Original Style (WTF kind of name is that?), and a long underwear catalog. Swear.

When I opened the first catalog, I nearly wept. This is who some important somebody who molds and forms and influences the fashion thoughts of the world, thinks I am, now that I'm almost 50?

Elastic waist knit pants?

Sequined animal print jackets?

Dangling baubles the size of a newborn's noggin?

As I walked to the trash can, I flipped through the rest of the catalog thinking, "No fucking way people. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. You'll have to drag me kicking and screaming to this Early-Bird-Special-Fresh-Hell....oh wait. What's this?"

That's kind of cute. Drape-y yet fashionable. But I have nothing to wear it with.

What about the pants in the picture? Hmmm...Boot-cut, stretch-knit pants with Hollywood Elastic Waist. In salsa.

Hollywood Elastic Waist? Why didn't you say so in the first place?

The Hollywood Elastic Waist is nothing like the elastic used in pants for the common aging woman with puppy paunch and degenerative bladder control. You know, the Toledo-Dayton Elastic Waist.

Nothing. Like. That.

This is obviously the elastic waistband of the stars, people. Hollywood.

And I walked that damn catalog back into the office, where it's sitting high on a shelf, alongside my self-respect.

See how they are?

WTF?

Look Under There
Now, the long underwear catalog was too damn freaky to be insulting.

I can so relate to a cozy Saturday night of cribbage on the couch, in my long underwear. Can't you? And they don't look a bit awkward.

A little later in the evening you can switch it up a bit with some sexy costumes and role plays of Our Favorite Child-Hood Cartoon Characters.



Says Josie to the G.I. Joe, "I have been a very bad pussy cat."

This was my favorite.



I guess the message here is "You might be too old for the slopes, but you are never too old to stand around outside the ski resort in your long underwear, holding a pair of antique skis."

WTF?

Pubes and Mashed Potatoes
The other day I got out of work on time and rushed home for a workout before picking up the Cakers. On the way home, I noticed some amazing cloud patterns and decided to go on a photo shoot instead. I headed to the local lake for the best shots. Unfortunately, the best of the puffs had passed by that point. The pictures I did get were not as good in pixel as they were in real life.

This one didn't look too impressive until I started fiddling with it in my photo software. Here's what I got after hitting the auto-fix button:



Yet another good reason to go with the pre-packaged.
Enjoy.
And WTF.
And all that.

P.S. I took out some images and replaced with links to images in an attempt to fix the margin problem that pushed my posts down. This required some republishing.

P.P.S. None of my fiddling worked. Sorry.

Labels: With Grace My Ass, WTF Wednesday

I've been working on a real post, but this ain't it.

I really shouldn't even be doing this right now because I'm supposed to be getting my house ready for guests later today. It's a birthday celebration of sorts, for me and my mom.

The guests kind of invited themselves. Initially I tried to say no, but it came out along the lines of "It's really not a good time for us, with Eric working 2 jobs and all, and I'm having guests for Thanksgiving a few days later. Ask around and if no one else can do it, I will."

2 hours later the follow-up call came to tell me the contract to throw my own birthday party was my own. I'm pretty sure the person simply set a kitchen timer before calling me back, to make it look like he/she tried.

This person who made all the arrangements also agreed to make all the arrangements for who is bringing what so the only prep I am responsible for is hiding the empties and scraping out the toilet bowl.

This person has also been unavailable to me by phone for several days. A sibling suggested I call the person's cell phone, but then we both agreed that would be a bad idea, because this person doesn't know how to use the phone and hearing it ring might just make him/her cry.

I'd love to share more, but I need to save something for my book, which won't be published until my entire family has either died, been incarcerated or gone completely off their nuts.

Got Bent?
This is what's left of my birthday flowers.



Last night The Cakers said "Look at your flowers, mommy!"

"I know, they're old."

"No mommy, they're not old. They're just bent."

Bent. Yup.

No Clever Headings Today.
Here's me Red Scarf, in all his/her fringed glory.



I've decided I don't care for the making of fringe. I find it a fussy awkward affair.

Meme Streak
Because I've nothing else.

This one's been floating around. I saw it first at Rabbitch

You can only type one word in response to the prompt.

1. Yourself: bleary
2. Your boyfriend/girlfriend (spouse): mine
3. Your hair: tsunami
4. Your mother: awol
5. Your Father: deceased
6. Your Favorite Item: camera
7. Your dream last night: Japanese
8. Your Favorite drink: wine
9. Your Dream Car: red
10. The room you are in: dining
11. Your Ex: which?
12. Your fear: loss
13. What you want to be in 10 years? alive
14. Who you hung out with last night? dog
15. What You're Not? organized
16. Muffins: poppyseed
17. One of Your Wish List Items: time
18. Time: insufficient
19. The Last Thing You Did: scanned
20. What You Are Wearing: pajamas
21. Your Favorite Weather: fallish
22. Your Favorite Book: ShellSeekers
23. The Last Thing You Ate: Cornmuffin
24. Your Life: tight
25. Your Mood: waytight
26. Your best friend: husband
27. What are you thinking about right now? housework
28. Your car: garbagebomb
29. What are you doing at the moment? typingduh
30. Your summer: glorious
31. Your relationship status: Yummy
32. What is on your TV? FairlyOddParents
33. What is the weather like? dreary
34. When is the last time you laughed? thismorning

who else will do this? Unknown.

I don't know where I saw the link to this one, but I found the precision of the results pretty amazing, seeing as how I live in the Great Lake State and all.

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Inland North You may think you speak "Standard English straight out of the dictionary" but when you step away from the Great Lakes you get asked annoying questions like "Are you from Wisconsin?" or "Are you from Chicago?" Chances are you call carbonated drinks "pop."
The Midland
The South
The Northeast
Philadelphia
The West
Boston
North Central
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

I seriously can't believe I got such a high score on this one. I did not pay attention in high school. I have, however, always been a good guesser.



Bring 'er Home
I've been working on a post for days about the slow dawning on my density that as I've aged over the past couple of years I have become a new marketing demograph. And just this week it has decidedly kicked my ass morale.

However, what with throwing myself a birthday party and planning a Thanksgiving feast and my ever imploding caseload at work which requires my coming home every night to pick the residual particles out of my brain before I can function further, there will likely be no real posting again until the last Turkey has Trotted.

And I mean it.

And I briefly scanned this post for glaring whatevers but otherwise it's going to publication as is.

Pretty much.

Labels: Charity Knits, Knit Done, MEME, With Grace My Ass

If when you die you get a choice between pie heaven and regular heaven, choose pie heaven. It might be a trick, but if not, mmmboy. -Jack Handey

In January, I started the ABC-along with A for Acceptance. Of my Ass. ::Review here. If you're feeling lazy, here's a brief recap: I was not handling well, my mid-life love handles and ASSociated features. While living in a van down by denial, I was pretending my ass was the same as it ever was and dressed it accordingly. With poor results. Under the influence of newfound levels of Acceptance, I vowed to be the bigger woman and buy my new body some new clothes that actually fit.::

Fast forward some months. I said I loved me, but I lied. Okay, I didn't lie, exactly. I hedged. I did take myself shopping, but the plan to find an updated, tucked-in image, got all tucked up.

While I didn't find the look I was looking for, I did find:

1) The miracle of Cellulight. You know,that special lighting in department store dressing rooms that awashes every dimpled ripple in a unique hue known as Dead Fish Underbelly.

2) That before I could tuck in a blouse, I had to tuck in the rolls of me underneath, which adds inches to the waistline waist area, and is a tad uncomfortable.

3) There are no Kleenex in dressing rooms.

4) There should be Kleenex in dressing rooms.

5) There is no booze in dressing rooms.

6) There should be booze in dressing rooms.

So,my Newly Accepted Big Ass Wardrobe ended up being three Calvin Klein ribbed turtleneck sweaters from Costco, in maroon, black and cream. ::Shut up. I hearted these garments all winter. They fit like a dream and looked great with the Gloria Vanderbilt elastic waist khakis, also courtesy of Costco.::

In March I ordered a cache of spring dresses from a favorite catalog, in what I presumed to be the appropriately larger dress size. A size, mind you, that I had never worn before. This larger dress size thing was kind of painful at first, but then I was okay with it. Because I was all about the Acceptance and shit.

Well, out of the five dresses I ordered,four were too small. That's right. The dresses I ordered in a size larger than the largest I had ever grown, were too small. The one dress that did fit was a black tanky sheathy thing, made out of that heavy spandex fabric that looks good on everyone.

Acceptance my ass. The bitch is going down.

I started to watch what I eat and exercise more. The watching the eating was not a huge adjustment, because during the school year, I really eat pretty well. I eat breakfast and usually a healthy lunch, with a snack in between. And almost always a healthy dinner, with lots of veggies.

I then upped my 30 minutes per day on the elliptical to 40 and resumed my pilates workout. Several weeks later, I hopped on the scale. Nothing new.

A few more weeks pass. Same hop. Same result.

Says my supportive husband: "Just think how big you'd be by now if you weren't doing anything?" Blink.

One day at lunch, a friend tells me that her personal trainer told her that women our age need to do at least 50 minutes of cardio at a time, to get into our fat stores. Oh.

So I upped my elliptical to 50 minutes. Nothing.

Then another friend told me that she heard the elliptical is not a good workout for women our age because we work it too hard and when we work it too hard for too long periods of time, our brain thinks we're going to overburn our fat stores so it slows down our metabolism. Oh.

So I started walking. 50 minutes a day, 4-5 times a week. Nothing.

In late May, I upped my walking time to 1 hour and 15 minutes, 4-5 times a week. Nothing. By the end of July, still nothing.

So, a few weeks ago, I'm talking to yet another friend about my frustations and she says that her personal trainer said that walking is a good supplemental activity and better than sitting on the couch, but it has very few fat burning or cardio benefits, unless you're speedwalking. Oh. That. Bitch.

When did the simple math of calories burned vs. calories earned get so damn complicated? If you don't eat enough, your brain thinks you're starving, so it slows down your body's metabolism. If you don't work out hard enough, your brain thinks you've got a bad attitude and punishes you by only burning the light and fluffy calories. If you work out too hard and for too long, your brain thinks you're fixin' to wander the desert for the next 300 years, so shuts down the metabolism. And now I learn that merely walking an hour a day, is not only a waste of time, but puts unnecessary wear and tear on the taxpayers sidewalk.

Of course, I tried the speedwalking. For two blocks. I stopped because I was afraid that my brain was going to be so embarrassed for me that it would tell my body to speedwalk me into 5 o'clock traffic.

Where am I going with all this? I'm kind of confused myself, but I think a segue is strolling the parkway.

Giving up on Futility
Remember the only dress from the batch I bought that fit? That dress is very important to me. Not only is it one of about three things in my closet that actually fits, it is also a symbol of hope. Hope that the world can be a fair, sensible place, even if 4 out of 5 dresses don't agree.

The recently DeCeCeased CeCe was supposed to be a companion garment to that dress, for fall. It was to serve as a little fashion coupe de grace for the terminally enlarging, on a deadline. So her failure to thrive was a double wham slam on at least a couple of my personal agendas.

But the only thing I'm giving up on at this point is futility. Before the Yarnball-Formerly-Known-as-CeCe had cooled in the bag, I had purchased two new cardie patterns on-line, neither of which worked out.

Next, I scoured through some old magazines and books and came across the ol'Cafe Cardigan from a 2005 Cast-on. I always loved that pattern and was real excited when the Sierra gave me perfect gauge.



After some email consulting with Cafe Cardie pioneer Bron, it was gonna be a go. And then it wasn't. It was the fabric issue again. After casting on and knitting a couple inches on the back, I realized it wasn't the fabric that the pattern was looking for, again. It's weird how sometimes you can't tell about the fabric until you get the whole thing going.

Then I happened upon this ol' fave from a Mission Falls pattern book. The Trudie Cardigan.



A quick little swatch with ruffled embellishment, found me singing the Got-Gauge-and-Fabric-Hallelujah chorus.



::I've actually got about 4 inches done on the back of the sweater, but Blogger wouldn't let me...well...you know. I should have known better, really. It is, after all, a day on Earth.::

As of this morning, according to my scale I have suddenly lost seven pounds. ::Same scale that I heretofore believed only registered gains and losses in 10 pound intervals::

Unfortunately I haven't noticed any changes in how my clothes fit, except maybe the back strap of my bra is a bit looser. And I guess my socks are feeling kind of baggy around the ankle. And that notorious little problem area behind the knee ::knee elbow?:: is looking pretty good, after all.

I don't know how this happened so quickly. Maybe my brain told my body that stupid is as stupid does and that I got gauge and fabric after all, and to throw me a fucking bone?

Or maybe my brain told the bod that we are in desperate need of a little insurance, vis-a-vis documentable encourgement, so I won't pull that speedwalking stunt again. Otherwise, somebody's really gonna get hurt.

Either way, giving up on futility works for me.

Labels: When Knitting You is Hurting Me, With Grace My Ass

I only had one New Year’s resolution for this year, which was to find and remove the last of the pencils from under my boob. But then I came across this woman,and changed my mind. Now, she gets boobs.

Be sure to check out her other blog, which is alleged to be more chatty. And her Christmas Day post is a must read. You can almost smell the boozey breath of the carolers in the park. Oh yeah, and her profile. Read her profile.

Back so soon?
Okay! Okay!

You Say You Wanna Resolution?
I never could do the New Year resolution thing. It's not entirely due to my possessing the attention span of a flea. And neither is it directly related to the fact that I am so oppositional, I routinely defy myself. ::An ex-beau once called me Terminally Oppositional. Quite a compliment, coming from a clinical psychologist. Later, I wondered if he wasn't on some level, wishing me dead. I always preferred to think of myself as Fiercely Independent.::

What I don't like about resolutions is that they are not human-friendly. Being human is a process. Every day of living brings a new thought or perspective, on something. No day, in the life of a human, is exactly the same as another. Resolutions, however, are not fluid, or process-oriented. Resolutions are rigid. Resolute. Even.

One year, I made a pitiful attempt to incorporate the New Years resolution with human process, as follows: Starting January 1, I will no longer be fettered by the corollary implications of being a self-serving, lazy, redundant, brazen boozer and part-time strumpet. I was back in therapy by the ides of February.

I like Stacey Joy's idea, of an annual plan. While she didn't necessarily say that her plan would be in lieu of a New Year's resolution, I really like the idea of a New Year Plan. A plan is process. Fluid. Malleable. In fact, it can be written into a New Year Plan that the Plan can be cancelled at any time. ::Makes for a nice soft landing, when falling off the commitment wagon.::

We're On the Segue to Hell
I just barely made it into the new, cool, year-long meme thangy (i.e. guaranteed post material, at least once every two weeks) The ABC Along*. For those knot in the know, it's about the ABC's. And pictures. You can read all about it at Anne's blog.

This week's picture is sponsored by the letter A.

A is for Acceptance.



Over the past year, I have had a difficult time accepting the changes in my body, brought on by middle age. For several months, with the assistance of my best friend Denial, I was able to cling to the hope that one day I will get back into my favorite jeans, which are two sizes smaller than my current ass.

Even after adjusting for size, I continue to shop for clothes with my old, er, former body shape in mind. I guess I still see myself as that girl. But the styles that once became me, now betray me. It's not a good look. These are the things I must accept. Unfortunately, my closet is still filled with the clothes of Denial, which means that most days I go to work looking either skank or frump.

Therefore, Marcy's New Year Plan for 2006 will be about Acceptance. I will not only accept and embrace my plumper, juicy ass, I will also dress her up in the finest, most stylin' of garb.

From now on my pants will be boot cut. And worn with belts, with shirts tucked in. (I can't do the shirttails hanging under the short sweater thing. I always worry that I'll accidently tuck them in, after using the toilet. And how embarrassing would that be? I can't even think about it.::

I'm going to redefine my look, in a style befitting both my personality and my new bod.

::Okay, I'm really tired and put way too much pressure on myself to get this post out, tonight. But I will, dang it.::

The bottom line is that the vibrant, sexy, stylin' young thang that I thought I used to be, is still here, somewhere. I need to pick her up and dust her off and give her a big smooch.

Then take her shopping.

And maybe someone should do us all a favor, and drop a hint along the same line, to Mariah Carey? I mean, did anyone see her New Year's eve getup? It looked like a little something she picked up at Tonya Harding's last garage sale.

And, so ya know, I'll probably be cutting back to two posts a week for a while.** Things are hopping at work and home. And I still have to get to studying for that big test.

A is for Aye Really Tired. G'night.

*I'll post the ABC webring thangy later this week. Dude. It's late.

**With the same number of commas.

Edit Note: This post was edited 7am, Thursday, for your reading comfort. I am now late for work. I'll probably be fired, which means there will be lots more commas in all your respective futures.

Labels: ABC, Boobs and Pee and Poo, With Grace My Ass

Okay. I started this post last Thursday. Then I updated it on Friday, with new information. But when I saved the update, I somehow brainfarted it into pixel dust. Then I mostly rewrote it. And Blogger ate it.

And now, it's 9:00 Sunday night, at the close of a fairly suckass weekend. And at 10pm, I have a date with a cat and a couch and some Gray's Anatomy. Which means, at 10:00, I hit publish, no matter what I got. Serious. Ain't even dinkin'.

Lucky My Ass
You may remember my recent, lame-assed lament about how my jeans no longer fit? Well, last week, a friend happened to mention that she found the best jeans ever, for middle-age afflictions of the flesh. Lucky Brand Easy Riders. Because I had no time to, or interest in, going to the mall (and what would I wear, anyway?) I searched online and found a good, Lucky deal here.

I Lurve Them.
Luuurve.
Lrr....
See for yourself. No more Credit Card Swiper Ass for me. (CCSA is Camel Toe of the Ass.)

These jeans remind me much of the boy's Levi's I wore all through high school. Nice and comfy, loose and tight in all the right places.

::How am I doing on time? Hmmmm....9:36. Not so good.::
Keystone Caps
Last spring I wrote about my nephew, who had gotten himself into some real deep and real stinky legal doo. Well, after seven months of much emotional and mental and legal angst, he's leaving the country to attend a residential treatment program for adolescents with B1-p0lar dis0rder.

My nephew is a brilliant, eclectic, artsy young man, and is almost always donning a knit cap of some kind. So, to commemorate this huge, scary and hopefully life altering journey, I decided to make him a cap. To help keep his thoughts in order.

Here's the picture I was going to post Thursday night, on my progress to boot. The yarn is Mission Falls 1824 wool. The pattern is a bastardization of Stacey Joy's Marsan Watchcap. (I'm leaving off the cuff, since he's going to tropical climes.)



::Okay, it's 9:49. It's gonna get wacky....Just sayin'::

So, it seemed to be going well. I was just knitting away, whilst sipping on Chambord martinis and wondering if I should fetch my row counter from my husband's car. Nah. Says I. How hard can it be to count rows of ribbing? I says. Followed with damn, my husband shakes a fine tini. Now, where was I? ::9:58. shit::

So, what's the toll for a night on the couch with boozin' and knittin' and good intentions?

Cakers got a brand new hat. My little Beat Chick.



::It's 9:59. I'm posting. No checkie the typo....no obsessing the boo-boo...I can't believe I'm really doing this...it's fun!::

Labels: Knit Done, With Grace My Ass

Sorry about the dearth of updates this week, here at Chez Swine. Evidently a weekend in heaven has its price and I’ve been a busy girl, at work and home.

Without much else of interest going on in my life, I can only offer the following boondoggle:

1) If you buy a twinpack of Slim Jims from the office vending machine, and you notice that, after consuming the first weenie, the second weenie has an oddish, greenish pallor, do not eat the weenie. I repeat: Do not eat the weenie.

Evidently, the oddish, greenish pallor found on a tube of petrified cow-ass, is a sign. A sign easily misread as Green for Go Ahead and eat it. When it really was warning: Green is for the color of your face, in response to the pain. And Go, as in, you will. Much.

2) Every year, around this time, an insidiously repugnant disease makes its way around our neighborhood. It’s known as “Getting-Booed-Sucksalottis.” You can read about it here.
Sure, it sounds all cute and cozy and kind and neighborly. But I hate it. For one thing, since when is Halloween about spreading good cheer? Halloween is about dead people.

But the bottom line, for me, is that this Booed crap is a pain in the ass. In our neighborhood, the rule is you must Re-Boo two other families, within 24 hours, or a hex is put on your household. Yeah, nice.

So, you get home from a long day at work and find the bag of crap on the front step. The most important task is to get copies made of the ghost and the instructions, so you can get the ghost in the window to ward off further blessings and to give your anonymous donors a nod of recognition.

But a person might forget to bring the papers to work, to copy. And then her husband's copy machine might run out of ink, mid- copy, requiring her to fill in the weak areas of the copies with a purple crayon, because she can't find any black markers, or crayons.

Then there's the shopping for the gifts. And putting the bags together. And trying to sneak them on a doorstep, without being seen. Activities to cram into an already busy life schedule.

Lucky for me, the vending machine company at work was holding what they called a "Product Recall Sale," so I was able to get gift bag booty, right there at work. A half dozen packages of Slim Jims, for practically nothing. ::For some reason, however, I'm particularly anxious that my identity remains unknown,this year. Fortunately, there haven't been any stories of late night trips to the E.R., passing 'round the 'hood.::

And next year, I'm going to be one of the first people on the block with a ghost in the window. On Labor Day.

3) On casual Friday, we get to wear jeans. Yesterday I wore dress slacks. Why? Because some time Thursday, while I slept, I was abducted by aliens, who brought me up into their spaceship and took two scoops of my ass, and applied them to the sides of my hips. One mooshy scoop a-piece.

Seriously, I could not zip my jeans. Either pair. I even laid down on the bed. Here's the weird thing: I wore these jeans last weekend, and I have not gained any weight, this week. Keep in mind, I do 40 to 50 minutes of cardio, 4 or 5 times a week. In fact, I've lost about three pounds over the past 10 days. Yet, somehow,and practically overnight, I developed these lumps of fat on my hips. And now my jeans don't fit.

Anybody?

4) The other day I was reading an animal book to The Cakers. She's had this book since babyhood, so was familiar with all the names for the animals. Or so I thought. When I pointed to the chinchilla and asked her what it was, she said she didn't know. So, I gave her a hint by pointing to my chin. She looked at my chin for a few seconds, then said "Whiskers?"

Knitting Knuggets
I only had one knitting op this week, but an update is forthcoming.

This is my first weekend, in a while, where I don't have any place I have to be. I think I'm gonna go enjoy a little piece of that. I'll leave you with a shot of the lake I took last weekend, at twilight.

Labels: Now You're Whining, Pho-Ho', With Grace My Ass

Keeping Abreast
I don't know where to start.

I've read that our poor tiny earth continues to vibrate in response to the recent, massive earthquake. I'm wondering if all this subliminal wiggling is taking a psychic toll on my home collection of beasts and children.

At 4 a.m. this morning The Cakers woke up, ready to greet her day in the usual way: Watching toonies in bed with daddy.

She didn't take the rejection well.

And bless my husband's fineassed soul for being the first responder to our little nocturnal emission. But sometimes that sweet man-o-mine is just a little too sweet.

At four in the morning, you don't open a can of delicate negotiation when dealing with a toddler. At four in the morning, ya need a can of whoopass. Of da momma variety.

Outta my way, I snarled past my bewildered, beboxered hunk.

Momentarily silent, The Cakers tried to stare me down.

It’s bed time. Lay down.

No.

I’m going to turn off your night light and shut the door. Let me know when you're ready to lay down and be quiet.

After 30 seconds of wailing, the sweet plea was heard and peace prevailed.

Back in bed, just moments after I fell back to sleep, I woke to the sound of Bella the Cat plucking her way across our box spring, downunder. This was followed with a quick "pluck around the world” along the box spring parameter, just before she jumped on my head to poke her nose in my nostril and breathe me deep.

After I got the plucky little furbitch settled ,The Man Who Lives in Cheddar’s Mouth* started up with the Babylonian baloney. Evidently the The Man Who Lives in Cheddar’s Mouth chattered to Cheddar that if he licked his empty ball sockets for 17 consecutive hours, his balls would grow back.

Evidently Cheddar believed him. Starting...now.

The subsequent hushing of the dog and entourage woke up the Bella, who required a couple sips from my left nostril before going back to sleep.

Clock says 5:15.
I say fuck.
30 minutes to liftoff.

Once up and showered, I was faced with the task of finding an appropriate costume outfit into which I could handily stuff my ever burgeoning breastial units.

Seriously. It's a daily enterprise. My D cups are now D lids. And I’m running out of things to wear. If I go slightly loose and drapey, I look, well, slightly loose and drapey. Like a cute little training tent from L'Ecole d'Omar.

Form fitting looks best these days, but then I feel like I’m bringing the kids to school for show and tell.

Today I went with a tight, black v-neck sweater and flouncy skirt.

Show and Tell meets Booby Tuesday.

Goodbye Booby Tuesday
I could hang a coat on you.
Seems you grow with every new day.
Are they real, or tissue?

Tuesday's Child is Full of MEME
I found this over at the Queens of MEME. While there, I was also able to preview my recent comment contest winnings (item 2, I presume?), the arrival of which I eagerly await. And yes La, it does pay to be a smart ass. And I suspect we have both earned a good wage over the years.

THREE NAMES I GO BY:
1. Marcia
2. Marcy
3. Mom

THREE SCREEN NAMES I HAVE HAD:
1. GumInHerHair
2. RubbitsTummy
3. DeadSeaSquirrels

THREE THINGS I LIKE ABOUT MYSELF:
1. Humor
2. I smell dead people
3. Good instincts

THREE THINGS I DON'T LIKE ABOUT MYSELF:
1. Disorganized
2. Easily suspicious
3. That my boobs won't stop growing

THREE PARTS OF MY HERITAGE:
1. Dutch
2. Irish
3. Pig Latinese

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE ME:
1. Spiders
2. Mothers of spiders
3. Passing semis on the freeway

THREE OF MY EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. Knitting
2. Eyebrow tweeze time
3. Coffee

THREE THINGS I AM WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. Sweet Honesty
2. Smartass grin
3. Minimally effective minimizer Bra

THREE OF MY FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS (at the moment):
1. Van Morrison
2. REM
3. Counting Crows

THREE OF MY FAVORITE SONGS (at the moment):
1. Into The Mystic - Van Morrison
2. Under Pressure - Queen and David Bowie
3. Drop it Like its Hot-Snoop Dogg

THREE NEW THINGS I WANT TO TRY IN THE NEXT 12 MONTHS::
1. To finish a sweater, and like it.
2. Not be such a loner
3. Gourmet cooking class.

THREE THINGS I WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
1. Trust
2. Reciprocation
3. Foreplay. Lotsa.

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE:
1. I redated and subsequently dumped every longterm bf who dumped me.
2. First Lady Betty Ford came to my high school graduation, apparently intoxicated.
3. I love watermelon.

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX (or same) THAT APPEAL TO ME:
1. Left Butt cheek
2. Right Butt cheek
3. Smile

THREE THINGS I JUST CAN'T DO:
1. Go to bed on time
2. Stop worrying that I have OCD
3. Get the laundry done.

THREE OF MY FAVORITE HOBBIES:
1. Knitting
2. Reading
3. Skiing

THREE THINGS I WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
1. Have a week all to myself.
2. Lose 15 pounds.
3. Tweeze my eyebrows (I lost my favorite tweeze and can't stop touching 'em)

THREE CAREERS I'M CONSIDERING:
1. Crossing guard
2. Hoochy Coochy girl
3. Queen

THREE PLACES I WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
1. Cornwall
2. Paris
3. Bahamas

THREE KID'S NAMES:
1. Duncan
2. Jackie
3. Ivy

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
1. Learn to play the piano
2. Visit Stonehendge
3. Figure out if you're trying to tell me something here.

THREE WAYS I AM STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:
1. I leave laundry on the floor, next to both hampers.
2. Preoccupation with my large breasts
3. Not a big snuggler.

THREE WAYS I AM STEREOTYPICALLY A CHICK:
1. Love to cook.
2. Analyze things to death
3. Total athletic klutz

THREE CELEB CRUSHES:
1. Andy Garcia
2. John Cusack
3. Usher

*Sometimes at night, a noise emits from Cheddars mouth that sounds exactly like a little man speaking a foreign language. It's both frightening and uncanny.

Labels: Bitchmom Screampants, Boobs and Pee and Poo, From My Loins, Fur, MEME, The Man Who Lives in Cheddar's Mouth, With Grace My Ass

Light Days Friday
Thanks for all the support and great product ideas in response to Thursday's post. I have to admit, yesterday I was a bit apprehensive about hitting the publish button. But today, I'm feeling the sisterhood!

Based on comments, however, it sounds like there's definitely a void in the tampon market. Maybe we need to push for a new product line. I kind of like the sounds of Vortex Sanitary Pads and Black Hole Tampons. Anybody up for a marketing venture?

'Ku du Jour
Pink Phallic Crochet
Effects of Smocking on Health
Google me funny!

Posting may be lean over the weekend, except for the Haiku commitment, of course. Have great weekends everyone.

Labels: Hustle and Flow, With Grace My Ass

Today's agenda
Evokes sanitary belt
To the writer's chop

On With the Flow
Disclaimer: The following post contains thoughts of a personal and graphic nature regarding the month-to-month feminine hygienx of a perimenopausal maniac. No apologies or knit content ensue.

First of all, I think I am handling this aging thing very well. That being said, I must admit that I’m not handling this aging thing very well.

Truth be, there ain’t no pussy padding around this issue. I’m just gonna cut to the trap. I need a better tampon.

I’ve been using tampons since 7th grade, after I snuck a box from my sister’s stash and taught myself to apply (there’s another story there, honies). Although I've changed brands and suck levels over the years, the tampon has always been my monthly mainstay. My endometrial end all. It was all I required. Period.

Due to unforeseen changes in the wax and wane of my ebb and flow, I’ve resorted to padding my monthly security protocal with self-adhesive maxi-pads. This new necessity is making me a tad, er, crotch-ity.

As a relative newcomer to the maxi-pad, and after enduring several months of its silent indignities, I have some questions. First of all, why do they make the maxi-pad adhesive out of material which is a natural repellant to cotton crotched undies? Said adhesive, however, has become quite enamored with the tender epidermis of my inner thighs, upper crev-ass and any skirt/pant fabric hanging near.

If I'm wearing a skirt and no hose, the crack, snapple, pop of a bunched up sticky pad, as it travels thigh to thigh, is audible to the naked ear. In fact, an untimely butt-cheek shift in a suddenly silent meeting may cause those in attendance to scan the room for a chewing gum bogart.

Aside from discomfort, if the pad in question is sticking every which place but loose, it’s not providing much protection. In fact, the maxi-move I lovingly refer to as the Jelly Roll (not to be confused with the notorious C*** Blunt configuration) places the moisture repelling plastic side in the direct flow of fire.

This leads me to my second question. If it is necessary that I endure the discomfort of having a maxi-pad stuck to assorted and various parts of my nether regions, why not give the discomfort some function? I mean, let's stick the landing on the first try. Why not sell a roll of duct tape with a box of old-fashion Kotex and allow me to stick it anywhere I please? It may not be more comfortable, but at least I know who’s got my back. And if there’s a dilapitorial benefit to boot...no hair off my ass.

Where you going? I’m not done.

But none of the above rant would be even be necessary if the tampon manufacturers hadn’t left me hanging by a string. Simply put, today’s tampons don’t suck. Enough.

Years ago, there was a Saturday Night Live skit that spoofed on a tampon product. In this parody, a woman jumps into a swimming pool (purportedly wearing the product in question) whereupon the pool water slowly disappears, presumably absorbed by the kick-ass hygiene product.

I want that tampon.

I want a tampon that gives me cotton mouth. Hell, I want my tampon to give anyone within a three foot radius of me cotton mouth. I want a tampon that’s so powerful, it makes my ears pop, coming or going.

I want a mature tampon. None of those cutesy crayola-pons for me. I want my tampon to be thick and meaty, like a Johnson & Johnsonville brat. And strong. So strong, in fact, that I will never again worry about going to the staff picnic, wearing a thong under a mini skirt...an untimely sneeze...on the bosses shoe...Never again.

This is all I want. This is my menstral’s song.

Labels: Hustle and Flow, With Grace My Ass

NFFHC
Not Fit For Human Consumption. That would be me. I used to experience this condition about once a month, for a day, if that. Now? Once a month, for about three weeks.

And now, a long premenopausal whine...
A Wreak in Review

Monday:
Gonna potty train the Cakers.
Big Girl Undies? Check (Bob Bob Bay Pants, even)
Potty Chair? Check
Case of M&M's? Check
Bladder of Steele? Double Check
Willing Participant? Uh, no.

The Cakers is thrilled with her new undies and wears them with pride. But when she has to pee, she asks for a diaper. That's when the fun begins.

Before getting the diaper, I bribe her to the potty chair with an M&M and a little poem (One piece for sitting and two for....peeing).

Once she's on the potty chair, I ply her with more M&M's, read her books, serve tall cups of water, run the faucet (oops, did I spill some on your leg?) and even tandem pee (hey, what's a girl to do with all that water running?). After 10 minutes (no pee), she abruptly stands, grabs her neveryoumind and demands a diaper, which I promise to fetch.

On the way to the diaper tree, I'm distracted. I check my email, empty the dishwasher, hava cuppa joe an read War and Pees.

Finally she yells, Momma! Diaper!

Here I come! I yell back. And show up with another book.

Read a book? I ask, donning the smile of a preacher's wife. The Cakers looks pained and her knees are clenched together. But she agrees.

Chocolate milk? Okay.

Giddy with confidence, I'm sure we'll soon be whizzing past all previoius expectations.

Alas, she starts twisting and writhing. She is no longer curious about George and whether or not he pees in the toilet or in the tree, or in the yellow hat.

She wants her diaper and she wants it now. I gotta pee!!! She cries from her potty chair, hands tucked below.

So I put the diaper on her (no need to traumatize, yet) and she skadiddles to the playroom. Two minutes later she hands the diaper back, wrapped tight and still steaming. Five pounder, I'm guessin'. Bladder of Steele. That'll serve us well, someday.

Tuesday: See Monday

Wednesday:
Senior Pictures.
First of all, my son approached my inquiry about senior pictures the same as he does questions about ACT applications, cleaning his room and current English grade: Huh?

Next came the argument:
Do I have to?.
Rite of Passage, says I.
Exasperated sigh. So you're telling me I can't be a senior without a senior picture?
Yes, that's what I'm telling you.
(I've only myself to blame. He wasn't pottied until 9th grade).

Then he was assigned to find a photographer.
How do I do that?
Have any of your friends had their pictures taken?
Huh?
Friends...pictures....have they?
Mom. ::insert OMG look:: We don't talk about stuff like that. Like "Dude, I had my senior pictures taken today, it was sweet."

He finally came up with a photographer and I made the appointment. Then came the outrage and disgust that this event was to suck up two hours of his precious sleep life. You'd think I'd asked him to look through his undie drawer, in search of my misplaced sani-thong.

Then came the argument about what to wear. Remarkably, he was able to pull a couple decent outfits from some dark, stinky place. But only after I threatened to take him shopping.

Overall, the shoot went better than I expected. The photographer was well-versed in methods of hooking the adolescent ego, without being schmaltzy. He even convinced Cam to walk to a nearby park, taking shots all the way down the busy street.

But dang, if I ain't parenting in a couple different worlds.

Thursday: I gained 10 pounds. (In all fairness, it took all day... )

Friday:
To husband, I say: I'm fat.
Says Husband, in return: But you try so hard not to be.

Saturday:
I cry.

Weighty update
I don't feel fat anymore. In fact, my jeans are so tight, I don't feel anything below the waist.

Labels: Bitchmom Screampants, Boobs and Pee and Poo, From My Loins, Passages, With Grace My Ass

I win. Right?

Pholph's Scrabble Generator My Scrabble© Score is: 26. What is your score? Get it here.

And if the Good Lord would've castigated the pipples for sharing the family jewels with horses instead of pigs....It'd be a slam dunk.

Pholph's Scrabble Generator My Scrabble© Score is: 33. What is your score? Get it here.

Speaking of slam dunks (no, not basketball story yet, maybe not ever. We need to get over ourselves over here.) some of you might remember my post about my inner Aunt Bea having a smack down perpetrated upon her by The Cakers' day care provider? (Refresher here, "Hope Lies Bleeding..." August 7 or so) Well, (are you sitting?) last weekend, My Sweet Ana ate my pot roast. Not only did she eat it, she said "Mmmmmm." I was a little worried about her agreeing to the carrots on account of them being all browned from the gravy, but she asked for seconds.

No knitting updates yet. Too much going on. I did haul out my Smocking on the Move piece and now worry that it is too small. It may need more ease. Boobease.

I've been in a bit of denial about my middle aging body and recently resorted to buying a Minimizer* bra to help me maintain the facade that I'm the same as I ever was. Although the Minimizer is somewhat effective in reducing the appearance of excess boobage, I've determined that it's less a minimizing system than a "redistribution" system.
*A bra designed to reduce the appearance of boobs by one bra size.

In fact, it seems to me that the minimizer bra concept works much like my own yarn redistribution system: Stuff into small containers and hide where no one will look. The engineered hiding place for my vintage classics? Under the armpits. No one will ever look there, the logistical experts figured. And they were right.

So let's raise our cups to those fabulous foundation pioneers with the courage to think outside the underwire.

For the record: Most days I have a pretty good idea of where I'm taking a post when starting out. Today was not one of them.

Labels: From My Loins, With Grace My Ass