Obesity

As neighbor Kate and I sat at our craft show, not selling anything, we were discussing getting new clothes. I have this little problem as of late, where my jeans seem to be hanging off me. I'm not complaining, by the way. But I'm not a perfect size 6 like she is, so I was telling her how hard it is for us "full figured gals" to find good fitting jeans. I had previously told her that one of my favorite stores is Torrid. I call it the - and you have to say it fast to make it sound better - "fat chick hoochie mama store". See? Funny, huh? They have sizes right up my alley. And when I go there, I can buy their smallest size, which is a huge self esteem boost for me.

They have all sorts of clothes. Modern and classic, trendy and slutty, basics and accessories. Shoes, too, but I don't have fat feet, only a fat middle, so I can't wear their shoes.

Anyway, Kate proceeds to tell me to head on over to Morbid to get me some new jeans. Of course this strikes me as totally hilarious, because I had never realized how closed Torrid and Morbid sound. And when I hear Morbid, I think Morbidly obese. I wonder if their Think Tank thought of that? Probably did, and thought us fat chicks wouldn't be so quick. But leave it to the skinny girls to point it out.

So today I'm off to Morbid to find some new jeans. Wish me luck.

Biggest Girl

The other day, Gretta woke up from her nap and she was soaked. Sometimes this happens when she falls asleep in the car, and I can actually move her into her crib without her awakening. The problem with this is that the diaper she is wearing usually needs changing, but no way in Heck am I tempting nap fate with that one. It's just a risk I'm willing to take.

So she's wet. I change her, and her crib sheets, and the zillion blankets inside it. She likes it when they're all clean, she says they have a "rate mell", translated that means great smell. And they do. I love Bounty.

Fast forward to that night. Time for bed. Jammies on, prayers said, tucking in has commenced. Problem. No crib sheet. Or zillion blankets. Still in the washer. Hmmm. So I get this crazy idea to tell Gretta her crib is broken. She has to sleep in the bunk bed. Bottom, of course, what kind of mother do you think I am? She agrees, I tuck her in, give her a book, an extra pillow, a little blankie, and her glow worm.

I leave the room fully expecting her to return to the balcony asking for her crib. A few minutes pass, and nothing. Hmm. I settle in to watch some DVR'd shows, thinking certainly as soon as the plot gets good, she would poke her head out. Nothing. So and entire show goes by, and still not a peep. I see this as two things. Very good, as in she is sound asleep, and happily making the transition to a big bed, or very bad as in she has found the lotion and is becoming Degas on the walls as we speak.

So up the stairs I stalk. Quietly quietly. This girl is the lightest sleeper in the world. I open her door ever so slowly, expecting a whiff of lotion or wipes or anything naughty kids would find to occupy their time. Nothing. I peek around the corner of the bunks, and sure enough, there lies Gretta, snug as a bug in a rug. Sound alseep. In a big bed. It was a miracle.

So for three nights now, her crib has been "broken", and she is fine with sleeping in the big bed. I worrry a little because there aren't any railings holding her in, but she hasn't fallen out yet. And even if she does, it's only a few inches to the ground, so I doubt she'd really care. Now the discussion. Do we take apart the crib? Or find another body to fill it?



On a different note, let me just tell you. I am in the midst of the worst depression I've ever experienced. I cannot for the life of me get above it. I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel. I had to say the opening prayer at church yesterday, and I completely sobbed through the whole thing. The opening prayer, people. It went pretty much downhill from there for the rest of the day. We bailed out of church and decided to take a drive into Wisconsin to see if I could relax and compose myself. I cried for 3 hours. I am on new meds, and even a supplement of a relaxant, but still, there are times when even the simplest of tasks seems overwhelming. My kids think (know?) I'm crazy, and they're tired of me always yelling at them or crying for no reason.

I don't know why I'm telling you this. Maybe I just need to get it off my chest. Maybe I just need to have another pity party. But this isn't really a pity party. It's more than even Post Partum Depression. It's more than anything I've ever felt. Someone actually told me it's because of the time change. Yeah, genius, I'm sure I've been depressed for weeks because of the time change. Idiot. Maybe I just need some advice on how to get over it. I've turned to many sources. Friends, prayer, prayer, prayer, and even had a friend over last night for a priesthood blessing. I just don't know what else to do. When will I finally learn the lesson I've been given?

Whatever it is, I know big girls aren't supposed to cry.

Friday Fun

This weeks entry comes from Ken, of Michelle and Ken. He has some pretty funny stories from his various rotations throughout medical school. We were discussing funny names one night, and he came up with this one. He wrote it out and asked if any of us could figure out how to pronounce it.

Just so you know, I failed miserably. But you should totally try.

Here it is.

La-Ah.

Happy Friday!


* Okay, I know you give up. Here it is.

You pronounce it La dash uh. As in the dash isn't silent. Can you believe it? And I thought my name was always getting spelled wrong!

Beaten

The other day I made a killer lasagna. My trick? Rinse the cottage cheese, then drain it through a tea towel to make it nice and crumbly. Then add it to the Ricotta, with a beaten egg and some Parmesan. Delish.

But it was killer in another way, as well.

You see, I like to eat leftovers for lunch, and I was so excited to have a slice of this tasty cheesy treat yesterday. I microed it, covered in a paper towel of course, and then let it sit in the microwave while I patiently waited for it to reach eatable temperature. When it was time, I whipped open the door to the microwave, reached in to retrieve my noodley yumminess, when the microwave door decides it wants to fight back. It came swinging back to the closed position, which it would have achieved, had my eye not been directly in the spot where the hook latches it closed.

I took it right to the edge of my ocular. I swore, sorry Mom, and instantly thought I was going to be blind. I rushed to the sink, fearing a blood storm, grabbed a towel to stop the flow, when I realized something. Nothing. Nothing at all. No blood. No eye juice. No nothing at all. At first I was little miffed, because I was expecting something great after all that pain. Then I was relieved that I wasn't blinded. Then I was fully expecting to see a great big bruise that I could pass off as my battered wife wound.

Still, nothing. Don't get me wrong. It hurts like Hell. I can't even squint my eye without a stinging sensation permeating my face and eye ball. But there isn't even a mark where the stupid thing hit me! Not a mark! I have acne scars more noticeable than this thing.

I'm such a wuss. But hopefully in a day or two it will bruise up nicely so I can play the battered wife card and get some sympathy.

I'm -----This----- Thankful

Gretta received a package in the mail the other day. She was instantly in heaven. Although, after seeing what was in the package, I think Maggie was just as thrilled.

All the girls showing off together.

And here it is. The ultimate dress up dress. Aunt Kelli and Aunt Troy are the best. They know exactly what will get Gretta going. She carried it around for a good 10 minutes before Maggie finally forced her to put it on. Otherwise, Maggie would have worn it herself. Of course, once she had it on, there was no taking it off. Even for bed. But that's just fine with me.

An action shot of the opening ceremony. Even Bebe got in on the action. She's that big mess of fur to the right.

So thanks Aunt Kelli and Aunt Troy! You guys are the best!


And for the record, I'm not going on the cruise as some have previously mentioned. My dumb dog had to have emergency surgery a few moths ago, and that basically took up our cruise fund. Dumb dog. So for the next week and a half or so, I will be freezing my patootie off in Chitown, while my bro and sis and their respective spouses gallivant through the Caribbean. Suckers. But if it gets even one of them to update their blogs with the pictures I'm sure they will take, it will be worth the jealousy.

Also, thanks for all the sweet comments yesterday. I have the best friends ever. I even received a giant Coke delivered to my front door. Knowing I had so many of you out there giving me hugs really made a difference. I do feel better today, but I'm sure the Valium is helping with that. ;)

It's One Of Those Days

I can't get a grip today. There will be lots of tears today. I can tell when it starts out first thing in the morning that things are just going to go downhill, and fast.

It started last night. I had just settled in for a nice book and a warm blanket, when Sean came calling me downstairs for a surprise. Of course I couldn't resist, so I marched down there with much anticipation. I had received a letter! I love mail. Inside this letter, was a simple bracelet. It immediately sent me over the edge.

It was my mom's. It has a "P" and a bee on it. She used to wear it all the time. Meg is so sweet to think of me, and knows how much I need to feel close to her. So this meant crying myself to sleep last night. Not an unusual occurrence. But it's the waking up with tears flowing that makes the days hard. There just isn't much that can get me up out of this funk on a day like today. Better to just stay inside and not have to face the world.

Have I mentioned I hate being a grown up? Some days I think I can't deal with it all. I think it's just too much to handle. I hate all the hard decisions, and the despair that comes along with being grown up. Things seemed so much simpler before. Before what? I couldn't exactly say. Before I moved away, probably. Before she died, certainly. You know my first reaction after the strep diagnosis yesterday was to pick up the phone and call my mom. I knew exactly what she would say. I could practically hear the sympathy in her voice. There is no one to call that can take that place.

People my age shouldn't be dealing with the loss of a parent. Especially the loss of a parent in such a manner as hers. I know I'm not the only one that has had to do it, but some days it feels like I am.

Sorry for the pity party. It's just one of those days.

Hiatus

My kid has strep. Again. This is like the bajillionth time in the last year and a half or so. I'm really really really tired of 10 day antibiotics. I'm also tired of her screaming through a penicillin shot, and then doing 10 days of antibiotics on top of that. I'm hoping she'll be getting her tonsils out within the year. But we'll see.

So, on that note, I'll be back tomorrow with something good. Not great, but probably not that good either, so don't hold your breath.

On a completely unrelated note, my feet are muy stinky.