After much consideration, and the fact that I have already participated in Jenny Craig, my daughter, husband and I have started the “Cookie Diet”.  Now that sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?  Eating cookies on a diet seems to good to be true.  The reason that it sounds too good to be true is because it is. 

The premise of the cookie diet is eating six high protein low fat cookies per day and having a sensible lean protein meal for dinner.  The cookies come in several flavors, but you can’t order an assortment.  You get one flavor of cookie per single order at the grand total of $60.  At first, that didn’t seem too bad at first, $60 for a week’s worth of food…but then you have to add in the price of the groceries for the evening meal.  Yet, this is the least disturbing aspect of the diet.  Let me break it down for you.  When we placed our first order we left it in the hands of my husband.  That was a big mistake.  He ordered blueberry.  Blueberry cookies weren’t my idea of fantastic to begin with.  I thought chocolate, coconut, or just about any flavor would be better, but blueberry was ordered and blueberry was received.  About this same time my husband decided to leave town for a week.  He said it was for business, I believe it was so we could try the damn cookies while he was gone and then tell him what it was like.

Day one was met with great excitement.  Yeah, new diet, gonna lose a ton of weight…eating cookies!  Woo-hoo!!…Then I opened the bag of cookies.  The cookies are very small,  about 1″ in diameter.  I thought this was a bad thing…until I tasted the cookie.  It wasn’t!  To call these little lumps of crap a cookie is to do an injustice to cookies worldwide.  The “cookie” tastes like a sponge (with the same texture) and has peculiar little pimples of some unknown origin dotting it throughout.  There is relatively little flavor to this little creation, and what flavor there is, is bad.  Suddenly the thought of six a day seems daunting.  At the end of the first day, I had managed three and my daughter two.   By six o’clock in the evening we were starving.  Dinner never tasted so good.  When I told my husband about the cookies (size and lack of flavor) he opted out.  He says he is going to try Slim-fast.  I think he is a chicken.  Scratch that…I know he is a chicken.

Day two I discovered that the sponges were tastier if you had them with coffee or milk and took a bite of cookie and followed it with a gulp of beverage.  Don’t chew until you’ve created a little mix in your mouth.  Like other sponges, the cookies soak up the beverage and then (at least) you have something that resembles flavor.  Using this method we were able to increase our cookie intake.  At the end of the day, I had four cookies and my daughter had eaten three.  Dinner wasn’t as tempting on day one.  I’m beginning to see how this diet works. I believe if you stay on this diet long enough, food will hold no interest for you.  I tell my husband how things are progressing.  He allows as to how blueberry may not have been the best choice.  Really…you don’t think.  How about you order the nastiest cookie flavor offered, then leave town when it is time to start dieting.  Chicken out before you ever taste this shit and tell me that you think blueberry might not have been the best choice.  It’s a good thing he’s out of town!

Day three, I weighed.  My daughter hasn’t done this yet.  She says she really hadn’t weighed before she started so she has no way of knowing whether or not she’s lost weight.  I have lost 1.5 pounds.  Gratification!!  I am ready to face the cookies.  Two at breakfast (the most you can have at one time) with a cup of coffee with each.   Two in the afternoon for lunch.  Dinner, and then one more as a snack before bed.  Five, I had made it to five.  I notice that my daughter is supplementing her cookies with yogurt and toast.  Not unhealthy choices, but not exactly the cookie diet.  When I quiz her about this, she very quickly (and a little hatefully) tells me that she is not feeling particularly well and she really can’t face the cookies this morning.  As the day passes she is seen grudgingly munching a cookie.  I dare not mention this.  Diets make people angry.  I know, I’m dieting.

Day four…I no longer am interested in sweets.  I no longer have hunger pangs that compare to the pain of childbirth.  I have gotten used to eating the little lumps of blueberry hell.  Do I like them? No.  But, I know I can survive eating them.  I need to order another box.  There are only three days left for the blueberry.  I am trying to decide whether or not I will continue.  A part of me knows I will, but a part of me wonders why I am so cruel to myself.    Another part of me wants to take the cookies out of the box and eat the box…I think it may have more flavor.  You can bet your ass that I won’t be getting blueberry next time.

This is not a long term diet.  The company says that it is a kick start to healthy dieting.  Once the pounds start rolling off and you see the results then you can begin to wean yourself off of the cookies and go to a less drastic diet.  Pounds rolling seems promising.  They are kind of dragging their little feet right now, but I shall keep trudging along.  I know dieting is not a pretty process.  This one is no uglier than others.  Granted, less calories are consumed this way than eating three squares a day plus snacks.  Jenny Craig definitely has more taste appeal (the fact that it has taste is the proof of this), but at least on this diet I can choose what to have for dinner.  Let me also mention that when you are only having dinner, you begin to really look forward to it.  There is none of that, “oh crap, I have to fix dinner.”  It is more like you start the day thinking about what you get to have for dinner.  This is the carrot you dangle in front of yourself that gets you through the day.  We have even begun to consider an exercise program.  Only consider so far, because we haven’t had the energy to actually go out and purchase the DVD we’ve decided to work out with.  However; I think this will pass.  I have to.  Otherwise all I’m left with is six crappy cookies a day, no energy, and a bad taste in my mouth.  Thank God I’m going through this with my daughter.  Misery loves company you know.  We have been each others support system.  She makes sure I eat my cookies.  I make sure she eats her cookies.  Life is good.  Last night she mentioned another bright side…we’ve been drinking a lot more milk.  Since we  both are calcium deprived, this a good thing.  So all in all it’s worth sticking it out for a little longer.  How much, I can’t say.  I will keep you advised, dear readers.  If my rants get longer and crankier you’ll know I am still dieting.  If I become all sunshine and bluebirds that will indicate the consumption of chocolate.  Sunshine and bluebirds?…me?…another bright side, my writing won’t suffer.  I shall continue to entertain you as I attempt to lose the 50 pounds I need to lose.  Wish me well!

For the past four days, I have existed in pajamas.  Not the same pajamas, that would be gross!  Pajamas are my best friend.  They’re brushed flannel friendship calls me sometimes when I cannot answer, but for the last four days my husband has been out of town and I have not had to leave the house, and it has been a pajama super party around here.

When I was working and I had to wear business clothes day in and day out, the ultimate luxury was putting on jeans and a t-shirt.  I longed for casual Fridays.  The place I worked required you to make a $10 donation to a children’s charity in order to have the luxury of wearing jeans. Though I didn’t have a lot of petty cash I always managed to have the $10.  Later, when I was doing medical transcription at home I was able to wear jeans daily and I discovered that sweats were much more comfortable than jeans.  Sweats became my uniform.  I had a variety of colors and styles.   I was wearing them daily but I didn’t look sloppy and I could go out in public wearing them.  I learned, while going back to college, that it doesn’t so much matter what you wear as long as your hair and make-up look good.  Well, I’m good at hair and make-up, so I went full drag above the shoulders and wore the most casual clothing I could get by with.  I was good with my sweats from then on.  Make no mistake,  I know how to dress.  My closet is full of clothes.  I have dresses, pantsuits, khakis, and enough sweaters to outfit Alaska.  I have shoes out the wazoo.  I have more coats than would ever be necessary, and I can accessorize to the nines.  I just don’t do it as much anymore.

My oldest sister told me once, as I commented on the fact that she didn’t go out without a coat, hat, gloves, scarf, and umbrella regardless of the weather, “you will reach a point in life where comfort means more than cute.”  At the time I thought that was the biggest bunch of crap I had ever heard.  Nothing was more important than being cute.  Cute was all I had.  I would never be tall or thin.  I wasn’t likely to be viewed in the “do this” column of any fashion magazine, but I was cute (Cute, for those who don’t know, is a combination of sassy and short). Cute was my claim to fame.  Then age stepped on my face and ran it’s big ass truck over my body.  Suddenly, none of those clothes in my closet fit quite the same.  Cute was out the window.  The dresses bunched at my non-existent waist.  The jeans rolled over at the waistband, and the pantsuits rode up like a hero in a western.  Not only was cute not happening, comfortable was in danger of becoming extinct as well.  The final straw was when they took out my uterus.  Suddenly blossoming didn’t happen only in spring and I was cold all the time.  Enter pajamas.

Pajamas!  This little word was the answer to all my problems.  I dig p.j.’s like no one else.  I found out that while you’re in pajamas, no one expects you to get out and accomplish things.  While your in pajamas the world assumes you are an invalid and shouldn’t be expected to run errands, go out for lunch, or take care of all the mundane things that make up life.   Pajamas don’t require underwear!  In fact, underwear is frowned upon by those of the pajama life.  Pajamas can be cute.  I know, because I have tons of cute pajamas.  I buy my girls cute pajamas every Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Halloween and gift giving occasion. I wish my husband would do the same.  I love them in t-shirt material, flannel, cotton, and silk.  I love them with short bottoms and long pants, tank tops and full length tops.  I love them loose and flowing, because let’s face it, if they aren’t loose and flowing they run the risk of being lingerie!  I hate lingerie!!  My pajama obsession has become so widely known that my children refer to me as “pajama mama”.  It’s lovely.

I am constantly in search of a higher level of comfort.  The progression has been gradual. I wanted to ease my husband in to the fact that I no longer dress for success.  I now dress for comfort.  I know I’m probably not there yet.  I mean there are still mu mus to consider.  Just as science is progressing towards more and more advances in health, there are sure to be advances in comfort.  Perhaps the ultimate comfort hasn’t been reached yet.  Keeping this in mind, and knowing how much I love my pajamas, I can’t wait to be there for the unveiling of whatever comes next!  Sign me up, put me in line, reserve my copy, do whatever it takes but get me there.  As long as it’s not nudity, lord knows that wouldn’t be comfortable for anyone.

I had to go to Wal-Mart today.  Lord, I hate that store.  It’s not like you can truly avoid it either.  With money being tight, everyone has had to tighten the purse strings and whether you like it or not they have the best prices.  This is thanks to the fact that they have almost single-handedly choked out all the competition because they can buy in such volume.  That being said, I still hate going to Wal-Mart.

I pulled into the parking lot on Sunday evening.  Carts are littered everywhere throughout the parking lot.  The first two empty spaces I try to pull into are blocked by misplaced carts.  What simple minded yahoo can’t walk the cart over to the buggy barn?  You don’t need a GPS to find them, they are as prevalent as my age spots.  Jiminy Christmas, make the extra two steps and keep the cart where it belongs.  That way it won’t ding my car, and I won’t have to scream in frustration at the inconsideration of the American public.  Why is it so difficult…we spend thousands of dollars in diet products and gym memberships, but are too lazy to make the extra few steps to put the cart up.  This is not the fault of the fine “associates” at Wal-Mart.  I recognize that, but it sort of sets the mood for the whole shopping experience.

So now I’m walking in the store already pissed and I find that there are no carts.  I don’t know why no one has gone out to the stinking parking lot and corralled these carts and brought them in.  I do know that when the kid comes in with the carts he is hacking and coughing all over the handle.  Then as I scream “thank-you” for the second time he finally rolls a cart at me.  Not to me…at me.  So I take the antibacterial wipes and clean the handle, all the while looking at Hacky McHackerson with what I hope is pure disgust.  Then I march my mad self to the produce aisle.  I choose produce, but it doesn’t really matter which aisle I pick they are all the same, because everyone needs fruits or vegetables.  Apparently, they all need them at 6:00 on Sunday night.  The place is teeming with people milling over the fruits and vegetables.  I see people picking at the grapes, squeezing the oranges, and talking on cell phones.  Most of the time they can’t even hear you call them effing rude *&%holes because they are talking to Aunt Truvie about what happened in church this morning.  Well in my opinion, a good Christian wouldn’t block my path and ignore me while I am cursing them like a sailor on leave.  I just want to get a head of lettuce.  Get the eff out of my way!

When I made it to the paper products the aisle is so narrow that you can barely squeeze two carts side by side.  Okay, that’s fine.  I can stop my cart, walk the few steps to whatever I need and walk back to my cart to put the items in there without difficulty.  Until the lady with three kids, twin toddlers and another pre-schooler, turns her cart sort of sideways to block the older child’s ability to get to the animal shaped paper plates.  Holy crap!  The kid is screaming, the toddlers are throwing things out of the cart, the mom has a look on her face that clearly says “murder is imminent.”  Dodging yogurt containers and other small, easily thrown objects I dash to the toilet paper and pick up the nine pack because I think it will make a better  shield for the trip back to the cart.  Then covering my face as best I can I dodge, and duck my way back to the cart.    When I finally make it back with only superficial wounds, I count myself lucky and back away as quickly as possible. With varying shoppers and different aisles the story pretty much remains the same. Stocking is also apparently done Sunday evenings.  There are boxes in the middle of the floors and stockers running back and forth.  While looking for compactor bags, I stopped one of the stockers to see if she had any idea where they might be.  I was told there might be some in the back, but the fool didn’t go look for them.  She just said there might be some in the back.  Well, there might be some in China too, but   I ‘m not going there to look for them.  The stocker just looks at me like I’m ruining her day,  until I finally ask if she could check for me.  I can almost hear her eyes roll.  Just when I think this can’t get worse I get to the checkout.

I’m going to assume the cashier was told to be friendly to the customers.  Her interpretation of friendly includes an analysis of each and every item in your cart. “Oh are these good?  Looks like someone is having spaghetti for dinner.  Have you ever tried these before?” and so on.  At first I just kind of nod.  Then when she is obviously not paying attention to the fact that I am ignoring her, I begin to answer her questions as succinctly as possible. “Yes, they are good.  No, spaghetti tonight.  Yes.”  She still doesn’t get it.  Finally when I run my debit card through the machine, in a desperate attempt to escape,  I almost forget my receipt.  Not to worry, Chatty Cathy tackles me on my way out the door to be sure I have that sacred piece of paper in my possession.  Thanks!  Then as I am sliding through the doors that I have been warned are automatic the $1 DVD Rental booth is so busy that I can’t make it close enough to the doors to activate the opening mechanism.  Have a nice day!

It’s not the fact that it’s Wal-Mart that bothers me so much.  It’s the fact that it is so crowded.  Day in and day out.  I’ve shopped at 3:00 a.m. and I’ve shopped at 3:00 p.m.  It’s crowded.  I’ve shopped on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and so on….it’s crowded.  The aisles are narrow, the people are rude, there are never sales people when you need them but they are up your butt when you don’t.  I need to save money as much as any one else, but something has to be said for saving your sanity too.  The Mom & Pop store costs more, but when I walk in it’s never busy.  I can always park close to the doors.  Yes, I still sometimes am inconvenienced by inconsiderate shoppers but not nearly as often as the bigger venues.  I will continue to shop at Wally World.  I don’t think it can be avoided.  I just want you to know that if you see a clearly frustrated, middle-aged woman at Wal-Mart and you are blocking the aisle, talking on your cell phone, or just irritating me in  general…I will call you on it. And because @**hole is not something you can say, it is only something you can write, you might want to cover your children’s ears.

We have a prowler in our neighborhood.  At least that’s what all the old ladies say. Now they can’t tell you if he’s tall or short, thick or thin, white or black or anything of that nature because no one has ever seen him (or her) but everyone is frightened to death of him.

Apparently, the red-necked neighbors across the street were the first to be hit.  They had a hand gun stolen from their car just before Christmas.  Their story is that in a locked truck full of Christmas packages and other things of value a hand gun that was not readily viewed was taken from them.  Let me tell you a little about these neighbors…first they have pissed off everyone in the neighborhood at one time or another.  At first the old ladies were pissed because they were living in sin.  The woman in question is about 4 feet tall and 4 feet wide, her significant other is heavier and is disabled.  They live together because they get more money from the government each month that way than they would if they were married. Shameless!  I was okay with that…a little disgusted, because I have an active imagination and I have seen them…but okay.  Then they called and asked us to be on the lookout for a rogue kitty.  Apparently, this bad cat had been fighting with their “Miss Millie” and now she was afraid to go outside.  If I can in touch with the beast, would I please capture it and call the animal control officer or just kill it? I’m not pro Peta, but I am against killing animals just for tickles and grins. Then they built the two story chicken house.  No one knew, when they first began building, just what was under construction.  No one knows still, and the building is complete.  It appears to be a twenty-four foot structure to house a mobile home.  The top half is peaked and both ends are open, and it is at least twice as large as the R.V. it houses.  The thing I know for sure is that every morning when I walk down the stairs the first thing I see is that ridiculous building, and in my heart I know that I will never be able to sell my house.  Now all of this has nothing to do with anything except that I think that someone who knows this couple stole their gun, and I think it may be one of the neighbors.  What I’m afraid of, is that they think it is me.

The old women have left no stone unturned to try and find this “prowler”.  They have sent out two well worded newsletters to the neighbors.  The first stated that the prowler “may have been seen wearing a red shirt.  However; it is possible that he will change his shirt.”  Wow!!  No one dared wear red for a good two weeks after that scathing document was sent out.  The most recent letter told us that if any of our street lights went out, we should contact the city.  They would take care of the offending light.  You betcha’, cause the city has nothing better to do than change the light bulbs on the street of a bunch of scaredy cat widder wimmen.  They also recommended turning on porch lights and carriage lights at night.  Well, we’ve been doing that for years and were the only ones.  Now the neighborhood is lit up like China town on New Year’s Day.  One morning at 3:00 a.m. a police officer came ringing the bell and wanted to know if we had seen anyone strange in the neighborhood because the next door neighbors had reported seeing the prowler looking into their window transom.  That transom has to be 12 feet high, and the old man who made the report is edging on ninety years old.  1. What in the hell was he doing up? and 2. How tall is this effing prowler?

This is what I believe to be true…old people are paranoid.  A house in the neighborhood behind ours was apparently robbed, and now every foot fall in the neighborhood is a potential predator.  The neighbor’s across the street probably heard about the robbery and filed a police report about the “missing” gun without regard to whether or not there ever was a gun.  There is always insurance to be filed.  The neighbors who saw the intruder were up…probably due to leaky plumbing (and I don’t mean the pipes) and saw a reflection in the transom, and if the old dude was wearing red pajamas I think we have solved the mystery.

The best thing about living in a neighborhood that is seventy-five percent over seventy is the great stories you get from all of the neighborhood criers.  I get to hear about who has what, and who’s kids treat them right and who’s kids don’t, and what everyone had for dinner.  The neighborhood newsletter is full of crap with a capital C and most of the time it’s pretty amusing.  I know the Polish lady down the block is broke and her children take care of her.  I know the oldest woman in the right hand lot of the backside of the cul-de-sac has no children to take care of her, and is bitter towards those who do.  I know that the busdriver’s widow has a family that doesn’t show affection, and the new guy that just moved in four doors down on the left had “track lighting” installed.  But what I never knew until we had a possible prowler was that old men nearing ninety with bad prostates grow to be 11 feet tall in the middle of the night.  Trust me, that is far more frightening to me than a prowler could ever be.

In our house, as a rule, my husband is up until 5:00 or 6:00 a.m.   The younger neighbors who work and have children start milling around by 7:00 and I am up by 10:00 or so.  It would be incredibly hard for anyone to find a quiet moment to break in.  I guess it could be done, but why risk it.  The rest of the neighbors have closed their curtains, and drawn their blinds.  Not us.  If there is someone looking in the window, I want them to see that we are up and around almost 24-7.  If he (or she) should still decide to break in and disturb my beauty sleep, God help them.  I have been know to get my dander up for less.   Prowlers come and prowlers go, but wrinkles last forever.

Before the actual onset of menopause, before the rants, rages, sweats, and insomnia I began to lose my mind.  At first it was little things like forgetting some one’s name or calling something by the wrong name.  These did not stop as the next phase of the memory loss began they only escalated.  I no longer can immediately recall the names of my children or my grandson but I can tell you the phone number I first had on my own back in 1977.  People say the mind is a funny thing, and it must be true because my family has been laughing at mine for years now.

The first outward sign of aggression was the year they got me Gingko Biloba and Memory (the card game).  The little snot boxes thought that was a hoot!  Like I was going to be able to remember to take Gingko…please!!!  Then they began to make fun of the words that slipped into my sentences when I wasn’t looking.  You know what I mean (if you’re menopausal).  In your mind you are going to say “Go check in the freezer” but what comes out is “Go check in the television.”  Laughter ensues, and you know just as soon as the word leaves your lips that there has been a glitch, but you can’t unring a bell.  I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve said “listen to what I mean, not what I say.”  Later you can’t remember why you entered a room, which isn’t particularly bad unless it’s the bathroom and you have basically two options.  You can shower or you can…read…no wait that’s men…ummm, dust?  Well anyway, so that happens and then you begin to forget things unless you make lists.  I make lists.  Lots of lists, they are everywhere these lists.  I just wish I knew where…Oh look, a chicken (that’s for my non vag. sister).

Now, unlike me, my family forgets nothing.  Every mistaken word, or forgotten name has been safely stored away in their tiny little minds.  They love nothing more than to remind me of all the “mistakes” I’ve made.  No wait…there is one thing they like more…they like sharing with others.  I blame myself.  I taught the little wretches to share.  However; when it comes to my husband I blame anyone and everyone else for his penchant for sharing…and the glee he derives from it.  What is amazing is that: a) I haven’t killed anyone yet and b) they think that will continue.  I am only so addled, or am I?

These fools have decided I’ve got one foot in the nursing home and one on a banana peel.  They figure I’m halfway to Senility Village so I might as well play along.  The way I see it, if I continue to just go along with the memory lapses that are already happening, and add to those mass confusion, and slobbering on myself, with a decent portion of talking to myself, and I just might be too unstable to deal with any of their problems.  I cackle with glee…finally menopause is working in my favor!  Of course this will never work, because I want it to.  Accepting my disease would mean that they would have to admit that they can no longer depend on me for the thousands of little balls I juggle in the air for them.  At one point they had me so concerned that I was developing Alzheimer’s disease that I talked to the family doctor about it.  Our doctor picked my car keys up from the counter and held them out to me.  “Do you know what these are?”  Of course I did. “Do you know what they do?”  Still affirmative.  “Well, it’s not Alzheimer’s”.

In my overwrought mind I know the culprit is menopause.  However; the story I’m telling is that much like a computer that has been filled up with too much crap I need more memory.  And the reason I need more memory is because for the last thirty-one years I’ve been keeping up with their toys, books, baseball cards, car keys, football jerseys, and everything else they’ve ever owned while living at home and my mind is just completely tapped out.  It is just pure luck that I have been able to remember their favorite chocolate chip cookie recipe…and if they keep hassling me about this memory loss thing I’m afraid the cookie recipe is just on the cusp of being lost.  That would be a shame too, since I’m the only one who has that recipe.  Such a shame….now where are my reading glasses…Suckah’s!!!

 

On September 2, 1995 I married Mr. Right…I just didn’t know his first name was Always.  This is so true, that when my oldest sister was living with us she bought me a magnet that actually says “When I married Mr. Right, I didn’t know his first name was always.”

My husband is one of those people who, for all intents and purposes, is perfect.  Those of us in the know, know better.  He has many faults…many, many.  I am not perfect.  Everyone knows this.  I often point it out to people myself.  However; I have never gotten used to people asking me “How did someone like you get someone like him?”  Do people not realize that everyone (even the apparently perfect) have two faces, the one they show to the world and the one they show to their spouse.  Example: the neighbor down the street thinks that my husband hung the moon and all the stars.  Every time we go anywhere with her he holds her door for her.  He pulls out her chair for her.  He listens politely and responds appropriately.  When we go out alone.  I open my door (now, this didn’t happen when we dated), I pull out my own chair, and pretty much anything that comes out of my mouth that isn’t about golf or football is ignored.

He would have me believe I am losing my mind.  I will tell him about something, a coming event, a bill that is due, or something regarding family, and then when that occurrence actually occurs and I say “Well, I told you.”  It’s all, “No you didn’t.  I know you didn’t.  If you had told me I would have remembered.”  I can even come up with irrefutable evidence and he will shoot me down.  “Remember, we were at Red Lobster and you were having the crab alfredo and I was having the popcorn shrimp.  You were wearing that red striped shirt, and I was wearing my blue Christmas sweater with Santa flying across the front and the city scene on the back and I told you that we needed to pick up the meat trays by the 27th and I had an appointment so you would need to do it.” He just gives this look like I have two heads and says “no”.  This can continue for hours.  Of course, according to the wife handbook, I have to complain that he just doesn’t listen to me.  Of course, according to the husband handbook, he denies this.  Recently we were in the car and I was talking to him about a friend of the family who had lost his great-grandmother and it just happened to be on the anniversary date of his sister’s death.  I had gone into detail of everything that had happened and had just finished saying “his sister died in a car wreck.”  Less than 15 seconds after the last word had left my mouth he says to me, “what did his sister die of?”  I’m sorry I can’t type the look I gave him.  You will just have to imagine.  At this point I felt I had confirmation that he doesn’t listen, and I pointed this out to him.  “I was listening.”  That’s all I got.  I was listening.  Sometimes I want to punch him in his precious face.

This is really one of the only things we argue about, his inability to admit that he is wrong (or less than perfect…because he really doesn’t admit to flaws).  Again, while my sister was living with us,  I was fixing hot dogs or chili dogs for dinner.  I had leftover chili from the night before and I had heated it up and I had also fixed the hot dogs and so either could be made upon request.  Now, I only had 4 hot dogs.  There was one for each my sister and me and two for my husband.  The next part is where we get cloudy.  I said do you want a hot dog or a chili dog and I will swear to you until my dying breath that he said “chili dog” so I fixed him two.  My sister and I both just wanted hot dogs.  When I had prepared our plates…that’s right kids, I fixed his plate for him…he came in and looked at the plate and said “I didn’t want a chili dog.”  “What?”  “I didn’t want a chili dog.”  “You said you wanted a chili dog.  I said do you want a hot dog or a chili dog and you said I want a chili dog.”  “No, I said I don’t want a chili dog.” Why would anyone do that?  Why would anyone even say the word chili, if they didn’t want it?  If you don’t want a chili dog you don’t say I don’t want a chili dog you say I want a hot dog.  And as I less than quietly explain this to him he says, “you just didn’t hear me correctly.”  There was a cold that entered the room.  A real chill, the kind that is often accredited to ghosts or paranormal activity and I think it was Satan because I seriously wanted to kill him at that point.  I looked at him and this time very quietly I said “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I seriously hate you right now.”  He looked at me and said, “it’s hard not to take that just as it’s meant and you shouldn’t  hate me because you can’t hear.  Just trade me, you have the chili dogs and I’ll have the hot dog.”  “Well for one I didn’t want a chili dog so I didn’t ask for one, and two I only have one and you wanted two.”  Nothing.  Now my sister had left the room.  She later said that she was cracking up and didn’t want us to see her laughing about the fact that we were about to come to blows over a chili dog.  She also was concerned because this was the first argument she had witnessed and she thought it was pretty ridiculous to divorce over pork products.  I look at him, I never let my eyes leave his face as I reach with my bare hands and grab his chili dog and put one on my plate and replace it with my hot dog.  Still staring I grab the other chili dog, wipe the bun with a paper towel and put it back on his plate.  I rinse the wiener under running water and put that back on his bun.  “Thanks” is all he said.  To this day we don’t discuss the chili dog incident, and I haven’t made them since.

Is it so hard to admit that you’re wrong?  Do things fall off if you say I’m sorry?  He’ll readily tell me he’s sorry if I say I have a headache, because he knows that doesn’t really reflect on him.  If I tell him that he is giving me a headache he just looks at me like I’m really over exagerating (but sometimes I swear his voice does cause my head to ping a little) and he just ignores me.  I have been wrong on numerous occasions and I have always cowboyed up and said so.  So what gives?  Secretly I believe he likes to get me riled up.  He likes seeing me turn red and shout and  close my tiny little hands into fists and go toe to toe with him, but he’d better watch out for my tiny little feet.  I only come up to his chest and I can kick really high.

I want plastic surgery.  I don’t see why I should be denied (other than the whole insurance doesn’t cover it and it’s damned expensive) something that means so much to me.  And I’m not talking an eye lid lift here, I’m talking full out head to toe re-do me plastic surgery.  The kind you see on Extreme Makeovers.  I would gladly write and ask to be on that show but A: I’m not hideous, and B: It is no longer in production.

My husband laughs at me.  He says I’m vain (duh).  He says I am beautiful as I am and I don’t need plastic surgery.  What a lot of hooey.  I have a mirror.  The truth is, he’d rather spend the money on golf equipment or computer crap or just about any one of his many vices than my face/body.  I don’t understand that.  I believe I have mentioned that I am just a “tad” older than my husband.  You would think that he would be excited to go out in public with a new and improved wife.  I mean I have re-vamped the cootch, but who’s gonna see that besides him and my gyno? His other argument is that women who have plastic surgery don’t look like themselves any longer.  Well, I sure as hell hope not.  I would hate to think you would spend thousands of dollars to lose fat and wrinkles and get rid of your turkey waddle and wake up to the same old crap.  So I lie and tell him that with a good plastic surgeon you just look well rested.  Ha!! (insert maniacal laughter here)

In a perfect Housewives of…Orange County, Atlanta, New York  world this wouldn’t be an issue.  Those women do whatever they damn well please and spend thousands of dollars a day on crap.  I watched this weekend as one mother bought extension for her daughter and step-daughter.  Do you know how much that shit costs?  For hair that doesn’t even last!!  OMG…I have written and asked to be adopted, but no response yet.  The bonus is-I’m good with my hair so that will save about $1500 right off the top.  I’m pretty sure my shoulders and ankles are okay as well.  Everything else has to go.  My body needs to be treated like a furniture liquidation sale in a really cheap location…everything must go, cash and carry, bring a truck!!!

I started out wanting a face lift.  I noticed that the little fat pockets over my lids weren’t so little anymore.  The bags under my eyes qualify as carry on under the new FFA regulations.  I have no lips to speak of and my chin is weak…well the first one is, two and three can handle things pretty well.  I want the age spots removed and this crap that my dermatologist called “the mask of childbirth”  (say what?  I wasn’t a pretty pregnant woman…I certainly didn’t glow…but I didn’t need a mask!) taken away.  Anyway, I guess that’s about it for my face…but wait, I can’t have a new young face and walk around with this crepey old neck!  So that will need to be taken care of…that leads directly to the boobs which need to be realigned. (It’s been several thousand miles, they may even need to be rotated), that leads to the inevitable tummy tuck.  This is partly necessary due to all of the yo-yo dieting I’ve done over the years…and that pregnancy thing.  There is definitely a deflated tire hanging around my midsection.  I don’t want to pump that effer up either.  That leads to butt sculpting, liposuction every where, having the spots removed from my hands, and oh why not have laser hair removal too?  I want plastic surgery until people think my nipples are horns growing out of the top of my head!!! (more maniacal laughter).  Then maybe, just maybe, some botox.

This doesn’t sound unreasonable to me.  Yes, money is an issue…but all of the really necessary things in life cost money.  Houses, cars, and plastic surgery aren’t cheap.  You don’t want to go to a discount plastic surgeon either, you might come out looking like a real live Picasso work of art.  I would never go to Mexico, (even though I know a lot of people do) to have plastic surgery done on the cheap.  Like L’oreal, I cost a little more but I’m worth it.  Anyway, it will probably never happen.  At least it will probably never happen as long as my husband is alive, but here’s the good news…I look good in black, and we have great life insurance!

It is over…finally.  The last guest has left, and it is only the fifth of January.  We don’t have Christmas, we have Christmas, Christmas, Christmas.  I have so much to cover, dear ones.  I don’t know where to begin…oh wait…I do.  My family Christmas.  Then we will cover my in-laws Christmas, and our family Christmas because when it comes to Christmas we are (ahem) blessed.

Many years ago, when my family was just sisters and kids we had Christmas at my parent’s home.  As the years have passed and the family has grown we have had to move Christmas to my sister’s home.  Her house is larger and it  made more sense.  So each Christmas eve we loaded up the kids and the presents and the food and went to my sister’s.  Time passed, and the kids had kids, and they developed their own Christmas traditions and fewer people are showing up at my sister’s.  This year we only had ourselves (my husband and myself) and one son.  I foolishly asked my son if I could take my grandson, because I wanted to show him off.  With a relatively small amount of arm twisting he relented and off we went on our merry way.  Now we don’t have a large car, we drive a Honda Accord hybrid…seats 4 comfortably, 5 painfully.  On this hour and a half journey we had my sister, my mother, my grandson in his car seat, my husband and myself.   The baby had not had a nap all day and his mother threatened me if he didn’t sleep in the car.   So armed with only a bottle and good thoughts the precious bundle was placed in the backseat with his great-granny and great aunt.  I am sure that when we were small my mother understood the need for naps.  I don’t know any mother who doesn’t, so why did she insist on playing peek-a-boo and every other game in his limited repertoire?  Upon constantly being told that he needed to nap she finally relented and let the little guy sleep about an hour from our destination.  Just enough sleep to make him really upset when we arrived at my sisters.  So I take my 18 month old grandson who is cranky from not having had enough sleep into a house full of strangers and expect him to behave well enough to impress my relatives with what a great little guy he is.  About two hours into the visit he warmed up.  The first two hours he spent on my hip looking at everyone like they were alien beings who should be committed (to be fair, on occasion I have looked at my family the same way). He was not at all sure about his cousins.  He has one that is just one month older, but about 10 pounds heavier and three inches taller.  I don’t think he knew what to think about this mammoth child.  He didn’t understand the toy situation.  The toys weren’t his, but should the mammoth be allowed to take them from him at will?  He also has a three year old cousin who is the brother of the nineteen month old.  This cousin is used to bossing his brother around and taking toys from him.  My grandson was about ready to go medieval on this cousin.  He just doesn’t cotton to being bullied.  He has ten teeth and he is willing to use them.  About the time he had asserted his dominance of the situation it was time to go home.  Once again I place him in the car with his great-grandmother and hope for the best.  Ten minutes later he is out of milk and I am out of hope.  Have you ever tried looking for milk on Christmas eve at ten o’clock in the evening?  It ain’t pretty.  I was about ready to jump out of the car into a field and milk some unsuspecting cow.  Sometimes you will do whatever it takes to make a baby stop crying.  We finally found milk and peace and the baby slept all the way home and for the rest of the night.  So did I, although I did question my mental abilities after that, and I mean strongly questioned…seriously!

On the twenty-seventh of December we celebrated Christmas  with my husband’s family.  I would love to explain my husband’s family to you, but first someone would have to explain them to me.  I have only been a family member for 13 years and I think there is like a 25 year limit before you get the handbook.  I’ll have to ask my non vag. sister.  This is what I know:  my husband’s parents were childhood sweethearts who married young.  They had two only children…one is my brother-in-law the other is my husband.  My brother-in-law was a boy, my husband was a miracle.  My brother-in-law married my non vag. sister before my husband was born.  They have a son who is only eight months younger than his uncle, my husband.  My mother-in-law didn’t warm up to me right away.  I was not the daughter-in-law she dreamed of.  My husband assures me that when it came to him marrying no one would have measured up.  I, however am sure I was the daughter-in-law  she had nightmares about.  It took me a scant eight years to win her over.  She passed away last year, and my father-in-law remarried.  The rest of the family is much more familiar with his new wife than I am, and I am frankly still a little worn out from trying to win over my other mother so I haven’t really bonded with the new Mrs.  My husband’s godmother lives in Kansas City, Kansas and is an amazing woman who is 89 years old.  She handles this whole famn damily with grace and dignity.  Now that you know the whole clan here is what went on…I awoke on the 27th aching from head to toe.  I assume it was the cold, rainy weather but you know what is said about assuming.  I spent the morning on finishing touches for our little gathering and while I was working on this my father-in-law called.  He wanted to see what was going on.  I told him that I had finished the vegetable tray, my son was working on the fruit tray, my daughter and her possibly future step-son were making reindeer sugar cookies and I was about to begin the crab dip.  I said that once that was complete I needed to get in the shower and things should probably be ready to roll by about 1:30.  (insert crickets chirping here)  “Will that be okay?”  After an interminable pause I hear in a very put out voice “I guess it will have to be”.  Now, I may have mentioned this before, and if I have just bear with me…we stay up late.  Very Late!!  We don’t get up early…early around here is like 10:30 or 11:00 a.m.  I had been working my ass off ever since I had gotten up and I had told him the day before when he came by that things would be ready about 1:30 or so and he has to cop a ‘tude?  I took pain medication.  Lots of pain medication.  I took my time getting ready.  I came downstairs about an hour later than I had planned.  I must have had my “don’t eff with me” look on my face because no one said a word to me.  Either that, or my husband had informed everyone that today was not a good day.  We played games as a family, and we entered our names in a drawing for a trophy upon winning each game.  We did our little roundabout and exchanged gifts and by 8:00 p.m. the old folks were ready for bed.  Now I could have been ugly and pointed out that for some of us this was the shank of the evening, or I could have gone to their hotel rooms and kept them up, but I didn’t.  I’m not stupid.  They left and we enjoyed the company of my brother-in-law and non vag. sister.  We celebrated in a way that truly describes our family dynamic…we watched the Ultimate Fighting Championship.  We were able to cry for the blood and death that we all desired and felt no shame whatsoever.  Merry Christmas….Now Bleed m’er f’er!!

Our family Christmas was held on the 29th.  A long time ago when I was naive enough to think my children listened to what I said I proclaimed our Christmas would be New Year’s Day.  That way everyone would have a day off and anyone who needed to go to in-laws or create a tradition with their own children would have Christmas Eve and Christmas Day to do so.  That lasted about 2 years.  Once the two youngest kids got old enough to move out and get jobs there were complications. This was compounded when one moved to Chicago and the other had to help a friend with a family emergency in Sacramento.  It now looks like both of them will be in California next year so it’s a crap shoot what will happen with our family Christmas.  After hearing my son and non vag. daughter voice concerns about having Christmas early, and they thought we were always having it on New Year’s Day, I was so frustrated I just said that’s it.  We had put up with a bunch of complaining last year when busy schedules and crappy weather kept my son in Chicago until the middle of January…and being tired of what seemed to be a recurring theme…I told them that next year I was sending everyone a check and on New Year’s Day the grandson could open his presents and maybe I would cook.  Not only do I not think anyone believed me, I don’t think anyone listened to me, so proclamations from me now mean nothing.  Like they ever did.  I’ll never learn.  We opened our presents on the 29th and no one bitched (at least to me) and I was afraid they might since thanks to the economy we had to celebrate what I lovingly refer to as “Christmas Lite”.  There used to be a rule, “if mama ain’t happy ain’t nobody happy” so I guess everyone had a happy Christmas.  I just want all my chickens home, briefly, and no one arguing, ever.  Now tell me, is that too much to ask?

So all that is left is taking it all down.  My husband took down the exterior illumination today.  The interior decorations remain.  It’s never as much fun taking it down.  We also moved our daughter out of her house and back into ours so we have a few of her things that haven’t found a permenant home yet.  We all ate way too much candy (you know who is to blame…but thanks it was delicious), and far too many cookies.  It is with great regret that we begin our diets…but it must be done.  Rather than think of how much I hate it, I am trying to think of all the material it will give me.  I can’t believe another Christmas, and year is behind me.  They seem to be snowballing…and so begins a new year.  The family traditions, however; will probably remain the same.  Family will be outlandish, and sometimes demanding.  We will stress ourselves over things that aren’t really important, and in the end it all gets wrapped in bubble wrap and put in storage.

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