This will be brief.  Went to the Dr.  I have (drum roll please) RA, OA, and fibromyalgia.  He will change my meds.   Will take up to two months to see if meds work.  Getting rid of some meds.  Not enough!  Plus, have tendonitis in elbow.  Can take months to heal.  Right hand.  Typing hurts.  Blogs will read like content labels.  Tough!  Wearing brace.  Ice in place.  Months….F…..!  Precious broke wrist.  Also right hand.  No right to complain.  Kid trumps me.  Always getting trumped.   The end.

My daughter and I were talking the other day about men we have secret crushes on.  We found out that we both kinda dig dirty guys.  Not stinky dirty, just dirty.  We love Mike Rowe on Dirty Jobs.  We both dig Johnny Depp, and the guy who mows our yard.  I don’t know about Mike Rowe, but Johnny Depp and the yard dude are both out of reach.

It defies explanation.  There is a ruggedness to a strong man covered in the debris of his work place.  You never know what Mike Rowe will be covered in, but the yard dude is covered in green stains and loose soil.  He smells like freshly turned earth.  He is not what I would call traditionally good looking, but there is something there.  Mike Rowe even kind of looks like the yard dude.  Part of it is the stubble thing, but the stubble needs to be dark.  Blonde or ginger stubble just makes a man look lazy.  I don’t know why…plus it’s an opinion.  Johnny Depp is just hot!  I don’t see how  anyone can argue that point.  He is probably the handsomest of the three and definitely the most handsome man of his age in the country.  But he has to quit smoking.  I really can’t stand the smoking, and something tells me that he smokes after sex.  I would like to be able to tell you definitively that he does indeed smoke after sex or that he doesn’t (preferring doesn’t), but I will never know.   It seems he has a strong attachment to the mother of his children. 

Some women like men who look like they just jumped off the pages of GQ.  Some like men who come in scrubs (you know doctor garb), but I think that may have more to do with the scrubs than the guys in them. But until my daughter confessed that she likes dirty men too I didn’t have a clue that I wasn’t the only one.  I have always kept this a secret.  There are several reasons for this.  One is that my husband would never be considered a “dirty” man.  He does sport scruff, but it’s ginger scruff.  He is nowhere near my age, but I love him to the moon and back.  See the things is…I don’t want to make  him feel bad because I find traits he doesn’t have extremely sexy in other men.  It doesn’t mean that the traits he possesses are any less attractive to me.  I don’t know why I feel guilty because when he sees a hot chick he doesn’t waste anytime letting me know.  He has actually been known to say to me “look at the rack on her.”  Obviously he finds giant jugs attractive and doesn’t worry about hurting my feelings so why can’t I just say “honey, did you know that I find men who look like they’ve been out sweating all day really sexy?”  Trust me, it would not turn out well.  As for my daughter, she still could land a scruff.  She has been seeing a man who oversees construction.  Not quite the carpenter himself, but still he might smell like sawdust.

I know there must be many  of us out there.  We scruff lovers need to start a club.  Those of you who actually have scruffies at home are not invited.  It’s only fun because it’s off limits.  It’s like eating a 2lb. cheesecake.  You know you could never do it, but a part of you wants to try anyway.  So you go as far as you can without throwing up.  Yes, I felt you with me right up to the throwing up…but you get the picture (some of you more vividly than others) it’s forbidden.  It’s that forbidden fruit thing, and look where that landed us.  It’s because some bitch gave in to the forbidden that we all bleed until our fifties, cramp to high heaven, bloat for a week every twenty-eight days, and scream like banshees during childbirth.  I don’t need to point out the obvious…stay away from that which is forbidden.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I intend to waddle into the kitchen see what is left of that cheesecake and take fork in hand, eat until I puke then go to bed.  Eating ain’t cheating!

My very dear sister in law sent me George Clooney for Christmas.  Yes, I got Georged for Christmas.  He came champagne in hand with a sweet message inviting all the beautiful ladies in the world to have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  While I will not mention her name (you’ve probably noticed that I don’t), her initials are PMS.  I kid you not.  While most in the family feel that I am the bitch, she is the one with those initials.  I appreciate the irony, even if you do not. She’s damned near a saint.  I know she’s not technically damned near a saint.  I have no proof of miracles (unless you consider being married to my brother in law for quite a long time).   We have dirt on each other, (sisters share) and she has never divulged and neither will I.  I mean I don’t know know where the skeletons are buried…I kid, there aren’t any skeletons…that I know of.  PMS is just another sister.  She isn’t a sister that I knew I had my whole life.  She’s the sister I didn’t know I needed until she showed up.  The other three were always there, and I knew I could count on them.  I’m not short changing DNA.  I’m just saying that sometimes in life’s comedic system of checks and balances sometimes…rarely, but sometimes…you come out ahead.

Now let me tell you about her.  She knows without a doubt that I love my husband sincerely and deeply.  She recognizes that I would do George Clooney in a half heart beat if given the chance.  He’s on my list.  I know that if given the chance my precious hubby would nail Jennifer Aniston like the speediest carpenter you’ve ever seen.  Bless his heart, it might be over before it begins and part of the deal is that we only get the one chance.  Two or more is an affair, and that’s off limits.  So my sister from another mother, this non-vag sister of mine, sends me George Clooney for Christmas.  She knew that getting all warm and melty over him is not against the rules, plus she knew that the fact that we both appreciate the beauty of this man.  I don’t necessarily mean the physical beauty.  It’s the whole package.  I have followed him from the days he showed up toting deliveries for Mrs. Garrison, to his shaggy haired role on Roseanne (as Jackie’s love interest…yuck!).  I watched him court Sela Ward on Sisters, and couldn’t believe he left ER to do movies.  I thought for sure he was a goner, but not George.  The mellow mouthed man dominated the screen whether small or silver.  Everything he touches turns to gold, and that is the reason we (and by we I mean all women with a pulse) want him to touch us.  We all want to bathe in his golden light, even if just for a minute.  Yes, his toast is to all the beautiful women in the world and you may not see yourself as beautiful.  Look harder.  There is something beautiful in all of us.  In PMS it is the complete and utter joy of family.  She has always been attractive, but it is the glow being with family gives her that makes her beautiful.  My beauty (in my opinion) comes from my sense of humor.  I can usually find something to laugh about in any situation.  You see PMS accepted me as family as soon as we met, and I knew I was home.  She has said it was because I took the pressure off of her with our mother in law.  She doesn’t need me for that any longer. Now, I make her laugh.  Today’s blog is less about the crap that getting old and fat and having your lap sit on your lap even if you do manage to lose a few pounds causes.  Today’s blog is about Christmas.  It’s about knowing that sometimes the best gift you can give someone for Christmas is humor.

Recognizing the humor in life, and knowing you’ll never get out alive is funny in itself.  Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, isn’t that what they say?  Well I can’t stand the smell of smoke and I’m allergic to dust so I intend to live forever.  I intend to live eternally with full gusto.  If I have to go, my children have orders to take me to a taxidermist.  I want to be stuffed and mounted (puns fully intended) and propped up in plain sight with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  Why?  Because I didn’t do those things in life, and I think irony is funny.  Those of you who truly know me may ask about the pain.  Pain?  Oh please, I live with pain daily.  Those worried about the economy have been heard to worry that they will starve to death if they lose much more.  They think that’s what poor is.  Poor is not having family to love you…I’m good.  Old?  Of course, old happens until dead happens…we are all of us getting older.  It’s how we go about getting old that defines us.  Preachy?  Obviously you don’t know me.  I’m just thanking one of my four sisters for Georging me at Christmas.  To the other three…he’s on his way.  What?  Did you think I was selfish?  Puhleease!

I say five and sorta six because technically it was six nights and five days.  The bottom line is, I’m home.  Mom swears she had a good time.  I don’t see how.  Unless she truly enjoys the life she lives at home, because she basically did the same things.  She got up in the morning, made coffee, did her Bible reading, and played on the computer.  When I got up (several hours later), she made more coffee and played on the computer until I got out of the shower.  We went to lunch.  We found something to kill time until dinner. which I ate and she didn’t.  We came back to the hotel and she brushed her teeth and went to bed right after the ten o’clock news.

Other than the shopping, and not sleeping with my husband, (okay…other than the shopping) I guess my routine wasn’t so different either.  Of course, I did eat two meals out per day.  Shhh!!! We’re not telling Jenny Craig.  She thinks I was good, or at least she will until I weigh in.  Which, if I time it right should be about June.  I have been living on sticks and bugs for the last six months.  At first, I dropped like twenty pounds.  It took me  ten weeks, but I dropped those twenty pounds.  Then they increased my damned medication again and promptly put back on ten pounds.  Ten!  After nearly three months of sticks and bugs!  Who the hell is this Valerie Bertinellie and why do the put her head on that chick in the bikini?  Anyway…back to the trip.  Mother and I actually did fairly well.  We took one little wrong turn in choosing the Bible as a subject of discussion on the way home.  To say we view it differently is what they call an under statement.  So we went on to safer subjects.  Like how she basically raised my older son for me while I went out on dates all the time.  (Don’t I wish?  At least about the dates.)

Mother has decided that Mennen Baby Magic is the best lotion ever.  She uses it twice a day, and I guess for her it is alright…she is in her second childhood.  The last time I had it on me was about 24 years ago, and that was only because I had lotioned my baby.  She purchased about a gallon bottle and wanted to share with me.  She offered to let me take that bottle home, because she had more.  I told her that due to my extremely dry skin I really needed a cream and not a lotion.   This is not a lie.  I choose to use Aveeno Night Time skin cream because it is the only thing my skin doesn’t soak up like a sponge in 2 minutes.  Instead of, “well okay.”  I got that mother look that everyone knows.  The one that says, “okay you little fool, but if you listen to me you would be better off.”  Oh come on.  You have used it, and I damn near perfected it.  To some degree it always works, but not to such a degree that my very wonderful perfume gets overwhelmed by smelling like a baby’s bottom.  Yes sometimes, a baby’s bottom smells better than others, but I am talking about a clean baby’s bottom here…a clean, freshly lotioned, baby’s bottom.  I still prefer my perfume.

I dropped mom off tonight about 9:30 p.m., and I walked her to the door of her apartment and helped her unload her luggage before I went home.  I gave her a big hug and kiss and told her that I would call her tomorrow, and I will.  The only time I was really wondering how I was going to make this work was when we were in the car for hours at a time.  That was really on the way up and way back, but I survived and so did she.  I don’t even have to be concerned about long car rides for a long, long…oh who am I kidding.  She rides with me to my sister’s on Christmas Eve.  This time, hopefully I’ll remember to avoid the Bible!

Mother is walking in her sleep.  Today she said something about not thinking she had moved a muscle all night, and I told her that she had gotten up in the night and gotten a cough drop.  She had absolutely no recollection of it.  It makes me wonder what she does in her apartment with no one is there to see.   She is a little freaked by it as well.  It’s probably the freakin’ Ambien.  I told her that if she got up in the night and started cooking, then we would worry.  That would be what would happen.  She’d either begin frying chicken or making fudge.  One thing about it, we didn’t have to worry about starvation when we lived at home.

Her friend came to visit today, and while I thought we were going to go see her great-grand-baby, what actually happened was that she went shopping with us and tomorrow we are going to see the baby.  I barely know this woman, and I certainly don’t know her daughter/granddaughter/ or baby.  Yet, I will be compelled to go and ooh and ahh over this unknown infant.  I amuse myself by thinking that I am a wise woman going to see the Christ child.  I wonder if I should be the one to bring the gold, frankincense, or myrhh.  I think I’m going as the little drummer girl.  I will use the tabletop as my drum and my fingers as the sticks.  Because, let’s face it, come they told me pretty much sums it up.

Tonight I took mom and my hubby’s godmother to the Plaza to see the Christmas lights.  I didn’t realize until tonight that his godmother can be somewhat of a backseat driver.  She took me some bassackwards way down to the Plaza that I would never be able to repeat.  I must have been told 15 times “you go through the light honey.”  I didn’t need to be told to go through the light.  I did need to be told to turn, but that was kept secret until it was too late to do anything about it.  We made it just the same.  Dinner was lovely, and the lights were spectacular.  I took my own way home, and we made it just the same.

I’ve made it known that tomorrow night I will be watching the Colts.  I’ve told the godmother that I won’t be able to make dinner.  I’ve told the mother that she is more than welcome to watch the Colts with me, but unless she is able to make positive commentary regarding the game she is to keep quiet.  I would hate to hurt her.  If she talks like she did during the movie a few nights ago, all bets are off.  We did have a discussion about her funeral arrangements (out of the blue…like so many other conversations).  I now know what she would like to wear (like it won’t be moth eaten in 20 years!), that she has no pallbearers chosen, and that…and this is the only part that made this conversation less than depressing…my sisters and I can choose whomever we like to perform the service!  Do you hear angels singing?  Perhaps it is just me.  You would have to understand the pain of attending my dad’s funeral service and having a sermon preached, to understand my joy at not having to face that again.  I told mom that I would rather not have the same person who presided over dad’s service and she said that was fine!  Maybe (in 20 years) when I am mourning my mother I won’t have to hear someone make an altar call.

It’s 2:00 a.m. and I hear her gently snoring in the other room.  I’ve complained some, I know, but it is nice to hear it.  She’s having a great time, and it will give her something to talk about for months or longer.  I know I won’t have her forever, and this trip will give me great memories as well.  Tonight the look of wonder on her face as she saw the Plaza in all its Christmas glory was much like it would have been on The Precious.  As I was helping her zip her coat as we left the restaurant, she commented that she must have entered her second childhood.  Not yet, but maybe not too far from now either.

There is not a family story I haven’t heard.  I know every one’s business, past and present.  I have learned a multitude of things about aging.  I have learned that you truly are as young as you feel, but you should never feel so young you break your pelvis.  I have been made to understand that artificial sweeteners are poisons that I am ingesting.  I have learned that perhaps I should turn to Eastern medicine to relieve all of my ailments…to quote, “acupuncture works.”

I have learned these things because I am in Kansas City doing a little Christmas shopping, and (if you have been keeping up) my mom is with me.  I am also seeing (daily) a very dear friend that we refer to as the hubby’s Godmother.  To quote yet again, “oh honey!  That makes me sound so old.  How about Aunt?”  She will be 90 in five months.  I asked her if she had any thoughts about turning 90.  Her disturbed gaze turned on me as she said, “no dear, I try not to think of it at all.”  I told her that I was only asking because I will turn 50 on my next birthday in two months.  To which she replied, “well, if I was turning fifty, I might feel differently.”  Not one to take the hint easily, I stated that I was looking forward to the half decade mark.  She said , “well kiddo…if I could remember 50 I might be able to tell you if I enjoyed it.”  So I persisted, ” you haven’t thought about it?”  “Only when people bring it up.”  We had no further discussions…at least about age.

The good news about being with two elderly women is there is never a lull in conversation.  Between the cost of pills and the aches and pains.  I can chime in on those topics as well, but I get the distinct impression my age keeps them from taking me too seriously.  Today’s lunch discussion ranged from absent fathers to cold toilet seats.  There are plenty of laughs to be sure,  but sometimes I just get worn down.  This was meant to be a trip to service and repair my car, and that will be done.  It was also meant to be a mini vacation for moi.  Unfortunately, my mother has seen it as a bonding experience, and won’t leave me alone for two seconds.  I thought we would watch a movie tonight (in room).  The opening scene was our heroine making hot and heavy (and seriously naked), love to a stranger.  Yay!! I’m watching people F*#@ with my uptight Christian mom!  Woo hoo!!  Let’s get this party started.  I shouldn’t have worried.  She couldn’t hear the movie, because it was mostly dialogue, and I couldn’t get the volume on the set high enough for her to hear it without us being thrown out of the hotel.  So she just talked to me.  Through the whole movie. She talked about things I have heard at least 1000 times.  She did have one bit of bright news today.  I have a cousin who has been diagnosed with cancer.  I must have heard the replay of that phone conversation at least 100 times.  He is a distant cousin.  He had a tumor removed from his back.  Apparently it was malignant, and that’s all she knows.  This last part is said with a pitiful, yet somewhat joyful, look on her face.  My mom loves drama.  In this instance she will do her best to take care of this distant cousin’s, already in poor health, mother and his father whom she is convinced has cancer, but the doctor has diagnosed him with pneumonia.  “He’s probably not telling because he doesn’t want to worry his wife.”

I mostly just nod and say the occasional “um hum”, and go on.  Today I turned on Christmas carols in the car.  I turned them on so low she couldn’t hear them, but I could.  So I silently sang to myself and occasionally nodded to my mom and got by with it.  On the downside, my brain was so overloaded I missed my turn off to Target.  On the upside I barely heard all of the comments on how we were never going to get all of my packages in the car.  I figure I will deal with that when I have to. 

I think I take after my dad.  I pray to God that I take after my dad.  I love my mom.  I know I’ve said it a million times, but I mean it every time.  It’s just that she has lead a very sheltered life.  Most of it was spent taking care of my father, and that means that the rest of her experiences have been limited.  Which is why I take her with me places.  I like for her to experience new things.  Like using a card key.  It’s hard.  Each time I have to remind her to put the Hilton part in first.  It was cute the first two days.  My dad was a lot less concerned with the little stuff.  He was a joker, and always had a kind of laid back existence.  He could get seriously angry.  This was especially true if  his girls were mistreated.  He was 5′6″, 125 lbs. of total whoop ass if you didn’t treat us properly.  But his favorite words, his most often overheard comment was, “it’ll all work out.”  Mom needs to be reminded that it will indeed.

Tomorrow we are going to the Plaza to see the Christmas lights.  We will be having an early dinner, a blue plate special if you will.  I’m sure someone will share their meal with someone else.  It happens everytime.  It depends on what is chosen and who thinks that sounds good…but it will happen.  I don’t know where we are eating.  I don’t know what we are eating.  I only know that I will be drinking a Patron margarita, rocks, with salt.  Three more days to go…

I am in Kansas City with my mother.  I originally thought this would give her a chance to visit a friend  who lives nearby and I would be alone in a hotel room.  You know, room service, videos, a good book all of the things that make life worth living.  It is not to be.  My mother informed me that she and I have not been experiencing “quality” time and she intends to stay with me for the entire trip.  Did I mention that we will be here until Friday?

On the way up we pretty much covered every topic you can think of.  From all of my sisters and me when we were small and all the cute, and the embarrassing things we said, to my sexual promiscuity and my dad’s drinking (back in the bad old days). We chatted about it all.  When we began talking about my grandmother’s and my parent’s sex lives…I grew a little quiet.  This goes against the deal.  You see I have a deal with my children, and they reciprocate.  I don’t have sex and they don’t have sex.  It works really well as long as everyone follows the deal.  I have tried to explain the deal to my mother, but I don’t know if it is that she can’t hear (she can’t you know), or that she won’t hear.  I just know that I know way, way too much about my parent’s gettin’ jiggy.

I know of at least one story that I have heard three times so far and we are 6 hours in.  I know of many, many other stories that I have heard a gazillion times before that I have once again been told.  I know that she hated my ex-husband and couldn’t believe I stayed with him as long as I did.  While I could not care less about my ex one way or the other, the staying with him might have stemmed from my parents telling me, “You made you’re bed, now go lie in it”.  Aside from the contradictions of lying “in” a made bed, I received a signal that told me they would not support a separation.  I know once I tried to come back home, two kids in tow, and Dad told me, “aww Sis, it’ll all work out.  Just go on home.”  Again, not exactly the story I have heard since the divorce.  They both seemed to love my current (and final) hubby.  Although I’m not exactly sure how the story would play out if that didn’t work.  In his case, mom (she’s the only one left to appease) would probably choose him and not me.  She denies it, but I have seen crossed fingers and am somewhat suspicious.

Day one…really?  Does anyone know why you can’t get your car serviced without a two week notice in December.  Shouldn’t people be spending money on presents?  I know I would rather but my car is sick.  I called last week, after booking hotel reservations from Sunday thru Thursday, and was told the best they could do was Friday.  They also said they had no loaners.  Great!!!  And instead of having mom spend some time with her friend, like I had hoped, I get one extra day of “quality time”.   Where is the quality in being reminded that I come from hill folk, and everyone she knows will die of canesir.  Everyone…and there is no other outcome with cancer…just death.  If I get cancer, and I mean any cancer…including precancer cells thinking they might become cancer, I will never tell my mother.  I would just as soon be mauled by a pack of angry beavers than give her the joy of getting to tell everyone about my canesir and how sick I am and how much I depend on her.  I just won’t.  My death will come from the common cold as far as my mother knows.  Lord, I hope I don’t develop a cough.  You know what that means!!

I tell myself that I won’t have her forever.  I tell myself that she is just as good as gold and would do anything to help anyone she could.  I tell myself that people all over the world would love to spend a week with their mothers.  This is what I tell myself, but how many of those whiners have actually done it?  I’m no saint.  I have already informed her that I will be drinking this week.  I might have fudged on the how much.  I figure what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and an extra drink won’t hurt me.  I mean after you have one on your breath what’s the diff?  My mother (being the former bloodhound of an alcoholic) can smell booze whether it exists or not so I figure it might as well exist.  Perhaps if I find a terrifically cheap perfume I can make her believe it is just the alcohol in the cologne.  I’m joking for all of you freaking out right now.  I will have a drink with dinner, and then  I will take pills!

Boppy and I took The Precious to look at the Christmas lights downtown tonight.  He had to visit with us while his mommy and daddy attended an alumni dinner at their University.  At first he was a little concerned about them leaving (he always is…it’s because we beat him), however once we convinced him that we could by Starbucks and get a hot chocolate it was every man for himself.

Have you ever tried to drive-thru Starbucks on a Saturday less than two weeks before Christmas with a 2 year old?  Too say it is slow gives slow a new meaning.  We raced ahead like a herd of turtles.  We commented on the purple car in front of us.  Yes it was purple.  Yes their was a guy in it.  Yes he was getting Starbucks…and so on.  After the first thirty minutes or so he began to get bored and started to contemplate the clothing at Chico’s.  I tried to convince him that he wouldn’t like it.  There weren’t any toys in there, and probably not any other little boys either.  This started a whole new conversation.  “I wike cwothes.” “No you don’t. You would much prefer to be nakey all the time.” “I wike nakey time!!” “I know you do, but we can only get nakey at your house or Emmy’s house.” “I wanna go to Emmy’s house.”  Well, you can pretty much take it from there.  Until he got his hot (lukewarm) chocolate.  “I wike it chocowate.  What is it?”  “Hot chocolate.” “Hot chocowate?”  “Yes, it’s hot chocolate.” “I wike it hot chocowate.  What is it?”  Don’t you just love the mind of a two year old?  He can remember a game we played 6 months ago, but can’t remember he is drinking hot chocolate for 2 seconds.  Rather than take him home for some nakey time, we decided to take him to see the Christmas lights.  We started in the neighborhood, and the one just across the road.  By this time he is begging Boppy for more.  So we headed downtown to the square.  Our square is lovely.  It is not Kansas City Plaza lovely, but it does have a quaint charm.  The entire square is covered in lights.  There are street vendors, and the usual horse drawn carriages…but our Santa brings in all eight of his reindeer.  Rudolph stays home with a cold in his nose.  There is also a small pavilion with Shetland ponies for the kids to ride.  I wouldn’t let any child I love ride a Shetland pony, but I don’t have to worry about that with The Precious.  He started screaming for a pony ride as soon as he saw the big umbrella they were housed under.  “I wanna wide the horsey!”  Now my darling ones, let me remind you…I have known this kid for some 2+ years and before I put his cute little hiney on a pony I made sure they had a refund policy.  Because I knew that as soon as he was asked to put a foot over the back of the horse all hell was going to break loose.  When they told me they didn’t I told him the horses were going to have some food and we would come back.

The Precious was in heaven!  There were camels…white and bwown…I mean brown.  He couldn’t look at everything enough.  We spent probably thirty minutes walking down one side of the square.  He wanted to touch everything.  He wanted to sit on every bench, but when the big truck pulled up and the reindeer started being unloaded I thought he might explode.  He wanted to see them.  “See the horns Emmy?”  “Yes I see the horns.”  “Wet’s touch ‘em.”  “We can’t touch them.  They might get mad.”  “Get mad?”  “Yes, but we can go inside the barn down there and look at them.”  “We can wook at them?”  “Yes.  Do you want to do that?” “Yeth.”  And so it came to pass that one wise man and one wise woman took a toddler to a barn.  We watched the reindeer through the windows as we waited in line.  He couldn’t get enough, but when we actually entered the barn and Santa was sitting in his sleigh all bets were off.   “I don’t want it Santa”, he repeated like some mantra.  Of course we took the demented little Dali Lama out of the tent and went to see what else they had.

After we finally left the square, we drove through some neighborhoods that we know generally have great displays at Christmas.  All the little bugger wanted to see was more Santas.  This same child who threw a raging hissy fit (and that’s one of the worst), just wanted to see the yards with Santa.  We saw Santa playing golf, and Santa on a motorcycle, Santa on a Ferris wheel, and Santa in a snow globe but with each Santa we saw came a cry of “more Santa, Boppy!”  And Boppy, always eager to please, kept looking for Santas.  We finally pulled the plug on the Santa search and came back to Boppy and Emmy’s house for a bath and a little Polar Express.  We hadn’t even made it out of the bath tub when the parents returned.  They almost always spoil our fun.  It worked to our advantage that daddy needed to do something else, and mommy asked if I would take them home later.  Of course (although much harder to push over than Boppy) I complied, and he stayed for a while longer.

We played golf (dolph in Precious).  We got our clubs and had a fight (bite in Precious).  He and Boppy flew through the house (flew in Precious…what did you think, he couldn’t pronounce anything?” and we had some chicken.  Finally mommy (not The Precious) decided it was time to go home.  Let me just say he wasn’t for it.  Until I told him that Boppy and I would go to and see his Christmas tree (which by the way, has a princess on top).  Seeing his Christmas tree turned into seeing his stockings, and his Mickey Mouse club house, and his room and anything else he could con us into seeing so we didn’t leave.  Finally I told him I would read him one book, but then I needed to go home and go “night-night”  He agreed, and true to his word after one book he said “you go home.”  So we did.

This kid is some special kind of piece of work.  He’s so bossy you can’t help but laugh at him, and then he’s so bossy he gets mad at you for laughing.  He doesn’t forget anything, except what you told him two seconds ago.  He’s ridiculously cute, and I’m not just saying that because I’m his Emmy.  His Boppy and his aunt and uncle think so too.  So even though I didn’t come right home and go “night-night” I stayed up just long enough to let you know that the spirit of Christmas is alive and well in Fayetteville, Arkansas…and I’ll challenge any of you Grinches to keep that scowl on your faces when you are with a two year old discovering the joys of Christmas for the first time he can remember!

I know, my darlings, that I have been more than lax in my blogging.  I know that you must miss my interesting insights, mind mindful musings, and of course the colorful colloquial cynicism of a true Southern Belle.  I have missed writing and relieving myself of the crap in my head too.  So, dear ones I am going to attempt to enlighten you as to what has been going on, without betraying any confidences.  As we say in the south, “we keep our crazy at home.” 

My pain levels have been higher than ever, and I have spent many days without the energy to do  much more than read my emails.  Of course that leaves the house looking like it was flat bed trucked up from New Orleans’ hurricane Katrina’s most devastated area.  It’s a mess.  There are toys all over the den.  The plants are droopier than my boobs.  The kitchen would only pass inspection from someone previously homeless…and let’s just say the cleanest bathroom is out beside the tool shed out back.  There is crime scene tape across the bottom of the stairs warning people that going upstairs could be hazardous to their health.  Are you getting the picture?  The only reason I climb the stairs is to get more pain medicine or lie down. It hurts far too much to either climb or descend those 13 monsters, and I choose to do it as few times as possible.

Now normally by this time our house is decked to the halls and more.  I normally put Christmas trees in every room with each being a different theme.  This year we will be lucky to get up one tree and stockings.  Neither my hubby or myself have the Christmas spirit.  Luckily, I started buying Christmas in August so the shopping is done and the gifts are wrapped.  Thank God.  I do have to say that many more presents are in gift bags this year than ever before.  I would like to personally thank whoever came up with that particular idea.  The things is, wrapping presents used to be my thing.  I never wrapped with visible tape.  I used two sided tape or glue dots.  I handmade all the bows and each and every package had ribbon, and/or candy canes and accessories.  This year I bought store ribbon.  Those plain old boring bows that say, “hey, I bought you a gift so shut up already.”  That’s kind of how I feel too.   “Look, be glad I felt okay in August.  I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted when you sent me your gift list in December, but sometimes life just sucks.  If you need details ask me.”

I know you must be thinking, “crap, what is wrong with her.”  Well as soon as I find out I will let you know.  I have seen a new rheumatologist.  He has drained me of all my previous blood in an attempt to find out what the hell is wrong.  He x-rayed me from head to toe, and did a physical exam that was part uncomfortable, and part inquisition.  Once again I will tell you that I have tested  positive for rheumatoid arthritis.  I have all of the physical symptoms, but none of the joint disfigurement.  “Great,” you’re thinking, but as they say on late night television….but wait!  There’s more!!  I also have osteoarthritis and fibromyalgia.  To all of that add being allergic  to everything God created, and having asthma.  I’m effing sick all the effing time.  Now, making lemonade from lemons…just let me say I don’t believe I have anything that will kill me.  I do, however, have things that can make me wish they would. My hubby is a candidate for sainthood. (That’s a big fat lie, but he might read this) He puts up with all of my whining.  He keeps taking my ever enlarging ass to doctor’s appointments.  He picks up my medication.  He has almost quit asking me to play golf or go anywhere with him.  He never complains about my complaints.  He goes with me to each doctor’s appointment.  We travel from specialist to specialist with nothing but mood music and a crossword puzzle.  The mood is usually the blues, by the way.  I have travelled all over Arkansas.  That is the only state our insurance covers.  I could be dying and have a doctor in California with a cure and BC/BS would be like “tough shit.  Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes your the bug.”  For this we pay them a huge amount of money and our deductible is so high you really can see Russia from it.  We will meet our deductible on or about the 31st of December.  Yee-haw.

My New Year’s resolution is too blog more.  At least three times a week.  Let me warn you in advance…I rarely keep my New Year’s resolutions.  I will try though.  If there are still any of you out there reading please let me know.  Otherwise, I’m just writing memoirs for my kids and grand-kids…I’m not convinced that they are reading any longer either. And if they are and they are the only ones, I’m going to whine and complain even more so that they know just how miserable I was while I was still cooking family dinners, baking birthday cakes, and wrapping Christmas presents.  I know signing in is a pain in the ass, but I’m a pain in the ass kind of person.  I would change the process if I could.  Of course I would also like the ability to speed up health care reform and receive my bailout…these things aren’t going to happen and you are probably not going to comment.  It’s okay having bitchy friends can be fun too!  So you are caught up my dear ones.  I will receive test results back in about two weeks.  I will let you know more of my saga at that time.  However; on the bright side (for you … not me) my mother is traveling with me to Kansas City next week for five nights and six days.  I should have plenty to write about  soon.