Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Nothing to Read Here. Move along.

Ignore this. Still trying to reclaim my stolen blog...

Here's me jumping through hoops to do it.

Undergoing MyBlogLog Verification

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Torture Me Tuesday

Toddler Tuesday is a weekly form of punishment for adults that lasts for seven weeks.

Due to the fact that everyone else only has one toddler, they take their punishment in stride by sitting on the bleachers and talking on cell phones. Some even have the nerve to bring books. Occasionally a parent will realize the teacher can't possibly keep all the toddlers running in the same direction, so they'll get up long enough to corral their toddler who has gone astray.

The class is open to children ages 2 to 5, so there are a couple of older male bullies in the class. I swear one is at least 7. I don't know why he's not in school. He's a discipline problem, so his mom may have taken him out of public school before the teachers accidentally lost him on a field trip. And I don't know where she was today because he was freely picking on the younger children with no reprimand. I felt sorry for the mom having to protect her child. She kept saying, "If he hits you, you just have to walk away."

I was glad Ironman wasn't there. If that were happening to our child he'd be saying, "Kick his @ss!" Last night Ironman was teaching our son to say, "I love my cods." I was mortified as always, but no matter how much I shriek in protest, he still thinks it's funny. Nobody else does, but he does. Suddenly when our daughter started saying it today, it wasn't so funny to Ironman and the rules changed so that no one was allowed to say that word anymore.

That's the thing about Ironman. He teaches them to do really stupid things--like stick things in the ceiling fan--but he eventually sees the error of his ways and tries to unring the bell. It doesn't always work, but I'm just grateful he's not so stubborn that he sticks to his guns and lets them get their arms ripped off or something--which he swears can't happen just from sticking the empty plastic wrapping of an over sized Pixie stick into the blades.

Anyway, I speak bitterly about the parents relaxing on the bleachers because I'm el preggo mom on the court trying to encourage my shy daughter to participate and my son from picking up the obstacle course. I'm the one hopping on dots and crawling through cones as I pant like the out of shape blob that I am. I'm the one running and freezing like a statue in the Red Light/Green Light game. I resent the heck out of it. I can't believe I paid in advance for this.

I thought my children would benefit from being around other children and getting out of the house since we have almost zero experiences like that. The first week Teacher Steve threw a bunch of balls on the court along with random items like rubber chickens and told the kids to play to their heart's content. My 2 year old son loved it. The girls were great.

The second week started getting more structured. My son didn't want to do anything that Teacher Steve wanted him to do. He just wanted to play with the balls like the week before. The girls were ideal. They followed directions. Alex just wanted to play on his own.

The third week was really bad weather, so we skipped. Also, Ironman accidentally took my keys, so we couldn't have gone anyway.

Today was the fourth week. Skipping one week was a big mistake on so many levels. For one thing, Lindley regressed. She was suddenly scared to go out on the court. Could be due to the fact that Teacher Steve accidentally whacked her upside the head, and two weeks later her cut is still noticeable. I'd be scared, too. Alex saw his favorite ball on the court--the ball of many colors. But he wasn't allowed to play with it. Actually, it wasn't used for anything today, so I'm not sure why it was on the court. Just a temptation that became torture for both of us as we battled it out. I eventually won which I hear you're supposed to do if you engage in a battle of the wills with children. It took a lot of punishing before Alex finally realized I'm more stubborn than he is. Meanwhile, Lindley is following me around and refuses to participate.

We were the three idiots performing for all the parents. Thankfully Gracie was being angelic and following Teacher Steve. I can raise one child right!

I finally convinced Alex and Lindley to join me on the court with Gracie. That was only after Lindley agreed to do it if I would hold her hand, and Alex refused to go with us and screamed on the bleachers. I kept motioning for him to come over and join us, but he didn't want to. Finally a mom was nice enough to walk him over. We went from one week of playing simple stop and go games to a very complicated obstacle course.

This is what my two and three year olds were expected to remember and then follow through with. Keep in mind, I feel grateful if I can give them two things to accomplish and they manage to accomplish one.

Sit by the wall until it's your turn. Walk over to the blue square. Stand on it. Walk ten feet over to the orange hurdles and step over them. (They were crotch level for almost all the kids, so they were being knocked over almost every single time.) After getting over about ten hurdles, hop down the row of dots. Follow the arrows around the court until you see more dots. Hop on the dots again. Duck down to go through five hoola hoops that are propped up on flimsy Styrofoam. (Once again, kids can barely get through them without knocking the entire set up down.) Crawl like a baby through the red cones. Walk backwards on the stars. Roll on your side from one end of the gym mat to the other. Walk to the purple square and stomp on it. Return to the wall where you started.

This got almost every parent off their butts. Finally I wasn't the only one out there.

There were toddlers totally confused going every direction, tripping over obstacles, and of course--my son--picking up the stars, dots, and arrows saying things like, "Look mom! Itsa lellow star!"

I thought that was quite optimistic for Teacher Steve to think he could handle a class that large alone on an obstacle course that complicated. Even the adults were scratching their heads and thinking, "Do they hop on dots or walk backwards on dots???"

But I have to admit I was VERY proud of my children by the end of class. Two of them had a slow start, but with practice they were able to successfully conquer the obstacle course. Even Alex was able to swing his short little legs over those big hurdles without knocking them down.

So that was Toddler Tuesday today. I need my blankie and a nap.

Monday, January 28, 2008! Ohmygah!

That last post about the Taco Bell guy needs to be shoved up my butt. It's not nearly as annoying now that I know the whole story.

I've had several people say they couldn't believe I didn't know his story! He's been on Ellen because of his singing! Ohmygah!

And people were caught on tape just like I KNEW was happening!!!!

Here are the videos of him at the Bell and him singing his latest single on Ellen--and dancing with her! Too cute! Apparently his talent is getting recognized by famous artists. Way to go Taco Bell Man! I don't think his real name is Taco Bell Man. It could be Donnie Harden or something similar.

On Ellen:

This would be an idea of my experience today:

By the way, I'm totally doing this the next time I go through Taco Bell. Cracks me up!

And news flash, I read a comment by someone on You Tube that he called her a sexy lady, so I'm not so special after all. :(

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Taco Bell-elle-elle-ellle, yeah, yeah...

When I started this blog, I was under the impression that my life is secretly video taped for the amusement of others (hence the description at the top of the blog). Most of my posts revolved around unusual people that came to my door or that I met in public. Now I only have to go so far as my inbox to realize my theory is still a sound one. I am most definitely screwed with for others' amusement, and on a television somewhere is me with my hands in the air screaming, "What the heck??? How do these people find me?!?"

But today I was most definitely taped at the Taco Bell drive-thru. Usually I would look like hell, but I was coming from church, so I had put forth an effort on my appearance which is rare.

I pulled up to order and was greeted with a VERY lengthy rap about taking my time to order.

I was reassured again and again that I had all day. He said this was no Jackie Chan or Chris Tucker movie and that it wasn't rush hour. I was thanked for thinking outside of the bun, and then more rapping took place attempting to ease my anxiety about making a rash decision and ordering hastily. The rap was ended with, "Order whenever you is ready."

Meanwhile, a line was forming behind me, and I couldn't concentrate on the menu or gather my thoughts in any form or fashion.

I always try to make a mental list of my order before approaching the drive-thru because I have enough anxiety about forgetting someone's meal. I should write it all down, but that would take even more energy I'm not willing to part with.

Finally I started my order, "I want a taco with no lettuce..."

Sung back to me was, "You want a taco-00000--ooooo----ooo wi--i-i-ith- no oh oh oh ohohhhhhhhhhh lettuuuuuuuuuce."

I was totally screwed at that point. The twist in my typical ordering experience threw me for a loop. It's like my brain was wiped clean, and I couldn't remember anything else I was supposed to order. After what felt like a really long silence, I ordered 3 burritos and had it repeated back to me in the same soulful and very drawn out song. It was like one of the singers from Boys 2 Men had to get a side job and chose my Taco Bell.

Keep in mind, I had 12 things to order. This was going to take a very long time. And what also sucked is that I had a question. "Is it possible to get sour cream on my bean burrito?"

I know! I was setting myself up! I didn't want to ask, but I didn't know the answer, and as I expected, it takes a really long time to sing an answer to a question. And three syllable words such as "possible" take forever to break down in R&B music. Every note has to be hit on just a one syllable word, so I was asking to be punished. "Yeeeeee--eh-eh-ehhhhhh-eeeeh-ssssss, it is poh-ha-ha-ha-haaaa-sible to get sou-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-er creaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam....." You get the gist.

I had no sense of humor at that point. I had a car full of children, we were all hungry and tired, and I just wanted to place my order because the line had doubled behind me!

We finally, finally, finally got through it. I pulled forward because of course everyone was gone from the line in front of me after that ridiculously long musical, and I hate musicals.

I had already been asked twice if I wanted hot sauce, mild sauce, or fire sauce. Once by the singer, and once by the girl at the window. Each time I answered that I wanted mild sauce.

Then one of the workers leaned out of the window and asked me again if I'd like one of those sauces, and I said mild sauce for the third time. That's when he said, "Ma'am, I don't mean to be offensive, but you're a very beautiful woman."

Well, thank you Taco Bell Man who is young enough to be my much younger brother and can rap so brilliantly! I am not going to count my burritos now in the parking lot to see how badly you guys screwed up my order thanks to that!

That just goes to show me that a good black dress can either disguise a really large belly, or one of the following:

a.) I appeared to have stolen my groceries and had them stashed under my dress.
b.) A raccoon had curled up and gone to sleep in my lap under my dress.
c.) Taco Bell Man has a thing for pregnant women.
d.) Taco Bell Man felt bad that his friend had just used one of my burritos as a prop in a vulgar joke.
e.) Taco Bell Man could tell I needed a compliment.

If it's d or e, I love him for his compassion. I appreciate it no matter what the reason because a tubby pregnant woman needs to think she's attractive every now and then despite what the mirror insists on showing her.

Still, there's no way all that happened without someone video taping it and showing it to the bar crowd in Boston where they keep a tape running of my life. No wa--a-a-aaaaaaa-ay-yay-yay....

Oh, and I wasn't given any mild sauce.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

My Blog Was Stolen on MyBlogLog

This post is here to prove I am the author of this domain, not the man who has stolen it and posted it as his own on MyBlogLog.

He added my blog address to the list of sites he authors to profit from the traffic I receive...which at one point was fairly decent but has dwindled since I stopped writing. So hopefully he hasn't benefited from my thoughts and opinions.

I now have to do some other things to prove I am the author. What a loser! I shouldn't have to do this. Beware. Your site could be stolen, and you wouldn't even know it. He went to, created a profile, and entered my blog address as well as almost 40 others. He's been tagged as a thief among other things because this is apparently all he does.

All the members who were in my community on MyBlogLog before I deleted it months ago were then transferred to him somehow. I don't know how he even steals community members. Several of you are on his list as members, but I didn't recognize any of the blogs he's stolen. That's not to say there aren't a million more where he came from. So heads up.

Friday, January 25, 2008

You Can Never Have Too Much Toilet Paper

Since I was on the subject earlier of irrational fears, I thought I'd share another one with you. I think I have a fear of being completely out of toilet paper. It's not a conscious fear. I don't find myself rocking in a corner worrying about my supply getting low. It's other behavior which makes me wonder if this fear truly exists.

As I was hoisting this week's purchase of toilet paper onto the top shelf of my utility room tonight, I stopped to ponder why I buy so much. I go to the store weekly like clock work. It's my one outing a week. It's the only time I'm ever alone. I have a standing appointment with my mother to take care of the kids. Every Thursday morning you can find me at Wal-Mart. Contain yourself. I know I'm the envy of everyone.

The thing is, despite the fact that I know I will be at the store in another week, I still buy a huge pack of toilet paper. I buy a 12 pack. And not only is it a 12 pack, but it's a 12 pack of double rolls, so basically I'm buying 24 rolls of toilet paper to last me a week. That's like a lot of rolls to go through per day.

Let's just assume I'm using a majority of this product since my children use wet wipes and my husband is at work all day. If I'm ill enough to be going through at least 3 rolls of toilet paper a day, don't you think someone will feel sorry enough for me to keep my kids so that I can run to the store for more toilet paper? I bet family members would even bring me some if I'm not already in the hospital suffering from dehydration!

Yet I still buy it. I'm such a creature of habit that I have a very specific trail I make through Wal-Mart, and it just so happens the toilet paper aisle marks the half way mark of my purchases. Twelve double rolls of quality toilet paper take up a lot of room in my cart. If I run out of room, I just have to skimp on the fresh fruit and vegetables for the kids because I'm not going to walk all the way to the back of the store to exchange my toilet paper for a smaller pack. That would take energy that I do not have. The fruit always goes bad anyways, so you could say it saves me money when I buy toilet paper.

I don't buy toilet paper weekly. I buy a lot at once and then gamble that the second week isn't the week my two year old will unroll an entire roll into the toilet and that Ironman won't steal three rolls to take to work. Yes, he has to provide his own toilet paper. It's a porta-potty thing.

It's weird. Did anyone see that episode of Dr. Phil where he interviewed a woman deathly afraid of feathers? I used to watch Dr. Phil because I thought he gave sound advice. Now his show is a freak fest, he's lost all my respect, but it's a train wreck I can't look away from. Keep following me. I promise this has something to do with toilet paper. Just let it come full circle.

So Dr. Phil was interviewing a lady so scared of feathers that she humiliated her family during the Christmas season by trampling people in a store in attempt to get away from a Christmas tree that was decorated with feathers. She could never have a pillow or comforter stuffed with feathers. Boas are scary! She thinks birds can sense her fear, so they intentionally fly near her. Yes, she thinks the birds are antagonistic.

Dr. Phil sends her backstage to have someone deprogram her and help her get rid of her irrational fear of feathers. When they bring her back out, he wants to test her even though she's on the verge of a panic attack just at the thought of having to see a bird.

On a ginormous screen behind her head, they have a live feed rolling of a trainer with one of those birds that can talk--like they couldn't avoid the creepiest bird on the entire planet to test this woman with. A parakeet would have her retching, but they chose some big @ss bird that could say her name and totally make an obscene phone call given the right instruction.

Anyway, back to the ginormous screen behind her head. There's the shot of the trainer with the bird, and Dr. Phil makes her look over her shoulder to see the bird. She shudders, but she keeps her lunch down. The camera gets closer to the bird, and he makes her turn around as he says something like, "What about now? Are you okay now?" The woman is visibly shaken, but she's trying to be a good sport on national television. As Dr. Phil talks to the poor woman, the camera man keeps getting closer and closer to the bird so that eventually there's nothing but a close-up of a 20 foot bird behind her head. And then the guy closes in on just the face so that there's a bird head over her shoulder that would scare the crap out of anyone if they unexpectedly glanced over their shoulder and saw it glaring at them. Meanwhile, I'm all clinched and practically yelling at the t.v., "Lady! Don't turn around!"

The other part of the bird exercise was that they brought the bird into the studio and had it far away from her. He'd have the trainer bring it a little closer and a little closer, all the while asking, "How do you feel with it this close? What about now?" The bird never got very close to her because the lady was about to bolt, but you could tell she was proud of herself for not hurling or shrieking during the entire experience.

I told you there would be a point to this story, so stay with me as I bring it full circle.

I don't want to be the next guest on The Dr. Phil Show. I can see him telling me that Cottonelle has just donated a lifetime supply of toilet paper to me, but first I have to be broken of my irrational fear of running out it. I assume I'd only be allowed to have one roll of toilet paper in my house for an entire week. And I can see him dangling that one roll in front of me as he says, "How do you feel when I take your only roll of toilet paper and move it waaaay over here? What about now? What if I move it another five feet? What about now?"

That would suck. I need to get a grip on this toilet paper thing before I'm holding hands back stage with some chick who fears measuring cups or something. My life just can't turn out like that. I have to do something before it gets out of control. This is serious stuff.

What Not to Wear

Do you ever step outside and just pray really hard that What Not to Wear isn't getting secret footage of you? Thank you, reality television, for giving me good reason to be paranoid. If I haven't been tracked by the fashion police yet, it's only because they don't want to come all the way to my boring little town or they think I'm hopeless. Or if the fashion police are locals, they probably tuck their pants into their cowboy boots anyway, so I might actually look metropolitan to them.

Tonight was the only time I've been out of the house all day. My mission was to return movies and go through a drive-thru to get nourishment for the family...though I don't know how nourishing our Mexican fast food was...but that's not the point. The point is that I had two places to go where I wasn't required to get out of the car. I considered wearing my pajamas. The only thing that ever prevents me from leaving the house in my pajamas is the fear of a wreck on a major street where I'll be one of those idiots in pajamas standing on the side of the road while people drive by saying, "Look at that idiot in her pajamas on the side of the road."

So I threw on two unrelated, unmatching articles of clothing that met my only criteria:

1. The shirt covers my entire stomach.
2. It won't look like I'm in pajamas if I have a wreck.

I seriously felt like I had to run out to my car (which would normally be parked right outside the door but wasn't due to circumstances too boring to mention--I can't believe I've even talked about it this much) ducking behind bushes and grabbing a few branches as camouflage for when I darted across our driveway to get into my car.

I can't tell you how grateful I was that the neighbor with crap dog wasn't out letting his dog crap in our yard at that moment. Anyway, the whole time I was thinking, "Someone is filming me in my hideous outfit right now, and this footage will eventually be aired on national television." My only defense is never to trust anyone who approaches me and asks me to describe my "style." That's a dead giveaway. At that point I would be forced to do something drastic involving spastic punching so the producers would be too terrified to use me on the show.

Plus, as much as I'd like to have a brand new wardrobe, I'm not willing to let anyone throw away all my ugly clothes because those are the ones I like. And I've never understood how it was helpful to throw away someone's entire closet and only replace it with two dresses for an evening on the town and three outfits that can go from work to evening with only the change of a bag and scarf. What are you supposed to wear around the house??? And what if you have no job other than wiping butts and vacuuming? And what if the only time you get out for an evening is when you're crying so hard from your butt getting kicked by three toddlers all day that your husband takes pity on you and tells you to walk the hokey city mall for some peace and quiet? What am I supposed to wear for that occasion??? Do I really need to wear shoes for wiping butts and noses? I only wear shoes about twice a week.

So anyway, I have three kids to put in the bath tub now. They are covered in tonight's burritos and this afternoon's Chef Boyardee. The only outfit that would be suitable for this is one of those plastic drapes with the hood and arm cut-outs. They have a name, but it completely escapes me right now. Not my kids, the plastic thingy. My kids have names, too, but whatever.

Don't report me to What Not to Wear is all I'm saying.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Pictures of my kiddos

Update: Photos removed for safety reasons.

Some of you have said you wanted to see pictures of the little ones, so here are some pictures from Christmas. These pictures were taken 6-8 weeks after Lindley's open heart surgery, so you can see she was/is doing great! She's the one with the brunette curls.

I've also been asked to post a picture of myself pregnant, but I've been very good at avoiding the camera. Imagine me 20 pounds heavier and bloated. I hold water like a camel, and I'm drinking anywhere from 130 to 200 or more ounces of water per day. I'm my own floatation device.

Here's a picture from months back before the hunger got out of control. My niece made it look all artsy with the coloring. I think if you scroll down, you can still see the original in a November post. I can't imagine what would possess me to post a picture of how I currently look.

If you start hearing more from me again, it's because this fourth child made everything happen early. It's starting to hurt too much to stand and obsessively work on the house for long periods of time, so I can see me propping my feet up and boring you guys again on a regular basis. I still really want to post pictures of Ironman's Christmas present, so maybe that post will be next. Ciao, peeps in blog land.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Warning: The end of this post has graphic and disturbing images

Most recent update: I get a ton of traffic on my site due to these pictures. If you stumbled across them the way I did...looking for pictures of what your precious baby looks like at a certain week while still inside of you, I'm SO sorry you have to see these. They broke my heart.

Update: I started this several weeks ago and never finished it. I'm posting it unfinished because so many of you are nice enough to check in to see if I'm still alive. Still alive and busy. Lindley is good as new! Thank you all so much for checking in on us to see how things are going! Hugs!

The unfinished post was:

What keeps happening to me? I have 50 things I wanted to update you on, and I'm not writing about any of them. I'm just now five months into my pregnancy, and I'm nesting like crazy. Nesting isn't supposed to hit until the end! Of course, I've never gotten to nest at the end of my pregnancy, so maybe that's why I'm frantically doing it now. I was on bed rest at the beginning of my third trimester with the twins, and then I delivered them 6 weeks early. I carried my son to the c-section due date, but we were moving across Texas a week after we got home from the hospital, so I was packing instead of getting settled in and ready for the newborn.

Now that I'm finally to a computer, I don't remember what I was going to say. I'm sleep deprived thanks to my children seeing monsters throughout the night last night, and I've spent the day dashing around town doing errands and realizing just how irritable and hormonal I am.

I started off the day with a trip to the chiropractor. I would reference his frog wisdom here except months back I deleted my entire freaking blog. Oh, that's another thing. This post may be peppered with language. The kind that is unbecoming to a lady, but I don't care because this is how I get when I'm hormonal and agitated, so I say "f*ck it." Okay, so I couldn't bring myself to actually type out the entire f-bomb, but you get my drift...whatever that means. Do people ever really refer to their "drift" in any other conversation?

But back to Dr. Chiropractor. God love him, he has no facial expressions except that of extreme boredom, and he speaks in monotone with a heavy West Texas drawl--the only accent I can even come close to understanding. I haven't seen him since way before my pregnancy, so I warned him I would need the table adjusted to accommodate my now bulbous belly. He said, "Well. You're not real pregnant are ya?" If only I would have answered, "You are correct, sir. I'm not real pregnant; however, I am no longer fake pregnant either. The fifth month is commonly known as the "could still be pulling your leg" phase."

What the heck? I thought I had a ton more written. I know I had a lot going on in my head. It was going to be a long post about all the stupid things people said to me that day. Oh well. I'm still so far behind in life that I'm just now packing away Christmas decorations. I had moved them all to the dining room to be dealt with when life was less chaotic. I don't know why I thought today was that day.

I am now 18 1/2 weeks along. The little one should look something like this:

And can I just tell you how much I HATE, HATE, HATE googling images of babies in various weeks just to have to weed through pictures of the dead ones that were aborted???? I'm not blaming the websites or the people taking the photos. I think it's pretty clear who I blame. And I think it's pretty rare that circumstances occur that would make abortion seem like the only safe or rational option. I think these babies are usually the result of a stupid woman. If you disagree with me, get lost. Seriously.

This is what I had to see when I googled images of babies at 19 weeks:

This is bullshit. You won't be missed if you can justify this. This is at ten weeks.

This is 24 weeks.

Here's 7 months.

The only difference between a first trimester abortion vs. a second or third trimester is a matter of weeks. It's the same baby. I won't entertain debates here from people justifying abortion, so don't waste your breath. Just leave. The rest of you have a great day!

After thought: Because I can already hear it those of you who say, "I wouldn't ever do it myself, but who am I to tell another woman what she can and can't do with her body?" My answer is, "You're a child advocate. Grow some balls and some character while you're at it. Be a voice for a child who doesn't have one yet and quit worrying about some woman's rights that would kill a baby."