I May Have Suffered A Slight Heart Attack...

Before I tell you the main story of this post, I need to fill you in on two little stories that go along with the big story.

Keep up, all will be revealed.

The first story: When Carl and I were first dating, he decided to teach me how to drive his manual car. I had only had experience with automatic vehicles... baby blue 12 passenger van type of vehicles to be exact. After a few twists and turns on the 20 mph roads, he thought I was ready for the big leagues and directed me right on to an on-ramp. Before I knew what was happening I was driving on the highway and I started to scream, cry and stall. This story also reminds me a lot of my wedding night, but I digress... I freaked out, he yelled at me, and people were honking and gearing up to unleash their road rage upon me. Eventually I was able to get the car moving and get off of the highway. I think I may have even pee'd my pants a little that day. This is the day I started to make little mean faces at my husband when he was not looking. It is his own fault that sometimes I stick my tongue out at him and roll my eyes when he tells me something with his back toward me. I am not proud of this, but if he had not made me stall his car on the Dan Ryan and then yell at me, well I would be a much more well-balanced person.

The second story: When I was in labor with our first child I was hooked up to every machine in the hospital. I think I may have even been hooked up to the ATM, that may explain that nasty run in with a male nurse and his debit card, but again, I digress... One of the machines that I was hooked up to would track my contractions. It would tell me when I was calm and contraction free and it would tell me when I was having a semi-truck drive straight through my abdomen. Carl instantly fell in love with this machine. For the next three hours he would tell me when a contraction was about to happen. He would say "10 seconds now, 9, 8, 7, 6, you only have about 5 more seconds until a contraction, 4, 3, 2, oh, this one looks like it is going to really hurt, 1. You should be feeling a contraction right now." Eventually I ripped out his tongue and threw it across the room. The three births that I have had since that first one, Carl has not been allowed to talk during labor. He may try, but I will oh so delicately explain to him that the sound of his voice whilst I am in labor sounds like fingernails on a chalk board, and if he even wanted to be present at the birth of his children then he needed to sit quietly, making no comments... except maybe to tell me how amazing I am.


OK, now that you are caught up, I can tell you this story...


After the Mom posted a comment telling me I should start jogging because "After baby number 4, I quickly learned that a morning jog was 30 minutes ALONE in a place where the little people can't find me...the phone doesn't ring..nothing needs to be cleaned...there are no papers to grade... It's just me and the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. Bliss!" I thought that a jog sounded like Heaven wrapped in a Dairy Queen cup. I couldn't get my running shoes out of the closet and dusted off fast enough!

I made the mistake of telling my husband that I wanted to start jogging. I even went so far as to ask him if he wanted to jog with me in the morning before he goes off to work. Now, if you know me personally, you may be saying to yourself "What in the mother loving world is she thinking? Cris does not jog, Cris does not sweat, Cris does not do anything that will cause heavy breathing whatsoever... except for that one thing-you know what I am talking about, and Cris does not do anything other than sleep in the morning... she doesn't even make her own children breakfast! She makes them eat cold pizza and leftover pot roast in the morning! She is out of her mind!"

Wait... I must tell you first that my husband loves me very much. He loves me when I am fat, and he loves me when I am a supermodel. He genuinely loves me for my mind. I also have ocean front property in Arizona that I would like to sell you... just send me your credit card and Mr. MasterCard will say OK! No, seriously, he loves me.

ANYWAY... I get a phone call from my husband today and he says "Put your running gear on, we are going jogging." I hang up and wonder what exactly IS running gear? I trudge upstairs and start going through my drawers. I found a sports bra with the elastic shot so I had to wear a second one over that one because I have some lovely lady humps that are full of manna from heaven-I needed to tie these puppies down. I put another tank top on for security reasons and then a t-shirt just in case. I pull on a pair of shorts and head downstairs to stretch-because that is what runners do, and starting today, I am a runner.

We start off fast... too fast for me and I am huffing and puffing and by the time we hit the corner my chest was burning and I may have dropped my bladder at the end of my neighbor's driveway.

I start walking. My husband yells at me to "KEEP RUNNING!" and so I follow behind him, making faces at the back of his head. Before I know what is happening he turns the corner out of our subdivision and is running along the busy highway-like road. Now let me tell you, there is nothing more embarrassing than running along traffic with your running shorts jammed up your butt crack and your left boob playing peek-a-boo with your tank top, not to mention the cellulite on the back of my legs jiggling and my butt bouncing up and down as if I were on a mechanical bull. It was at this moment that I started to understand my friend when she told me the story of when she was hiking Mt. Kilimanjaro with her husband and she just kept repeating in her head over and over "I hate my husband, I hate my husband." with each excruciating step up the mountain. Sure, she has the lack of oxygen to blame for her "psycho" chant... I just had years of relying on my hereditary thinness and the loss of blood flow to my head.

Eventually he turned off the "highway" from hell and slowed so that I could catch up. When we were side by side he kept talking. He talked about the bills, he took a mental tally of all of the clothes in his closet and what he was going to pack for his trip in November, he talked about Aaron's baseball team, Hope's softball techniques, Emma's coloring pages, Mary Claire's poo... he talked and talked and talked until I wanted to scream "STOP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!"

You have to understand that I was in pain. I have not run in over 10, OK 20 years. My heart was about to burst out of my chest and my legs were about to crumble under me. I could not breath, my mouth was dry, I was coughing (I think I may have contracted asthma on this run) and my hair kept blowing in my eyes-I do not have a runners hairdo.

We ran for maybe a mile-not all at once... I am not the bionic woman people!

When we were finally home and I was standing in my cold shower I had some thoughts
#1 I would be kicked off of "The Biggest Loser" on the first day.
#2 Are you supposed to taste blood in your mouth when you run?
#3 I may have pulled something in my butt.
#4 I may very well have suffered a slight heart attack-or a stroke, yes, I may have had a stroke.

But my final thought was about my husband. Thank God I have him to help me along-to toss me onto a highway and talk to me until I want to vomit. If he can handle my complaining and cursing at him, I may be able to keep this torture up!

Muffin Tops, Not For Breakfast Anymore...

Today I pulled out all of my cool weather clothes. I was thrilled because it has been a long time since I wore these wonderful garments due to my pregnancy last winter. I hugged my comfy jeans and twirled around with my cozy sweaters. I know that I am not back to my pre-pregnancy weight yet... which is very confusing to me as I wake up every morning and hop on the scale and scratch my head in wonder. Why am I not back to my normal weight? Why am I not back to the weight I was when I got married? Why is the sky blue? Why is the grass green? These questions I have yet to answer and I challenge anyone else to answer them as well... if they dare.

Well, I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans. The ones that every woman has in her closet. The ones that fit you on your fat days and hang a little loose on your skinny days. The ones that make you butt look better, your tummy look smaller and your legs look longer. They are miracle workers I tell you!

I pulled them on and buttoned them up. I looked in the mirror and I screamed in horror~! Somehow my favorite jeans have turned on me! They have given me the biggest muffin top I have ever seen! If you do not know what a muffin top is, let me explain. Pretend you are putting on a great pair of jeans. They button and zip with little to no effort. You pull your top on and look in the mirror. Somehow your jeans have taken all of the excess fat from your waist area and shoved it above the jeans only to make you look like a size 6 from the waist down and a size 12 from the waist up. It is unattractive. It is embarrassing. It should be against the law.

I am in a bit of a pickle. My muffin top has made me rethink my aversion to jogging. But if I start jogging, what will all of the joggers in the area think when they know me as the woman who shouts obscenities at them as I drive by in my minivan? I just don't know if I can go over to the dark side-the heavy breathing and sweaty side.

Darn that Adam and Eve. If they had just left that stupid apple alone I would be walking around naked and never even know what a muffin top was! The best part is that everyone would be naked and none of us would realize it. It wouldn't be like a nudist camp where you have fat old men sunning themselves in the buff because it is "freeing." No, we would all be naked and happy-not caring if we needed to jog a few miles to get on our favorite pair of jeans.

It is apparent to me that muffin tops are the evil doing of the devil.

*The above picture IS NOT ME! I look worse.

MaMa, You Smell Like Dog Poo and Toe Jam All Rolled Up In One!

Emma has a blanket that has been with her since the beginning of time. She received it from her Aunt Shannon before she was even born and it is a part of her being. She loves this blanket. It used to be all soft and pink, now it is rough and a dingy grey. Emma likes to suck on two of her fingers on her left hand, leaving her right hand to do all of the things needed throughout the day like eat, pick her nose, scratch her butt, and hold my hand. When she is not doing those activities, she is holding her blanket and stuffing it up near her nose to smell it. Some days I walk into the room and see her sniffing her blanket with her eyes rolled back into her head and she whispers to herself, "mmmm, that smells good."

I do not know how Emma can love this blanket. It is ugly and stinky. I mean, the smell is foul, but obviously love it blind... and has no sense of smell.

Every couple of days or so I sneak the blanket away from her while she is not looking. I toss it in the washing machine and put an extra scoop of soap in the water in hopes that the blanket will actually smell April fresh.

After Emma realizes that I have taken her blanket, she will whine and cry and start ripping at her clothes and speaking in tongues because I am washing her blanket and she knows that the smell will be gone from it.

The worst part is when her blanket will finally emerge from the dryer she will smell it and then hand it to me and ask me to hug it real tight so that it gets its smell back.

Now I ask you... what in the world do I smell like?

The Heavens Parted And Showed Me My Deoderant...

How much does a person really think about deodorant? I would think the normal person does not give it much thought at all except for the moment that they are slathering it on in the morning... and if you are from Europe, you may not even slather it on at all.

I ask this question because I am not a normal person. I think about deodorant a lot. I can't help it. I am obsessed.

For years I wore Secret Powder Fresh Solid. It did it's job and I was quite happy with it. I was living life thinking that ALL deodorants will leave that white mark on every bit of clothing you wear regardless. I came to terms with it and even figured out a way to put a shirt on without getting a big ol' white mark down my side... unless of course I was wearing something the was dry clean only, then Murphy's law would take affect and I would end up with white on my side, my back and my middle. Stupid deodorant.

I am also a deodorant whore. I have mentioned before that I have Deodorant OCD, I have sought out professional help and only put 8 swipes of deodorant on each pit instead of the ever popular 10 or 12 I used to.

Eventually I switched deodorants to Dove and I liked it at first until I was finding little white dots all over my bathroom floor from my pit rubbing together and flaking off the excess deodorant. Sometime I would get freaked out because I would be happily brushing my teeth only to jump in fright at the little tap I would get on my foot only to realize that it was a deodorant ball falling from my upper torso. I scare easily. I realize that there was probably these little white dots around because I put too much deodorant on to begin with, but I just can't break that habit over night... Rome was not built in a day people.

I decided to switch back to my secret and live with white marks for the rest of my life. When I went to the grocery they did not have my usual solid (it is the military commissary, some times I find meat... other times I am not so lucky). But they did have Secret Platinum Clear Gel. Hmmmm... I figured I would try it.



Well I am proud to announce that I am stink free, white mark free, and deodorant ball free! It is a miracle. The best part is that I have also been cured of my deodorant OCD as the gel only needs about two swipes to do the job. Who would have thought!

So, I have decided to buy a Hummer with all of the extra money I will have in my checkbook since my deodorant is now lasting longer and I am not buying so much each and every time I go to the store.

I highly recommend this deodorant to all of my female readers... oh what the heck, I recommend it to all of my male readers as well. Go ahead, live on the edge.

I Need To Post A Sign On My Door... "Beware of Mother"

When I was a kid, I remember my parents had a sign posted in the window of our door that read "No Solicitors." I always thought this was weird as we never had door-to-door salesmen. I thought it would be neat to have a man in a three piece suit and a hat come knocking at our door selling vacuums and then make a mess on our living room carpet only to show my mother what an amazing vacuum he was selling... but since we had that stinkin' sign on our door, I never came face to face with a door-to-door salesman. The closest thing I ever came to an encounter with such a person was when I read the book "Death Of A Salesman" and it freaked me out about door-to-door salesmen being all depressed and crap.

Anyway, it seems in today's day and age door-to-door salesmen are making a comeback, only they are not selling vacuums, they are selling magazine subscriptions, or biodegradable cleaners in order to make a better life for themselves out of the ghetto.

At least once a week I open my door to find a rough looking fellow with a wife-beater tank top on and pants that look like his old Grandpa Max used to wear before he went on a diet and lost 175 lbs.

He gives me a heartfelt testimony about how he was in prison for killing his ex-girlfriend but it was not his fault since he was high on crack and so the judge gave him a second chance and ordered him to go door-to-door in my neighborhood and sell me magazine subscriptions. Oh, and my neighbor just down the street bought 4 subscriptions because she believes in the process of giving a person a second chance and helping them make something of themselves, so won't I consider helping him out and getting a subscription to Shape Magazine or Cosmopolitan?

I HATE this!

Well today my doorbell rang. I had to run as fast as I could to beat my children to the door because although I have warned them about opening the door to strangers, there is nothing more appealing than seeing who is on the other side of our front door... and it gets them away from their schoolwork for a minute or two. So, after I beat my kids to the door I opened it to see yet another down and out sort of fellow trying to sell me some AMAZING cleaner that "Sarah" down the street just bought from him. He asked "You know Sarah don't you?" to which I replied "No... I don't have a neighbor named Sarah, try another name and let's see how you do."

He looked at me and said, "Are you friendly?"

I replied, "No, are you?"

He said, "Yes I am friendly."

I reiterated, "I am not. I don't want to buy your cleaner. Good luck with the whole "making yourself better" thing you have going here." and closed the door.

You would think the others would have warned him about me.

I'll Write Your Blog For A Song...

Aaron: "Mom, can I write your blog today for my birthday?"

ME: "First you would have to sign a contract stating that you will not talk bad about me and all monies you receive from writing the blog will go toward me."

Aaron: "You get money to write your blog?"

Me: "millions..."

Aaron: "I won't talk bad about you."

Me: "Then you don't have to sign a contract. What do you want to write about?"

Aaron: "I don't know"

Me: "Congratulations, you are now a blogger. Why don't you talk about Lori-she reads my blog. Tell her you love her."

Aaron: "Why would I tell Lori that I love her?"

Me: "Because Lori loves you."

Aaron: "Gross. Does Cameron and Colin's mom read your blog?"

Me: "I think it is in her contract with our friendship that she has to."

Aaron: "Tell her to tell Cameron and Colin I said hi."

Me: "You could talk about your home run!"

Aaron: "You never got a home run! HaHa I have!"

Me: "I could have gotten a home run if I wanted, I was too busy checking out the boys in the bleachers."

Aaron: "You are weird mom."

Me: "You could talk about how much you love your sisters."

Aaron: "No Thanks..."

Me: "You could talk about your girlfriends."

Aaron: scowling "MOM!"

Me: "Oh, don't act like you don't have girlfriends... I hear the rumors."

Aaron: "What? You are strange."

Me:

Aaron: "I could talk about my smashed fingers."

Me: "Yeah, that is what people like to read about-smashed fingers and blood."

Aaron: "I don't want to think about it."

Me: "Why don't you talk about how much you like school."

Aaron: "What? Where do you get your information woman?"

Me: "Oh, I was thinking of someone else, sorry."

Aaron: "I could talk about my computer game American Conquest Divided Nation. It is about the Civil War, the Texas War for Independence and the War of 1812. It has every battle of the civil war... blah blah blah blah blah"

Me: "ZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

Aaron: "MOM!"

Me: "Sorry, I must have fallen asleep!"

Aaron: "You are mean."

Me: "No I'm not! If I were mean I wouldn't give you your gift!"

Aaron: "What is it?"

Me: "I don't know, I haven't bought it yet."

Aaron: "But today is my birthday!"

Me: "I am waiting for that big sale."

Aaron: "Whatever. You are weird."

Me: "How about you just pick the music for the blog today."

Aaron: "OK. Can it be rap?"

Me: "Good Lord Above NO!"

So here it is folks... Aaron's choice for music today. It is from High School Musical. He wanted American Rejects "Dirty Little Secret" but I don't think he understands what that means, and I would like to keep it that way.

No Flash Photography Allowed...

I just don't get it...

Today we went to a few museums downtown DC and I have to ask... why the hell do people feel the need to take photos of every stinkin' thing in a museum. I mean, it is in a museum, it is not like it is going to go away or anything.

I don't know how many times I had to stop and wait for someone to finish taking a picture before I could pass the big Wholly Mammoth that they were so thrilled to see that they had to forever preserve it in their camera or life as they knew it would cease to exist. Eventually I gave up trying to be polite by waiting for that random tourists to photograph themselves in front of the display case of the African Anteater rituals, and so I just kept walking. I may have ruined their picture with my middle finger pointing directly at the lens-I don't know.

Can someone explain this to me? I am not a camera type of person. I take picture, but they are of main events in our lives... the birth of our children, the first day of school, Baptisms, First Communions, the day I was paroled, you know... the important things. I don't go around flashing my camera at every single thing known to man. It is insane.

Do they develop all of these pictures, and if so, what in the world does a person do with 600 shots of them standing in front of a glass case that the contents within this case is unknown because their flash has blinded everything in the frame?

I honestly saw a man taking a picture of the big Brown Bear in a glass case today-and that is it. No kid in the picture making a frightened face from the bear, no wife grabbing the Bear's rear and laughing, no nephew picking the Bear's nose... just the bear. That was a winner of a shot. One to develop and put in the scrapbook. Good job.

So if you have recently gone on vacation and have just picked up your 1,000 photos and you see a few with just a big ol' middle finger pointing at you... that is probably me.

Don't tell me I never gave you anything.

A Coincidence? I Think Not.

My husband went golfing this morning.

This afternoon after dinner he looked in his wallet and found that he was missing his debit card.

I called the golf course to see if he had left it there.

He had, and I asked if they could just set it aside and I would come in tomorrow to pick it up.

After a few moments of deep thinking, my husband declared that he did not feel safe leaving his debit card at the golf course overnight. I think his exact words were "I don't think I can trust them."

He decided to go fetch the debit card tonight-and since it was still early he may as well hit a few holes.

Is it just me or does this sound like a carefully crafted scheme to be able to golf twice in one day?

Maybe I need to leave my debit card at the jewelry store.

Follow The Yellow Brick Road...

The other day I happened to turn on Oprah and she had Dr. Oz on. Now, if you have never heard of or seen Dr. Oz, he is Oprah's favorite Doc who brings disgusting things on her show like a carotid colon or a festering eyeball. It is all interesting stuff and he is a huge hit with her viewers. One could even say that people are starting to trust Dr. Oz and believe everything he says.

I was pointing that exact notion out to my husband as we sat there and listened to Dr. Oz talk about men's health issues. I said "How do we know Dr. Oz knows what he is talking about? I mean, if he told you that your insides are purple, people would believe him and the entire world would start thinking that their insides were purple. A "purple heart" would take on a whole new meaning!"

Just because Oprah likes someone, does the rest of the country have to like the person as well? Don't get me wrong, if Oprah called me tomorrow and wanted to do a show on fabulous blogger moms who drink and make fun of their neighbors, well then I would be the first one to say "Absolutely!" Could you imagine the hits this blog would get after an appearance on Oprah? I would be uber-famous... but I digress.

How do we know what Dr. Oz is saying is correct, factual, infallible, and true? We don't. That is my point.

I think he proved my point when he made the comment that men should have sex an average of 4 times a week.

Are you kidding me?

He then went on to say that a man's life expectancy is lengthened if he has sex 4 times a week. He made a joking comment that wives need to take heed to his suggestion if they really and truly love their husbands and want them to live a long life.

Now, I don't know about you, but 4 times is a lot. Maybe if I was younger, thinner, didn't have so many kids wearing me out, was rich and had a chef, was rich and had a trainer, got my hair done regularly and my nails done weekly, had a pedicure, and was drunk every night... then my husband would get sex 4 times a week.

As it stands now, he is lucky if he averages 2 times, OK, make it once.

ANYWAY... my husband believed Dr. OZ. Did he believe him because he was on Oprah or because he was suggesting that he should have more sex? I am thinking the latter but what do I know.

Being the good and dutiful wife that I am, I attempted to lengthen my husband's life expectancy this past week.

I am exhausted... a person can not keep this type of schedule up.

Dr. Oz is wrong. If my husband asks for sex one more time this week I may just shoot him. What does that do for his life expectancy?

A Day In The Life...

Conversation between my son and I as we were leaving the Optical Store after picking up his new pair of glasses...

Aaron- "Do I look cool or like a dork in these Mom?"

Me - "Like a dork... definitely a dork."

Aaron - "Thanks"

Me - "Not a problem."