Airport Germophobe

Yesterday I flew through the Dallas/Fortworth Airport. Let me just say that airplane/airport germs completely gross me out. Lela used to be a flight attendant and has told me SO many DISGUSTING stories.

I normally take Lysol disinfectant wipes and wipe down armrests and tray table and anything else I can reach. I carry hand sanitizer that I use copiously and often. I wash my hands with soap and water as often as realistic. I'm not all OCD about it, but I'm close. Oh, and I try not to use the airplane bathroom, if at ALL possible. That little 3-1/2 square foot box is the biggest germ incubator on the plane. And those germs are NASTY germs.

With that said, keep in mind that I am on a trip to take care of a relative whose immune system is compromised and therefore, I needed to NOT pick up any random pig flu on the way.

While I was immersed in my de-germing routines, I was washing my hands in a bathroom sink at DFW, (because I had immediately peed upon landing since I had refused to use the airplane bathroom) when a woman walked in. In her hands were her bulky carry-on bag, her purse, and her brand new full frappaccino from Starbucks. And into the stall she went. Now you tell me - where the hell was she going to put that drink while she peed? Would she juggle it in one hand while wiping with the other? Would she put in in her lap? (excuse me while I retch) Would she... oh, I don't know if I can go there... would she put it on the floor? (gag, retch, shiver) I couldn't wait to get out of there. I didn't want to know. I'm just know that reality was worse than my imagination.

And just so you know, Starbucks was 25 feet away. Clearly should could have peed and THEN gotten her coffee. I'm just sayin'.

***Ally

Another Dressing Room Surprise

A while ago I blogged about a surprise I found in a Target dressing room--a lovely crotch protector from bathing suit bottoms stuck to the wall. Well, I've got another one for you.

Today I went to Kohl's. I don't know why I go there because I never find anything, but I did see this decent tunic (OMG, I sound like my mother!) and decided to try it on. My closet it full of stained tank tops and workout t-shirts, so I thought this would make me look more sophisticated. As I headed to the dressing rooms (7 miles away, mind you) I mentally started talking myself out of the shirt:

Pros: 50% off; black (slimming); covers muffin top; sophisticated.

Cons: Still $25 even after discount; it would have to be ironed; it couldn't go in the dryer.

I made it to the dressing rooms and was immediately overcome by the smell of skunk! Weird, I know, but that didn't stop me. The first room had a broken door latch and even though I was the only one in there, I couldn't risk it flying open. I am just not that secure with my body.

I tried on the "tunic" and it did look pretty cute. Then I saw something move on the floor.

It was the biggest cockroach I have ever seen in my life!

After crapping my pants, I reached for my phone to take a picture of it to send to Ally, my blog- buddy and best friend, but it ran away into the next dressing room. I changed as fast as I could and backed out of there, scanning the floor the whole time.

I am never buying clothes again. At least from Target or Kohl's.

Lela

Tummy Control Thong?!

I am protesting this shit! A tummy-control thong has nowhere to ride but up! I have a muffin top--deal with it America! Do they sell Gynalotramin with this shit? That thong is being pulled so high up the ass that you are sure to get a yeast infection! I have seen these in stores and the material is thick, not like dainty lace between your crack. Sorry to rant, but I am watching a show on the Style channel completely devoted to making women think they need to suck everything in with body shapers.

Take it from me, wear clothes that fit and untuck your shirt.

Lela

The Web Dance

Now with a title like that you might be thinking of YouTube videos floating around of the baby dancing to Beyonce. Or the little guy in the orange shirt showing off his moves.

But no. I'm referring to the spider web dance. The dance done in response to walking through the unseen spider web, rudely stretched across your path. Why can't those spiders have some consideration? Or spend some time planning? Maybe they should have to get permits to build, just like I would have to do. You think the city would let me just build a second home on this lot? I think not.

Yesterday morning I set out into the driveway to get the paper and walked through the first unseen web of the day. That was the one stretched between the magnolia tree at the edge of the driveway and my husbands car. Attention spider community: That's the walking path. And not a smart place to spin your web. Duh.

So there I am, dancing around like a clown on tainted crack, brushing imaginary things off of me. Letting out small shrieks, which I am desperately trying not to do for fear of drawing attention. Shivering as I imagine where the spider is. Was he in the tree? Was he on the car? Was he, God forbid, ON THE WEB I JUST WALKED THROUGH????. Which would mean he is now on ME. Is he in my hair, ready to take up residence? Crawling across my chest? My cheek? My arms? Is he now on the back of my neck getting ready for a meal of my tasty flesh? Ugh.

Later in the day, recovered from the first attack, I go out to pick raspberries. (Yes, we have fall raspberries, in addition to the summer ones. And they are delicious. Eat your hearts out.) BUT the spiders have now decided to challenge me for the raspberry patch. They've decided it's a great place to set up residence. But my raspberries still have a few days of production left, a week tops. I've tried to reason with them, tell them they can have the patch in a week, but NOOOOOO, they want to build webs NOW.

There's one big guy. Actually, it's probably a lady spider, cause her body looks like she's about to explode with eggs. And she's nasty looking. Now if I thought this spider was on my body, I would jump off a cliff. Seriously. I would strip naked in the backyard (cause there's no way I'd bring that baby into my HOUSE) and running screaming for the shower.








So I'm watching for Mrs. Mama Spider. I see her web, but not her, so I'm trying to figure out where she is before I stick my unsuspecting hand out for any berries. And while all my focus is on her.... I walk into another web. This time I shriek LOUDLY, because my mind was on Mrs. Mama Spider. I do my dance for an unreasonable amount of time. I have aftershock shivers for a good five minutes.

And I gave up the berries in the back to Mrs. Mama Spider. Fine. You win. Take them. Whatever. I'm tired of raspberries anyway, and it's just that many less I have to eat. FINE.
***Ally

Feeling Fat and Ugly?

I am not feeling very pretty today. In addition to the purple-brownish splotches spreading across my hands, my chin has broken out with cystic acne, and my hair is in desperate need of a cut and dye job. There is a little bloating and general fatigue going on, as well as a low grade headache just for fun.

All this and I had to weigh-in at Weight Watchers this morning. I wasn't what we Lifetimers call "on track" this week, but I wasn't expecting the scale to be up 4 pounds!

Yes, I have gained 4 pounds in one week, but here is the good news, according to Weight Watchers employee, Mary: Jeans weigh 3 pounds.

I smiled and said, "Oh, you are just being nice." But Mary stuck to her story! She had a friend who was "much shorter than me" actually weigh her jeans and they were 3 pounds. Does that mean I really only gained 1 pound?

So, if you are feeling down, go to a Weight Watchers meeting.

And go weigh your jeans. You know you want to.

Lela

Does He Really Need The Wheel Chair?

My son and I had haircuts today. We have it down. She puts the color on my silver roots (does silver sound classier than gray? or just ancient?), then while the color is magically making me look 29 again, cuts my son's hair, then finishes with me.

Anyway, as we were driving, we came to a stoplight. The SUV at the stoplight, that needed to make a left turn onto the clear, open road, was just sitting through a green light.

As I pulled along side him (I was turning right) I could see why. A little, old, dirty gentleman, in a wheelchair, was Fred Flinstone-ing his way across the crosswalk. Go on, you can picture it. He's leaning forward, feet a going as fast as they can, working his way across the street, while sitting in the wheelchair. And his legs are moving only from the knee down. He is sort of steering with his right hand. And in his left hand he is clutching the dirtiest, yellow legal pad I have ever seen.

The very polite driver of the SUV sacrifices his green light and allows the gentleman in the wheelchair to sloooooowwwwwwly work his way across. The light turns red and we are both still there at the light.

The wheelchair gentleman works himself up onto the sidewalk, where he proceeds to stand up, and pull his oversized, dirty sweatpants waaaaaaay up around his rib cage. Then he calmly walks around behind his wheelchair, grabs the handles and starts pushing it down the sidewalk. He is not bent over. He is not limping. He does not look arthritic. His limbs move fluidly. He does not appear to have any trouble, whatsoever, ambulating down the street.

I look at my son and tell him this has to go in the blog. Upon which time my son tells me that is "mean". It's not mean, I tell him, it's simply an observation. "It's mean, Mom." Dammit. Why am I raising this moral, honorable child, teaching him not to judge people by their appearances, while I snicker about the People Of WalMart website? Then my son informs me that it is "mean" because the gentleman might be "mental". !!!

Okay, so I will refer to the little, old, dirty, FAKER as a gentleman! That should ease his moral conscience.

Oh, and with three inches of my hair on the salon floor, and bangs covering my forehead zit, I am feeling liberated!

***Ally

Hand Update

It's me, Lela, with an update on my hand. Three weeks ago a mysterious red spot appeared on the back of my left hand. Since then it has quadrupled in size, turned dark purple-brown, and spread to my other hand. Two doctors were stumped, but today I saw doc number 3, a dermatologist.

After introducing himself, he looked at my "rapidly spreading hyperpigmentation" and said, "That's weird." No shit.

So, there is still no prognosis and probably never will be one. It is a mystery. I blame it on my 40's. He prescribed a steroid cream and I was out of there in record time. Oh, and I have to return in a month for bleaching cream to bleach the purple-brown spots.

No Michael Jackson jokes, please.

Lela

More Guilt!

Yesterday I told you my guilty pleasures, aka: fall tv. Well, I did watch NCIS. And NCIS:LA. And The Good Wife. And I watched Castle that I had recorded on Monday.

Okay, so I have a thing for dorky detective/crime shows. It's kind of a sickness.

But occasionally I throw in other things. Like tomorrow for instance.









Survivor - it’s a sickness, and I can’t help myself. I realize that the footage is completely edited down to make us believe whatever they want us to, and that it totally skews the reality of whatever those people really did out there. But I have to watch.

And then I'll watch CSI. The original. The one in Las Vegas. BUT, I'll concede that I'm not thrilled with all the cast changes. I really miss the original cast, especially Gary Dourdan and those eyes! Oh, those smoldering eyes....

And then I'll catch The Mentalist. That's almost embarrassing to admit, but yeah, I watch that one, too.

Likely I'll watch some of them on Friday since I will used that great invention, the DVR to record them. Why try to stay awake through, I mean watch, commercials when I don't have to?

And I'll watch with my new haircut. That's right, whacking it off. Okay, not short, but this whole long thing is not working. It's THICK and wavy/curly/frizzy, which I spend 20 minutes drying out and flat ironing. It's too much. Even with the thinning that happens every FIVE weeks. And besides, my 41 year old face needs some softening with bangs before it turns 42 next month. And it won't hurt that the bangs will cover the zit in the middle of my forehead, either.

***Ally

Guilty Pleasures

I'm the first to admit, that by spring, I cannot wait for all the tv shows to be done. That is because I'm an addict, and by then they will be strangling the life out of me.

I will also admit that I think the DVR is the greatest invention ever. The DVR that can record TWO channels at the SAME time.

And I will admit I'm addicted to LAME shows.







NCIS - starts tonight! I don’t care what you say, there is something hot about Mark Harmon. In an old enough to almost be my dad sort of way. And I never even watched Chicago Hope or St. Elsewhere. (and if you are too young to remember St. Elsewhere, pleeeaase don’t insult me by telling me so) And that Tony DiNozzo (Michael Weatherly) isn’t so bad to look at, either.











I'm not so sure about the spin-off: NCIS: LA. I mean they spin off all the cop shows. And Chris O'Donnell and LL Cool J? I just don't know about that.

But tonight I'll curl up and watch my NCIS. And I'll record it and start 20 minutes into the show so I can fast forward through commercials. Tonight it's YAY FALL TV!!!
***Ally

Husbands Just Don't Listen

Let me preface this post with the fact that I totally adore my husband. In fact, we just returned from a romantic weekend getaway that he planned. (Don't get jealous, it was the first one he has planned and executed in 14 years.) He does a lot of things right, but in some areas he will never change, listening being one.

We were trying to get out of the house to run some errands and I insisted on taking a quick shower first. I did a half-ass blow dry and put my hair in a ponytail, all while my husband lingered around waiting to brush his teeth. He refuses to "share" the bathroom with me even when we are pressed for time. Something about gagging on my hairspray fumes. Oh, and he can't stand the sound I make when I brush my teeth. Whatever.

So, my hair is up and I say to him, "Could you turn the iron on for me?" Thinking that while he does that, I can spray my fly aways and brush my teeth.

We do the switcheroo in the bathroom, and as I leave the bedroom I say, "Did you turn the iron on for me?" I know I just asked him, but I like to reconfirm.

"Yes!" he replied, getting annoyed.

I travel down the hall wearing shorts and a bra, wrinkled shirt in hand, only to find the cord of the iron NOT plugged in. I yell at the top of my lungs (sorry, neighbors) toward the bedroom, "I thought you said you plugged the iron in!"

My husband yells back, "I did!"

Further investigation around the house showed that he did, in fact, plug an "iron" in my son's bathroom. The freaking flat iron for my hair. My husband will swear under oath that I said to plug in the "curling" iron. Even if I did, he still plugged the wrong one in. Couldn't he see my hair was already done in a ponytail? What was I going to flatten or curl? Didn't he see that I wasn't wearing a shirt? How about the wrinkled one I was carrying out of the room?

I, of course, pointed all these facts out to him and asked him all these questions. adding, "Don't you listen?"

He swears he did.

Ugh!--Lela

Career & Family, Tough Decisions

In my work life, I am a muscular therapist that works with a lot of sports injuries, therefore a lot of athletes. Of all levels. Of course, I love to work with professional and elite athletess, it's exciting and I always hope to get a career boost out of it. That's how the work goes - word of mouth - one tells someone, who tells someone.

So when I get those elite athlete calls, I try to bend over backwards to make appointments work. I'll work outside my regular hours whenever I can. It's not like it happens often, I might add. The majority of my work is made up of everything from the weekend warrior to the high school athlete to the adult sports enthusiast. They are my bread and butter, so to speak. And they know my office hours and they make their appointments then. But still, the big guns are fun.

I've been working with a professional athlete on and off, as their schedule allows. It's always set up through the trainer. Their season is coming to a head and the travel schedule crazy. But today, on a Saturday, a call came into my office. The athlete wanted some work. Today.

Now it is total chance that the message was received. The owner of the clinic had gone in to get something and happened to check messages. Normally I wouldn't have known until Monday.

The problem? My husband is out of town, taking care of his mother who is terminally ill. She has a bad infection, and even if they get that under control, he will likely be setting her up on hospice care due to untreatable cancer while he is there. That weighs heavy on my family. And today my plans included working out (which I haven't done for FIVE days) and taking my teenage son on a shopping trip to spend his birthday money. Quality time with my boy, at a time when my family is really cherishing family time.

So, I have a dilemna. I could probably squeeze it all in, but the quality time with my son would not be the same. And while my family could use the money, especially with my husband on laid-off status, the one session income will hardly buy me a tank of gas - and my office is 35 minutes away.

So I asked myself this: What will make the most difference in five years? The answers? In five years, the athlete will just be a retired athlete that I treated a few times. They won't likely remember my name. In five years, my son will be off in his first year of college. I will be missing him horribly and the space he occupies in my daily world will feel empty. But I will have the memory of a day spent with him. We'll shop for fun things he wants, we'll go to Starbucks, we'll get take out for dinner. It's a day I'll never get back if I change my plans.

So while not a funny, witty or goofy post, these are the real life decisions of a working mom. Family first, I say.
***Ally
Have you hugged your family today?

Useless Info Friday

It's Friday night. My husband is out of town. (He's actually gone to take care of a ill family member, which makes me incredibly sad.) And of course, I'm weepy anyway. And my uterus is cramping like a vice grip. Sorry, TMI, I'm sure. See Stages of PMS From Hell.

When he's out of town, I tend to get a little OCD and 'everything' has to be done so I don't stress out, but of course getting 'everything' done sorta stresses me out anyway. I have no explanation, I'm sure it would take years of psychotherapy to figure out.

Anyway, I went off to get the grocery shopping done early. And while standing in line, all the rags have the 'Goodbye Patrick Swayze' covers. You can see where that's going. I bought a rag magazine. (My name for the likes of People and US) And a bag of cookies.

I don't buy the rags. Years ago I worked in an office that got them and could read an entire People cover to cover in 15 minutes or less. I knew what was up (according to the slimey magazines) with every celebrity out there. Now I don't have time, nor do I care what the psycho screwed up celebrities are doing. Well, except for my favorites, anyway. But don't tell.

ANYWAY, I have always loved Patrick Swayze. Since The Outsiders. And Dirty Dancy? Be still my heart. There is no logical explanation for the PS fascination. I mean no disrespect, but the guy was not exactly Robert Redford. He wasn't the best actor in the world. Nobody puts Baby in a corner? For real? And that was a mullet, my friends. At least a half mullet. That he wore for years. Years. I don't care what you say. Just look at the cover of US this week.

But there was something. Maybe as girls we all have a secret longing for a guy with rhythm, who can like really, truly dance, to sweep us off our feet. Maybe it was because he loved his wife and they had a long-lasting marriage. In Hollywood!!!! Maybe it was because he was far from perfect - he was an alcoholic, who fought it and his wife stood by him. Maybe it was the I'm-kind-of-a-cowboy-and-I-don't-really-care-what-you-think-of-me thing. Maybe he wasn't drop dead gorgeous, but damn, there was SOMETHING that was appealing.

SOOO, I sat down with my cookies and ibuprofen and magazine, ready for a good weep, and read the equivalent of, oh, one page of writing on him. The rest is pictures. I was disappointed. I could get more out of Wikipedia. For free.

BUT, now I have all kinds of other completely useless info. I know which celebs have puffy lips. I know that John Mayer has dated at least two more women this week. I know that Angelina is back in Africa looking like a skeleton again. I know that the Octo-mom is out getting her picture taken while exercising with none of her 25(how many does she actually have?) children in sight - how is that possible, BTW? I have one and don't have time to exercise!! I know that a lot of chicks are pregnant and the Olsen twins are still alive. I know that John Legend looks HOT (smokin' HOT) while jogging in Hawaii without a shirt. I know that George Clooney broke his hand and looks great in a tux. I know that Jennifer Aniston is yet again NOT dating the latest actor she's hanging out with. I know that I have NO IDEA who the other 'celebs' are these days. Who are they and how did they become famous? Seriously, names I've never heard before.

And that my friends, sums up my social life on this lovely Friday night. The good news is that I'm just a few days away from the PMS cloud lifting. And I shared cookies with my teenage son, who is still the sweetest kid ever.

Stages of PMS From Hell

When I get a whopping case of PMS, it is like a black cloud descends over my world the day I ovulate, darkens daily, and refuses to lift until the last day of my period.

Now I am not the most regular person in the world, but my period almost always starts roughly two weeks after I ovulate, like most women. (I cannot believe I keep saying ovulate while referring to myself) For those not doing the math, I suffer for at least two and a half weeks. Wait. No, my family suffers. And anyone within sight distance suffers. They suffer with Alien Ally.

It starts with breast pain that feels like someone punched me in the side of the boob. Running is a joke without a kevlar vest to hold my chest in place. Taking off my bra is a weird mixture of excruciating pain and total relief. Sometimes just one side. Sometimes I'm lucky and they both feel that way.

Then comes unexplainable irritation. Everything and everyone irritates me. I mean serious irritation. I get those looks from my husband like I'm an alien. I bitch and complain with colorful language.

But the fun begins when irritation turns to anger. It's like an out of body experience. The 'me' that's in my body is raging about something ridiculous, like, oh, say the internet loading too slow. With words and gestures and slamming and yelling. And the 'me' that's out of my body is watching this whole explosion thing happen from somewhere else going, "Whoa, what the hell is the matter with you?" But I'm one person, experiencing these two things at the same time. It's freaky. Oh, and I want to inflict physical pain on people. Did I mention I'm a massage therapist? Of course I don't do this because, no, I go into the office and plaster a smile on my face and act all nice and caring about the people who come to see me and want me to fix their aches and pains, when I really want to pummel them.

For the last day or two before my period starts, all I want to do is lay in bed in a dark room. I want to see or hear NO ONE. I want to feel sorry for myself because I've fallen into a hole of depression that feels too deep to crawl out of. I don't do that either.

And then my period starts. And the weeping. I'll cry at just about anything.

If I'm unlucky, the first two mornings will leave me doubled over with cramps. I have, however, figured that one out and start loading ibuprofen the minute I show signs of starting my period.

And then like the cloud that descended, it lifts, and the world is right again.

Luckily this does not happen EVERY month. God, I would just schedule the hysterectomy now. No, some months are barely noticeable. But I have found the one thing that makes a difference. And I know you don't want to hear it, but I've actually done the experiment to see if it REALLY makes a difference. I'm here to tell you - the difference it makes is night and day. Ready? It's refined sugar. I know, right? I mean I am PMSing and all I want is to make a batch of Duncan Hines brownie batter and eat it with a spoon. But seriously, if I go all month with no refined sugar? No symptoms. I'm not making this shit up. I mean, I've got the worst sweet tooth ever. This is not the answer I want. But I don't think I can do another month like this one. I'm pulling the recipes back out for my "try to fake your mouth into believing it's sugar" treats.

Waiting for the cloud to lift.
***Ally

Going To The Doctor Sucks

I went to the doctor today for the "rapidly spreading hyperpigmentation" on my hand. When I signed in at 10:38 for my 10:45 appointment, there were 10 people in the waiting room. Great. After a mere 30 minutes I was whisked into the doctor's office, only for the doctor to appear . . . . ONE HOUR LATER!

After a quick assessment (I could tell she was stumped) she decided to send me to a dermatologist. "Wait here while I write you an urgent referral," she said. "I don't like the fact that it is spreading so fast." Neither do I.

Fifteen minutes later she returned with papers in hand for a full blood work-up. Then it was downstairs to the lab for a blood draw. When I walked into the lab at 1:55, the technician at the front desk threw her head back with an exasperated sigh. Nice to see you, too.

As I handed over my insurance card, someone from the back yelled, "Lock the door!." Then a herd of people wearing scrubs filed out of the room for lunch, leaving me alone with the last sucker on the seniority list to draw my blood.

By the time I got out of the medical building almost 2 and a half hours of my precious time had been wasted. I called the dermatologist from the car and their next "urgent" appointment is in 8 days. My hand will probably fall off by then.

Going to the doctor sucks.

Lela

I Hate Doctors

I don't really hate all doctors, just the whole bunch of B.S. that goes with making an appointment, filling out endless forms, and sitting in the waiting room all day while surrounded by circa 1997 magazines and coughing, sneezing a-holes. And don't forget the rude receptionists.

Well, today I was forced to make that call for an appointment. About a week ago I got bit on the hand by a spider (I think). I won't go into detail, but it has gradually taken a turn for the worse, spreading a dark, brownish-red across my knuckles and down my hand. I was doing fine until I looked up pictures of spider bites on the Internet and saw all kinds of rotting flesh and loss of limbs.

I told all this to the girl who answered the phone at the doctor's office. If you want an appointment in a hurry, you really have to play up your symptoms, right? But I wasn't really playing them up, and I have to admit I am a little worried that they can't get me in for 2 days.

I'm sure everything will be fine. The bite/infection/disease is on my left hand and I am right-handed, so it won't be that bad if I have to lose a finger or two.

Wish me luck and I will keep you posted. If I am lucky, maybe I can get my picture on badspiderbites.com.

Lela

Living In The Moment At The Fair

My son turned 15 yesterday. Instead of feeling old, I'm choosing to be amazed at how good I feel (and look, right?) for having a teenager. At least I'm trying.

We took my son and his friend to the Western Washington State Fair for his birthday. This is a huge affair. It ranks in the top ten largest fairs in the world.

Now you can go to the fair, and dread the traffic, the parking, the crowds, the smell of cow & horse poo, the strange people, the rude people, the downright scary people, the sales people, the likelihood of flaring up my IBS, etc. But I decided to go to the fair and live in the moment. I decided to find something good (or at least something to talk about) everywhere I looked.

On our way down, traffic started backing up. Then it mysteriously broke free and then we got a recently opened spot five rows from the front. This is unheard of, people. UNHEARD OF. Maybe I'm starting to believe in karma.

Inside the gates, we hand the boy money and off they go. We know we won't see them again until they run out. And we are off to find the good and interesting in the fair.



Even chickens have bad hair days.















Did you know that a male turkey's head can change color? Red = he's showing off. Lavender = he's being protective. How romantic!










Just because it's outside, doesn't mean you can smoke anywhere. Smokers have their own pop-up tent (just one).









In case your feet get tired, they have foot massagers. Except they don't really "massage" so to speak, they vibrate (your feet - get your head out of the gutter). While you are sitting in a bright purple hand. In public. With people walking by. (yeah, you can go back to the gutter)











Now I had to give some consideration to these cows. Maybe if there's a second shot at life, I'd want to be one of these cows. Let's see. I get to lay on a freshly made bed. While eating. And nap when I want. And socialize with my girlfriends. But then I thought about the poo and the milk and the beef and decided maybe not.

























But then again, if your a cow, look at the big manly bull you could be paired with.











But the real joy of the fair is the food, right? No, I didn't eat the alligator on a stick, or the frogs legs, or the corn dogs, or the onion burgers (yeah, I was tempted). But I had some fresh roasted corn on the cob and some fish & chips. AND I did have a couple of the THE REQUIRED FOOD of this fair. Ya'll don't get these at just any state fair. No, these are a northwest original. The Fischer Scone. This is not your average scone. It is a triangular shaped, perfectly smooth, perfectly cooked, melt-in-your mouth confection stuffed with butter and raspberry jam. And there is ALWAYS a line. (BTW, you can buy/order the mix, and it's good, but not as good as the real thing)












So yeah, even with aching feet, sweat, water retention and all, it was a great day. And I'll share a secret: I like the smell of cows and horses. And their poo. And my baby is growing up before my eyes. Happy Birthday, Baby Boy!
***Ally

Cup Check

Before my son got in the car to go to football practice tonight, I asked him if he was wearing his cup. He responded by making a fist and knocking on his crotch, creating a thud, thud, thud sound.

"Oh Mom," he said. "That wasn't my cup. Those were my balls of steel."

All I could say was, "Get in, Chuck Norris."

Twelve-year-old boys say the funniest things.

Lela

The End of "One Of Those Days"

It's been a day. One of THOSE days.

Just dropped my son off at the movie with GIRLS. He's finally at that age. (That age I'M not ready for.)

Got home and decided to open a bottle of wine I had chilling. The opener would NOT go in. I could not figure out what they had made the cork out of.

Screw top. No comment.

***Ally

No Sugar

I don't eat refined white sugar.

That is my mantra. And I know it to make me feel incredibly good when I stick to it.

But for it to be true, then the following would have to be true.

I do not have an open bag of chocolate chips in the pantry. I do not grab a (handful) few (every time I go in the kitchen) on occasion.

I did not buy a homemade whoopie pie (two lovely chocolatey cakey sides filled with lovely white icing) for my son at the gourmet grocery store just so I could have a (chunk) bite.

I did not have an iced mocha at work this morning.

I did not finish the dark chocolate mint discs last night just so my son couldn’t have the last one.

I did not purchase a mocha mint chip cookie from the coffee shop while at work yesterday.

Sigh. No, these things are not, in fact, true. I actually did all of the above things. Don’t worry, the chocolate chips are gone now. My son found my hiding spot.

What is true, is that I have a RAGING case of PMS coupled with the increased carb craving brought on by a sudden increase of exercise. (I’ll have to time it better next time I have that bright idea). Which equals and INSATIABLE desire for sweets. Not just any sweets, but chocolatey, baked, rich, gooey heavenliness. In massive quantities.
***Ally

Happy Anniversary

My wedding anniversary is tomorrow and my husband has done something romantic and thoughtful to celebrate. A few weeks ago he sent me an email with "no subject" written in the subject box. Now, the only time my hubby emails me is when he is forwarding school, sports, or scout information regarding our precious son. I opened it up and all that I saw was: www.julianhotel.com.

"Does this mean we are going to Julian, California for our anniversary?" I asked.

"Yes," my husband said.

"Why did you act like you didn't want to go when I suggested we take off on the football bye weekend?" I asked, remembering him telling me he had to work, even though he has a year's worth of vacation to burn.

"I don't like being told what to do," he replied.

"So, you were planning this all along, just pretending to act uninterested?" I didn't want to ruin the romantic moment, but I was curious.

"Like I said," he repeated, "I don't like being told what to do."

And there you have it. That is about as romantic and thoughtful as it gets around here, but I am not complaining! I am just happy to get out of town with the man I love sans the child.

And if you are wondering what I am getting my husband for a gift, the answer is: A broom handle. Seriously.

Lela

No Smell, Please

Okay, I have a request.

For all future clients, let's keep the body odor OUT of my office. It is really NOT okay to come in with smelly pits, having obviously not showered, and expect me to work on your shoulder (I am a muscular therapist for those of you that don't already know). Because as I lift your arm, and that smell that is the mysterious mix of B.O. and burritos (I know, weird, right?) comes wafting out of your armpit, it is really NOT okay with me.

Oh, and squeezing your workout in by riding your bike 20 miles to my office? Or jogging/running 5 miles to my office? Then expecting me to work on you, on my OFFICE table, while you drip sweat. REALLY, not okay.

I know, I know. I work on a lot of athletes. And it's really what I want to do. But you'll have to take my word for it - it's different. If I'm at the track and I'm working with a client who just ran a race or is getting ready to run a race, that is completely different. If I'm working with a player on the side of the field, it's different. I'm expecting it.

I'm talking about the total NON-athlete that is flying out on a red-eye, so doesn't want to shower until later in the day. But comes to see me for her appointment in the morning. And her pits stink. Really stink. Not even a whiff of deodorant.

I have a few suggestions. Wash cloth. Baby wipe. Or better yet - shower.

Thanks folks. I knew we could reach an agreement.
***Ally

As I Was Hand Washing My Bras . . .

We have been experiencing unusually hot weather for the past two weeks and my bras are paying the price. The straps have turned a lovely shade of dirty brown and the sweat stains are disgusting. I have run out of bra rotations, even wearing the ever-so-tacky black bra with a white tank top out of desperation. In normal circumstances I would just throw all my bras in my super-expensive-high-energy washer on the delicate cycle, but my husband broke it. I am waiting patiently for the part to arrive to fix it, but my bras can wait no longer.

So, I was standing at the bathroom sink hand washing my bras, something I have never done in my life, and I think of my mom, who ALWAYS washed her bras in the sink. Here are some other weird things my mom did that I would NEVER do:

1. Buy "suntan" pantyhose. Remember how they made your legs look orange?

2. Hand wash ALL pantyhose, roll them in a towel, which sat on the bathroom sink for hours, turning a rusty shade of orange.

3. Dye her old white bras in the sink with teabags.

4. Wear a sanitary belt and preach about it's comfortability well into our 20's, as in, "You girls should wear a sanitary belt. It keeps everything in place."

5. Hang a red plastic douche bag over the shower head to dry.

Bring back any memories, girls?

Lela, survivor of a traumatizing childhood

Target On A Hot Day

Two gross things happened at Target to me today. First, when I entered a dressing room I noticed something stuck to the wall. Further examination told me it was one of those crotch protectors they put in swimsuit bottoms, for those people who actually take their underwear OFF to try on a bikini. Nice of them to peel it off and stick it on the wall.

After that enlightening experience, I gathered my belongings and proceeded to the check-out line. A woman without a cart came up behind me (a little too close, mind you) and I was engulfed in a sea of B.O. and garlic. Not a good combination on a hot day. Not only did she smell bad, but she got so close to me that when I was putting my items on the conveyor belt, she put her hands on my cart! I don't have O.C.D. or anything, but I do have some personal space issues. I was breathing through my mouth and wondering how I was going to push the cart now that it was contaminated.

I made it out of there, steering my cart by the sides, not the handle.

Note to self: Never buy a swimsuit from Target and if I am going to eat garlic on a hot day, don't forget to wear deodorant.

Lela

My Teenager Kicks Butt

I worked out along side my son today. Mistake.

You see, in my mind, he is still 5 and wanting to be as good as Mommy some day.

But that day has long since come and gone. So as he pumped iron, seriously, I sort of pretended that I was working out, too. While he pumped out sit-up after sit-up after sit-up, I tried a new variety of sit-up on a work out ball - 17, 18, 19... OMG I think I'm going to puke! And while he loaded the dumbbells with extra weight, I picked up the XXlb dumbbells, that you can't even add extra weight to, and tried to hold my head high. What? You think I'm going to ADMIT how light they were?? Not going to happen.

Anyway, he rocks. Don't tell him I said that. I'll deny it. It'll be my word against yours and I'm his mom, so I'll win. And he's provided me with a whole new level of butt-kicking inspiration.
***Ally

EXPRESS Lanes Make Me Cranky

My grocery store (well, it's not MY grocery store, but the store I go to. Way too often.) has EXPRESS self-check-out lanes. While there are many definitions of the word express, I’m pretty sure it means “direct or fast, making few or no intermediate stops”. To me, that means: get up there, check your stuff out, and get out of the way for the next person. And go fast. If you have special needs (or you are special needs), go to another line.

So why are “those” people always in front of me?

The teenagers who pull wadded up dollar bills out of their pockets, spend 3 minutes trying to flatten them out and then feed them one. by. one. into the cash slot.

The mother whose four year old DEMANDS to push the buttons while 8 people wait in line. AND. SHE. LETS. HIM.

The guy who repeatedly tries to scan his ten-whole-cents-off his $4 box of cereal coupon, despite the fact that ever since he pushed the button that says “I have coupons”, the screen has been flashing “Please give your coupons to the cashier”.

What I’m saying is, GET OUT OF MY WAY. And then we can all live together in peace and harmony.
***Ally

I Have Morning Envy

My husband works from home. His desk is approximately ten steps from our bedroom door. That is his commute. In his old job, he used to at least have to get up early to call clients on the East Coast. But not now. Now his territory is local. No need to get up early.

I, on the other hand, have a 40 minute commute. Each way. So when I get out of bed and hit the shower I have this battle in my head. The sweet loving side of my head tries not to bang anything, or slam cupboards or drawers in the bathroom, things that might wake my sweetly sleeping husband. The envious, evil side of my brain tries to make my body OOPS! drop that shampoo bottle loudly on the shower floor. That side growls and simmers and tries to take over.

But somehow, just when I think he's not going to make it, he always manages to get up and go make coffee before I have to leave.

Then the sweet side takes back over and I remember that I do love him. And he made coffee.
***Ally