Saturday, October 31, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Dear Diary, I am just like Hiroshima. All 200,000 plus dead. Mostly innocent civilians. Yep, just like that.
1-9-98
My mother took my job.
My $6.25 an hour, come and leave as you please, stress-free job.
What a traitor! The worst part about it all was that she never told me that she was taking it. She "mentioned" that Al (my boss (ex-boss)) had "mentioned" it to her. Tonight my dad was cracking a joke and said, "So what do you think about your mom taking your job?" Of course, I said, "She didn't take my job!" I was thinking about how mean I was when SHE simply brought the subject up before. Then he said, "She already has!" As he laughed because I wasn't calling him scum, I began to associate myself with Hiroshima, Japan. My mother being the atomic bomb.
Why didn't she tell me?
Just this Tuesday, I was at the office and Al never even mentioned it. What a coward! What a traitor! He knows every minute, municipal detail of anything that I've done that my mother would not know. And guess when I told him? Tuesday.
Crap, I feel like my world is crashing down around me. I know it's just Satan trying to destroy me, but that doesn't make me feel less angry at Kelly and it doesn't get me my job back. She's in here now, trying to convince me that she hasn't done anything wrong-- she has! TRAITORS!!
And I'm supposed to go into work tomorrow, all nice and happy . . . I guess that'll take acting skills!
And yesterday at practice I asked Kelly to come to the bathroom because I wanted to tell her something, and she said, "No, I've got other things to do," or something to that effect, referring to waiting on Dylan. Well, I thought that Dylan had already left, because she said that he had left. Well sweet Donna said, "I'll go with you!" When we were in the bathroom, Donna told me, "Kelly just told me that every time she is supposed to do something with Dylan, you ask her to do something."
Oh yeah, I also jokingly said," Oh yeah, boyfriends are more important that best friends." Donna said that right after that Kelly said, "Well, yeah, they are." Brenda Walsh also told me that she heard Kelly say it.
Also, in Chemistry she's been such a smart-butt to me-- and so mean. But get this: only when Steve Sanders is around. Even in cheerleading today, she was doing it. Yeah, I have great friends, I know.
The worst thing is that I sit here and cry and think that if Valerie were here that things would be so different. While practicing the to thine on self be true dish, I have to admit that she was a pretty sorry friend at times, too. I don't think that there are any true friends in the world.
Jesus is the only true friend that I have. Yes, Jesus loves me . . .
God has amazing things to teach me when I actually listen. I was just sitting here, crying, and I opened my bible to read: Psalm 30:5: For His anger lasts only a moment, but His favor lasts a lifetime; weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning." God is telling me that everything will be okay when I wake up tomorrow. Thank you, God.
(dear diary posts are actual journal entries from my fifteen year old ego. how embarrassing.)
(some of the names have been changed to protect teenage innocence.)
My mother took my job.
My $6.25 an hour, come and leave as you please, stress-free job.
What a traitor! The worst part about it all was that she never told me that she was taking it. She "mentioned" that Al (my boss (ex-boss)) had "mentioned" it to her. Tonight my dad was cracking a joke and said, "So what do you think about your mom taking your job?" Of course, I said, "She didn't take my job!" I was thinking about how mean I was when SHE simply brought the subject up before. Then he said, "She already has!" As he laughed because I wasn't calling him scum, I began to associate myself with Hiroshima, Japan. My mother being the atomic bomb.
Why didn't she tell me?
Just this Tuesday, I was at the office and Al never even mentioned it. What a coward! What a traitor! He knows every minute, municipal detail of anything that I've done that my mother would not know. And guess when I told him? Tuesday.
Crap, I feel like my world is crashing down around me. I know it's just Satan trying to destroy me, but that doesn't make me feel less angry at Kelly and it doesn't get me my job back. She's in here now, trying to convince me that she hasn't done anything wrong-- she has! TRAITORS!!
And I'm supposed to go into work tomorrow, all nice and happy . . . I guess that'll take acting skills!
And yesterday at practice I asked Kelly to come to the bathroom because I wanted to tell her something, and she said, "No, I've got other things to do," or something to that effect, referring to waiting on Dylan. Well, I thought that Dylan had already left, because she said that he had left. Well sweet Donna said, "I'll go with you!" When we were in the bathroom, Donna told me, "Kelly just told me that every time she is supposed to do something with Dylan, you ask her to do something."
Oh yeah, I also jokingly said," Oh yeah, boyfriends are more important that best friends." Donna said that right after that Kelly said, "Well, yeah, they are." Brenda Walsh also told me that she heard Kelly say it.
Also, in Chemistry she's been such a smart-butt to me-- and so mean. But get this: only when Steve Sanders is around. Even in cheerleading today, she was doing it. Yeah, I have great friends, I know.
The worst thing is that I sit here and cry and think that if Valerie were here that things would be so different. While practicing the to thine on self be true dish, I have to admit that she was a pretty sorry friend at times, too. I don't think that there are any true friends in the world.
Jesus is the only true friend that I have. Yes, Jesus loves me . . .
God has amazing things to teach me when I actually listen. I was just sitting here, crying, and I opened my bible to read: Psalm 30:5: For His anger lasts only a moment, but His favor lasts a lifetime; weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning." God is telling me that everything will be okay when I wake up tomorrow. Thank you, God.
(dear diary posts are actual journal entries from my fifteen year old ego. how embarrassing.)
(some of the names have been changed to protect teenage innocence.)
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Are YOU a Parent of Twins?
These people are.
Believe it or not, odds are against them.
This person is not. Could not.
This person is (baaarrrfff . . . vomiting sounds ensue).
nope.
Lucky twins.Saturday, October 24, 2009
poop, hemorrhoids, gay size-queens and my period. don't look back, joy, never look back.
WARNING:
I started my period. This was not supposed to happen. I am breastfeeding and pumping-- and was planning to do so until menopause. Despite the medical promises and scientific poppy-cock, my uterus is shedding it's year-and-a-half-long winter coat. Therefore, dear virgin-brained reader, I am unfiltering today's post. I am saying whatever the fuh-- fuhhhh-- ffffuuuhh---JEEPERS, MOM!!---Whatever the hell I want. And if you have a remotely small dwindling thread of hope for my own self-respect-- read no further. I am not my mother's daughter. Or my grandmother's granddaughter. I am apparently the descendant of self-loathing, garbage-tongued trash and I am bleeding from my vagina.
Me: Do you think it would be bad to post about poop?
B: What are you talking about?
Me: You know, about my poop? Do you think it's too much?
B: Are you talking about that poop you did last night?
Me: Yeah, and my hemorrhoids, do you think it's okay?
B: I don't think that people are interested in reading about your poop or your hemorrhoids.
Me: But I like reading about those things.
B: I'm just saying, I wouldn't want to read about your poop. Is there someone that you can ask about this kind of thing?
Me: I am asking.
B: Someone else?
Me: It's my day to write whatever the hell I want. My vagina is bleeding and unless you want me to get pregnant to stop it, you'll agree with me.
B: I agree with everything.
Me: So it wouldn't be bad to talk about how big that turd was?
B: No, it would be great.
Me: I know. I think people will laugh when I talk about gay size queens.
B: What's a size queen?
Me: Someone that likes really big penises.
B: So, you want to write about gay men that like big penises?
Me: Yeah, and how I bet they really like it when they have a big turd like I did last night.
B: So you've got something for everyone, huh?
Me: What do they do if they have hemorrhoids like mine?
B: I don't care.
Me: PREGNANT!!
B: I DON'T KNOW!
Me: Do you think they could trade positions? The whole pitcher/catcher thing? I bet they all like pitching, but don't all want to catch. Especially if they have hemorrhoids. Right?
B: Yes.
Me: Yes, what?
B: Yes, you're right.
Me: Do you think I'll lose any readers?
B: I don't know. They probably just don't want to read about these things.
Me: I think they'll like it.
B: You're right. They will.
Friday, October 23, 2009
one small step for a normal person. one giant leap for my crazy ass.
Just nine months ago I decided that we (my family) would never leave the house again. The children would never breathe unventilated air, always wonder what trees might look like on the other side of dusty glass, and only know of other "people" from the books we lovingly read them (Hello? They've got to get some culture somehow-- and I'll be damned if they're ever watching television). See, the outside world has germs. Germs kill babies. And I like my babies. A lot.
Eventually a therapist counseled me into the germy dangers of the world. We set goals as to when I would let people visit and take the babies to a public place. Like the mall. Or the park. Effing terrifying. But I did it. I got better. I stopped running from approaching hands and luring senior citizens.
"Are thems twahens?"
"Nononodon'ttouchthemnotsocloseOHMYGODYOU'REKILLINGTHEM!!"
Maybe this puts some perspective to the fear of vacationing. Far from home. Where nine months ago I set up camp and committed to a lifetime of Little Ceasar's home deliveries. It's not that I feared vacationing germs-- these days I'll lift a paci from the toilet to plug a crying mouth. It's being far from comfort that I fear. Far from safety. Where I know what to do when they cry. In a giant toolbox of baby-coping accessories. Where my sanity lives.
Brandon's parents invited us to their condo in North Myrtle Beach. I immediately shut down. Fear. Of. Being. Far. From. Home. My brain reeled. Nowaynowaynowaynowaynoway. He suggested that maybe he could go without me. Give me a weekend off. Do we have to go there, dear reader??? I can see you shaking your head. Tisking. Okay, I won't discuss the conversation further-- but the outcome was, of course, a voice a sane reason admitting that a horrible idea was now forgotten. Weeks passed. Nowaynowaynoway. My mother encouraged me. You should go for them. You should go for Brandon. NowaynowayIwilllockthedoorsandforceeveryoneintothecloset. Not happening. Brandon and I discussed it again. Maybe if we left at night? Maybe the babies would sleep? Maybe we wouldn't internally combust upon leaving a twenty mile radius of our house? Somehow, some way, I gave a conditional yes. The condition being that I could opt out at the very last minute.
We set out at bedtime. The girls slept the entire way (there and back). They woke up not screaming and clingy but almost, well, excited. Wha? Why isn't blood pouring from their ears? How are they smiling? Happy? How do I not feel crazy? Who am I? Where am I? Oh yeah, I'm at the beach. Dude, someone get me a beer.
The vacation was actually really awesome. The girls had a blast. Mimi (B's mom) was in heaven with her grandbabies and Pap Pap (B's curmudgeon) was complaining less than usual. It might have been the greatest weekend of his life. Layla had a beautiful friend to share toys and ear kisses while Pap Pap scratched her head and mumbled sweet nothings. Or maybe sour nothings.
We took the girls down to the beach only once-- after we wrapped them in every blanket we could find. Hell yes, it was freezing. Did that stop my Pisces hubbs from swimming in the ocean? Hell no, of course not. Beach walkers were clad in turtlenecks and sweaters AND STILL SHIVERING, and then there is Brandon. Swimming trunks, beer in hand, nipples threatening to slice anyone within a three foot distance.
Did I mention that our condo was a baby-funhouse? The decor being eighties-beach-chic, complete with mirrored walls, glasstop tables and loaded with pastel beach paintings (nothing says coastal vacation like seagulls flying over a pastel sunset. on pastel walls. behind pastel chairs.) The highlight was definitely the glasstop coffee table. We could throw away the thousands of dollars worth of plastic junk in our house and invest in one of these. That's all we would need. I wouldn't even have to watch them. Entertain them. Feed them my sad, tired blood. The coffee table would be the answer for everything. Where are the kids? How do I get them to stop crying? Where will they sleep? Who's going to feed them? All arrows point to the coffee table and the two children that have been supporting it for the past ten hours.
The point of it all is, yes, I survived. WE ALL survived.
Next phobia on the list: Walmart. Yeah, I see no reason to rehabilitate that one, either . . .
Eventually a therapist counseled me into the germy dangers of the world. We set goals as to when I would let people visit and take the babies to a public place. Like the mall. Or the park. Effing terrifying. But I did it. I got better. I stopped running from approaching hands and luring senior citizens.
"Are thems twahens?"
"Nononodon'ttouchthemnotsocloseOHMYGODYOU'REKILLINGTHEM!!"
Maybe this puts some perspective to the fear of vacationing. Far from home. Where nine months ago I set up camp and committed to a lifetime of Little Ceasar's home deliveries. It's not that I feared vacationing germs-- these days I'll lift a paci from the toilet to plug a crying mouth. It's being far from comfort that I fear. Far from safety. Where I know what to do when they cry. In a giant toolbox of baby-coping accessories. Where my sanity lives.
Brandon's parents invited us to their condo in North Myrtle Beach. I immediately shut down. Fear. Of. Being. Far. From. Home. My brain reeled. Nowaynowaynowaynowaynoway. He suggested that maybe he could go without me. Give me a weekend off. Do we have to go there, dear reader??? I can see you shaking your head. Tisking. Okay, I won't discuss the conversation further-- but the outcome was, of course, a voice a sane reason admitting that a horrible idea was now forgotten. Weeks passed. Nowaynowaynoway. My mother encouraged me. You should go for them. You should go for Brandon. NowaynowayIwilllockthedoorsandforceeveryoneintothecloset. Not happening. Brandon and I discussed it again. Maybe if we left at night? Maybe the babies would sleep? Maybe we wouldn't internally combust upon leaving a twenty mile radius of our house? Somehow, some way, I gave a conditional yes. The condition being that I could opt out at the very last minute.
We set out at bedtime. The girls slept the entire way (there and back). They woke up not screaming and clingy but almost, well, excited. Wha? Why isn't blood pouring from their ears? How are they smiling? Happy? How do I not feel crazy? Who am I? Where am I? Oh yeah, I'm at the beach. Dude, someone get me a beer.
The vacation was actually really awesome. The girls had a blast. Mimi (B's mom) was in heaven with her grandbabies and Pap Pap (B's curmudgeon) was complaining less than usual. It might have been the greatest weekend of his life. Layla had a beautiful friend to share toys and ear kisses while Pap Pap scratched her head and mumbled sweet nothings. Or maybe sour nothings.
We took the girls down to the beach only once-- after we wrapped them in every blanket we could find. Hell yes, it was freezing. Did that stop my Pisces hubbs from swimming in the ocean? Hell no, of course not. Beach walkers were clad in turtlenecks and sweaters AND STILL SHIVERING, and then there is Brandon. Swimming trunks, beer in hand, nipples threatening to slice anyone within a three foot distance.
Did I mention that our condo was a baby-funhouse? The decor being eighties-beach-chic, complete with mirrored walls, glasstop tables and loaded with pastel beach paintings (nothing says coastal vacation like seagulls flying over a pastel sunset. on pastel walls. behind pastel chairs.) The highlight was definitely the glasstop coffee table. We could throw away the thousands of dollars worth of plastic junk in our house and invest in one of these. That's all we would need. I wouldn't even have to watch them. Entertain them. Feed them my sad, tired blood. The coffee table would be the answer for everything. Where are the kids? How do I get them to stop crying? Where will they sleep? Who's going to feed them? All arrows point to the coffee table and the two children that have been supporting it for the past ten hours.
The point of it all is, yes, I survived. WE ALL survived.
Next phobia on the list: Walmart. Yeah, I see no reason to rehabilitate that one, either . . .
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
way back whensday. my man-boy.
I always said that I would marry someone just like my grandfather.
Little did I know, there was not another like him.
I found the next closest man-boy.
And married him.
brandon's hotel dance from freckletree on Vimeo.
Back in November of 2006, we traveled with another couple for a four night/three state My Morning Jacket mini-tour. I had a killer sinus-infection and plugged my dripping nose with tissue for the entire four days. They played the exact same set list every night. Jim James graced us with fun facts about each city that we visited. Knoxville is apparently known for their "sun-sphere" and should have an avid interest in preserving this useless tower. Atlanta has a building that Jim wanted to get on top of-- if anyone could possibly make that happen for him. Charleston? Yeah, I don't really remember what he googled about Charleston.
This video is from our night off between shows. We rented an ultra-swanky hotel room (you know, the ones that you vomit if your face accidentally touches the bedspread??) and locked ourselves in. I was disgustingly sick and laid in bed, tissues stuck in my nostrils, singing along with Knoxville's classic rock station on the clock radio.
Brandon? My husband? He danced.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Dear Lydia and Zadie, I'm starting to like you. Just a little bit.
Dear Lydia and Zadie,
Today you turn nine months old.
It feels like such a milestone. For all of us. Where some people have their first and go right on living, our story is a bit different. We were in no way prepared for the arrival of two tiny, noisy little grunters. I always thought I'll just take it as it comes . . . then I realized why mothers of multiples are encouraged to join support groups BEFORE the multiples pop out. It all came so fast and we were standing motionless, frozen in our underwear and mouths wide open. Speechless. Frantic. Trying to reach into the passing time and grab a hold of sanity, reason, something normal that wasn't covered in sour milk and baby poop.
People always look at the two of you and say I couldn't do it. Would we have said that before you were with us? One of many things that your Paw Paw will teach you is that "can't" is the ugliest word a person can say. Then he might spank you for using it. But probably not. Because grandkids get ice cream and trips to Toys R Us. Not spankings. My philosophy on life is that you do what you have to do. Because, well, you have to do it. You CAN raise twins. If you grow them inside of you and one day they come out. You take them home. Feed them. Love them. Hold them. You stop sleeping. You lose your mind. Maybe, if you are lucky (like me), you will gain a bit of that sanity back by the time they are nine months old. They will be easier. They really will be easier.
At some point I realized that you were my best friends. Some people might think that is terribly sad. Because they have a separate agenda, a career, lunch breaks where they poop in silence for as long as the poop takes to come out. They don't stop mid-poop, carelessly wipe and run back to their children to make sure they have not crawled into the living room, selected a DVD (we'll go ahead and say Sesame Street because, honestly, we're all a bit nauseous of Baby Einstein), pressed "open", waited seventeen minutes for the piece of shit birthday present that your Mama bought your Papa to read the signal and follow it, insert the disc, press "play", crack open a couple of beers and spill three quarters of them on your front. Let's face it, that's just one skill that you haven't perfected . . . yet. But, alas, I always rush back to find you in a different, more dangerous place, but smiling and beyond excited because your Mama IS BACK!! after leaving for a solid forty-seven seconds. You light up, booty-bounce on the floor and rock forward and back while slapping your hands on your bellies (a.k.a. clapping your hands). If I'm lucky, I'll get a squeal from Zadie and/or a moany/grunty/scream from Lydia. This is what I live for. It makes the endless crazies so much more manageable. It makes busting my ass from seven to seven worthwhile. It makes me happy to be home with you. It gives meaning to life and it just makes sense. When nothing else really does. When faith is too blind and existence is a confusing certainty, the two of you are the heart and soul within me. What else is there? I don't even care. It has no power or importance to me. Because you. are. real. My purpose is to be your mama. While I have other roles that are neglected and a total loss of identity, I am not concerned. It is there. It will be there when I can come back to it. Being your mama is why I am here, now, and it is beyond rewarding. Your papa and I gave life to you beautiful, brilliant, red-headed little girls. We are teaching you, loving you and hoping so much for you.
I am constantly blown away by you.
I am always grateful when we wake up and have another day together.
I miss you every night and fight the urge to wake you up and hold you while you scream and cry because your selfish bitch of a mother thought that cuddling was a better idea than sleeping.
I love every night when I walk into your room to make sure that you are covered and your smells are thick in the darkness. That is my favorite.
You are unique, hilarious, amazing individuals.
My life couldn't be more complete.
Love,
Yo Mama
Today you turn nine months old.
It feels like such a milestone. For all of us. Where some people have their first and go right on living, our story is a bit different. We were in no way prepared for the arrival of two tiny, noisy little grunters. I always thought I'll just take it as it comes . . . then I realized why mothers of multiples are encouraged to join support groups BEFORE the multiples pop out. It all came so fast and we were standing motionless, frozen in our underwear and mouths wide open. Speechless. Frantic. Trying to reach into the passing time and grab a hold of sanity, reason, something normal that wasn't covered in sour milk and baby poop.
People always look at the two of you and say I couldn't do it. Would we have said that before you were with us? One of many things that your Paw Paw will teach you is that "can't" is the ugliest word a person can say. Then he might spank you for using it. But probably not. Because grandkids get ice cream and trips to Toys R Us. Not spankings. My philosophy on life is that you do what you have to do. Because, well, you have to do it. You CAN raise twins. If you grow them inside of you and one day they come out. You take them home. Feed them. Love them. Hold them. You stop sleeping. You lose your mind. Maybe, if you are lucky (like me), you will gain a bit of that sanity back by the time they are nine months old. They will be easier. They really will be easier.
At some point I realized that you were my best friends. Some people might think that is terribly sad. Because they have a separate agenda, a career, lunch breaks where they poop in silence for as long as the poop takes to come out. They don't stop mid-poop, carelessly wipe and run back to their children to make sure they have not crawled into the living room, selected a DVD (we'll go ahead and say Sesame Street because, honestly, we're all a bit nauseous of Baby Einstein), pressed "open", waited seventeen minutes for the piece of shit birthday present that your Mama bought your Papa to read the signal and follow it, insert the disc, press "play", crack open a couple of beers and spill three quarters of them on your front. Let's face it, that's just one skill that you haven't perfected . . . yet. But, alas, I always rush back to find you in a different, more dangerous place, but smiling and beyond excited because your Mama IS BACK!! after leaving for a solid forty-seven seconds. You light up, booty-bounce on the floor and rock forward and back while slapping your hands on your bellies (a.k.a. clapping your hands). If I'm lucky, I'll get a squeal from Zadie and/or a moany/grunty/scream from Lydia. This is what I live for. It makes the endless crazies so much more manageable. It makes busting my ass from seven to seven worthwhile. It makes me happy to be home with you. It gives meaning to life and it just makes sense. When nothing else really does. When faith is too blind and existence is a confusing certainty, the two of you are the heart and soul within me. What else is there? I don't even care. It has no power or importance to me. Because you. are. real. My purpose is to be your mama. While I have other roles that are neglected and a total loss of identity, I am not concerned. It is there. It will be there when I can come back to it. Being your mama is why I am here, now, and it is beyond rewarding. Your papa and I gave life to you beautiful, brilliant, red-headed little girls. We are teaching you, loving you and hoping so much for you.
I am constantly blown away by you.
I am always grateful when we wake up and have another day together.
I miss you every night and fight the urge to wake you up and hold you while you scream and cry because your selfish bitch of a mother thought that cuddling was a better idea than sleeping.
I love every night when I walk into your room to make sure that you are covered and your smells are thick in the darkness. That is my favorite.
You are unique, hilarious, amazing individuals.
My life couldn't be more complete.
Love,
Yo Mama
+&+Zadie+(right)2bwsnaps.jpg)
Sunday, October 18, 2009
picasso said something about stealing art: um . . . don't copy it, steal it?? no, stealing art is okay as long as your's is better?
The ABC's of MeMe:
A- Advocate for: myself. my blog. my sense of humor. my terrible sense of wonderful style.
B- Best Feature: hair. head hair. not leg hair. though my arm hair is pretty rad.
C- Could do without: pop country.
D- Dreams and desires: for someone to give me some money for this blog.
E- Essential items: bell's two-hearted ale, radiohead, antidepressants, kalamata olives, my mom.
F- Favorite past time: dirty hippying at shows.
G- Good at: guilt.
H- Have never tried: crack-cocaine.
I- If I had a million dollars: i'd pay off my husband's student loans. all $999,995 worth. then get a can of coke and some peanut m&m's.
J- Junkie for: water. cold. hot. lukewarm. if it's wet and wiggles. oh, sorry, if it's wet.
K- Kindred spirit: sofia petrillo weinstock. hello? golden girls??
L- Little known fact: "i'm an artist. and i'm sensitive about my shit."
M- Memorable moment: i was in the hospital and just gave birth to my twins and they brought me some chicken tenders and honey mustard. and a mini-coke-in-a-can.
N- Never again will I: drink rich and rare. oh, you don't know what rich and rare is? aged three years? canadian whisky? $3 pint? mmmm . . . rich and rare . . .
O- Occasional indulgence: afternoon naps.
P- Profession: really? is this your first time?
Q- Quote: "harry? i took care of it?", "kick his ass, seabass!", "i just figured she was a raging alcoholic", "that john denver's full of shit.", "hey, i guess they're right. senior citizens, although slow and dangerous behind the wheel, can still serve a purpose. i'll be right back. don't you go dying on me!", "harry, your hands are freezing!!", "so you're telling me there's a chance?", "excuse me, flo?", "hey, bobbbbbby."
R- Reason to smile: my children. always.
S- Sorry about: um . . . everything. refer back to "g".
T- Things you are worrying about right now: this minute: accidentally getting too drunk. my husband going to sleep before me. eating that pumpkin cobbler after having two helping of dessert with dinner-- on a diet.
U- Uninterested in: dieting.
V- Very scared of: eating that pumkpin cobbler.
W- Worst habits: (while eating delicious cobbler) breaking diets.
X- X marks my ideal vacation spot: cold. coats. red nose. how about the north pole? or somewhere that the heat rash under my boobs doesn't flare up.
Y- Yummiest dessert: mmm . . . pumpkin cobbler. unless there is german chocolate cake around . . . or OOOHH! ingles birthday cakes with cream cheese icing. ahhhh, ingles.
Z- Zodiac sign: libra. well-balanced. creative. stylish. artsy. noncommittal (regarding dieting).
Friday, October 16, 2009
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