Sunday, July 29, 2007


Kuckie and Kate both tagged me. Now that I think about it, I believe I've done this one before. But I love memes, and there are always 8 more unusual little things about me I can come up with : )

8 Random Things About Me

1. I dislike cherry flavored anything.

2. I have a scar on my left butt cheek from when I was about 7 years old. I climbed an apple tree to retrieve an errant Frisbee. I fell out of the tree and landed on a wooden garden stake. Painful and embarrassing all in one shot!

3. I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.

4. I'm incredibly competitive. Except when I'm lazy.

5. I have never colored my hair. Not permanent, not highlights, not lowlights, not even a temporary wash. I wouldn't mind some complimenting highlights, but my hair grows so fast I'd have to have it retouched all the time.

6. I'm not terribly materialistic. Not out of social consciousness or frugality, just because . . . I'm not.

7. I've never been to Florida. Or Buenos Aires. Or lots of other places . . .

8. I have a cool collection of Blue Heron egg shells and feathers. Assuming a collection like that can be deemed "cool" : )

I'm not tagging anyone else because I think you all have done this one already. But if you haven't done it yet--please do!

Changed my mind--I am tagging one person: Angie! If you feel like doing this, Angie, it would actually be a fun extra little introduction to the magic that is you : )

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Curse you, Chuck Norris! Part II

Kickboxing. I had no experience with kickboxing other than viewing Tae Bo commercials very late at night. While eating Cap'n Crunch. With chocolate milk. Evidently, I didn't pay all that much attention to the commercials because it somehow escaped my notice that kickboxing is full-on aerobics. In this case, 45 minutes of full-on aerobics!

Wouldn't you think on the first day the instructor would take a little time to explain body alignment and positioning, describe the moves, give a little background, go a little easy? Maybe he would on a first day. But that would be my first mistake--assuming that I was signed up for a beginners' class that was just commencing.

Monday morning found me in a room full of experienced kickboxers--beautiful, slim and lithe. Every damn one of them. Like they all just stepped off the set of Desperate Housewives. This is no beginners' class. This is an ongoing, open-enrollment class.

Dave The Instructor pumped up the music and proceeded with the legal torture. And I was expected to keep up. Period. He did come by my side a few times to explain the finer nuances and check on my progress. Whenever I stopped for a sip of water--or a desperate gasp of oxygen--he smiled at me and gave me the thumbs up. Instructor Dave is Pure Evil too.

As Evil Instructor Dave described one of the combinations, I heard him use the term "roundhouse kick." Curse you and your roundhouse kick, Chuck Norris!

Reciting the sequence in my head as I went through the moves: Lead leg roundhouse kick, touch, step, touch, roundhouse kick; touch, step, touch, roundhouse kick; touch, step, touch . . . but instead of 'roundhouse kick' my mind began to substitute Chuck Norris facts:

touch, step, touch, "Chuck Norris doesn't sleep--he waits"; touch, step, touch, "Guns don't kill people--Chuck Norris kills people"; touch, step, touch, "Chuck Norris doesn't read books--he stares them down until he gets the information he wants . . . "

Chuck isn't even physically in the building--he has nothing whatsoever to do with this program--and he's still kicking my ass! Such is the power of Chuck Norris.

Okay, okay, okay. Fine. The truth? As Cheek would say, it does not suck. I actually enjoy this class. It's a great workout. And I'm kinda good at it. And evil as he is, Instructor Dave is an energetic, tough but twinklingly optimistic, fun teacher. And really--this couldn't be a more cliche thing to say--it's true that there is something so satisfying about spending most of an hour punching and roundhouse kicking a big defenseless bag.

So . . . thank you Evil, Manipulative Biotch Sis-in-Law. (I hate admitting she was right!)

Oh, and one last thing. Chuck Norris may be Chuck Norris, but I've given birth three more times than he has. By my calculations, that makes me approximately three times tougher than that Nancy-boy Chuck! But maybe let's not tell Mr. Norris I said that : )

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Curse you, Chuck Norris! Part I

My sister-in-law is evil. She is heinousness incarnate. And she hates me. Evilly.

Oh yeah. I just remembered that she sometimes reads this blog. (Love you, Sis!)

Now, back to my story about that evil biotch . . .

I was talking to my 13-year-old nephew on the phone last Thursday when his mother (Evil Biotch Sis-in-law, in case you weren’t keeping up with the cast of characters) came on the line. She was all excited to tell me about this new cult--strike that--exercise class she joined. It’s the KUT program. And somehow, as only One Who Possesses Pure Evil can do, she made it sound exciting.

  • 9 week commitment
  • 6 days a week
  • kickboxing
  • plus resistance training
  • plus more crunches and push-ups than the combined USA Olympic Team does in a year


(because all that isn’t enough)

  • a diet plan too!

Woo hoo.

Yes. She made this vile boot camp sound good. Evil, manipulative biotch.

"Hey, I know!" she said with devilish glee, "You could sign up too and we could do this together!"

Oddly, I was tempted. But being such a dedicated anti-program-joiner I hedged, using the excuse (which isn't a stretch) that I couldn't afford it.

She sweetened the deal. Evilly.

"What if I paid for it?"

Evil, manipulative biotch. (Love you, Sis!)

"No, I wouldn't want you to have to wait for your money, it might take awhile."

"What about this: Your husband has worked on our car and boat so many times--I owe him. What if I just pay for you and you never have to think about the money at all!"

"Ummmmm . . . " I cleverly countered, "Okay?"

Pure Evil, that one.

Monday, July 23, 2007

Guys: This is why when she says "jump" you don't bother asking any other question than "how high?"

"Hey, Sweetie?" I ask my patient husband who, at the end of the day, is sitting in his favorite chair. "I know you're tired now, but would you run down to the little store for me? I'm dying for a caffeine fix--I need a Coke."

Patient husband looks questioningly at me. "And why can't you go get one yourself?"

He knows better than to have asked.

"Are you sure you want the answer?" I giggle.

"Maybe," he answers wearily.

"Well, you can't tell right now because I'm wearing an apron, but I'm not wearing a bra and this t-shirt is a little thin. I can't go out in public like this."

"Yeah?" he bites, "so go put on a bra?"

"They're all in the washing machine, except for the ones I threw away, and the brand new ones I just bought today, but those still have the tags on them and I hate bra shopping so much that after about an hour I quit caring and didn't bother adjusting straps and looking for the perfect fit so I just bought what I kinda thought would work and it was such an awful shopping trip that I'm not about to go into our bedroom and see if any of them actually fit and if I'm not sure of the fit I don't want to take the tags off and . . . "

"You know you're clinically insane, don't you?" Patient husband asks as he heads for the door. Like I knew he would.

"Yeah," I tell him. Giggling.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

one word meme

I have so much to get done today. So I'm wasting time doing a meme . . .

Borrowed this one from blackbird. Also borrowed this recipe from her. Was in the borrowing mood : )

1. Where is your mobile phone? purse
2. Relationship? understanding
3. Your hair? soft
4. Work? tons
5. Your sister(s)? in-law
6. Your favourite thing? solitude
7. Your dream last night? disconcerting
8. Your favourite drink? Coke
9. Your dream car? Mercedes
10. The room you're in? hub
11. Your shoes? sandals
12. Your fears? many
13. What do you want to be in 10 years? grandma
14. Who did you hang out with this weekend? daughter
15. What are you not good at? gardening
16. Muffin? English
17. Wish list item? vacation
18. Where you grew up? small
19. The last thing you did? shopped
20. What are you wearing? casual
21. What are you not wearing? jewelry
22. Your pet? beloved
23. Your computer? slow-ish
24. Your life? wonderful
25. Your mood? peaceful
26. Missing? friend
27. What are you thinking about? kickboxing
28. Your car? empty
29. Your kitchen? foodless
30. Your summer? unfulfilled
31. Your favourite colour? blue
32. Last time you laughed? today
33. Last time you cried? Friday
34. School? soon . . .
35. Love? mysterious

Monday, July 16, 2007

I? Am a ho.

In the on-going 'applying for massage school' saga, I am required to have had two professional massages within the last year. Friday I had my second.

I called a local day spa that afternoon to set up an appointment. I am not One Who Patiently Waits. I requested the first available session. "I can give you an appointment this evening," the receptionist told me, "would you be okay with a male massage therapist?"

I was game. I'm funny about other people touching me, but if I go through with this school thing, I am going to spend most of a year, mostly naked, getting all touchy-feely with both women and men. I might as well get used to this.

Enter Jeremiah. Ruggedly handsome, 30-year-old Jeremiah.

We chatted a little--mostly formalities (J: Any specific reason you need a massage today? Me: Yes. I have children . . . ) And Jeremiah went to work on me.

It was feeling good. I was relaxing into it. And then his hands started working on my lower back. I've had one professional, and several non-professional, massages from women, but this felt different. His large, manly hands on the small of my back, working out laterally halfway round my waist . . . I shouldn't have been thinking it--let alone feeling it--but there was something so sensual about what he was doing.

I remembered to tell you that Jeremiah is gay, right? Yeah. I'm evidently such a ho for intimate masculine touch that it matters not from whence it comes . . .

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

To Tell the Truth

A couple years ago (10--but who's counting?) I put on a few extra pounds (50+ --but who's counting?) I spent the last few years carefully and slowly taking the weight back off. And I was pretty pleased with how I looked and felt.

But then last fall . . .

I allowed myself to wallow in anxiety and regained 26 of those hard fought 55 pounds.


I needed some sort of outside motivation to help me get back on track and once again purge myself of the extra padding. Yesterday, I found my motivation. I e-mailed my beautiful daughter to enlist her help:

"Of all the good reasons for me to continue trying to lose a few pounds (you know, for my health 'n crap like that . . . ) here is the most compelling reason of all--

Next June I get to have my driver's license renewed. In my current photo, my head is so fat (decidedly not "phat") and geometric that I look like Sponge Mom Square Head. Let's hope for better next year.

Every time I want to party hearty with my BFF (Pepperidge Farm cookies) pleeeeeeease remind me of that driver's license photo . . .

Oh yeah, and my health 'n crap too . . . "

She messaged me back:

"I understand about the license thing, those pictures always suck. But not for you because you'll look fabulous!

And that is the most important reason for losing weight. Health shmealth : ) "

She has earned her place on my payroll.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Greek Row

I live in a fraternity house. Beautiful works and dances all. the. time. I hardly see that girl. I am left alone in the house with the three guys. And it's like living with . . . three guys.

To wit:

  • My boys' bedroom looks and smells like a herd of goats lives in there. On second thought, that statement is insulting to goats.

  • If the TV is on, chances are we're watching Dirty Jobs, Modern Marvels, anything involving drag racing, or Mythbusters. Especially Mythbusters. Because "they blow stuff up." Regularly.

  • A few days ago, I was lying on my stomach reading a book. My loving husband knelt over me and lifted my blouse a little with his mouth. Feeling his warm breath on my lower back, I thought to myself, "Oooooh, kissing the small of my back, that's kinda hot." I was wrong. He was giving me a wedgie with his teeth. Oh, so romantic, that man.

  • I mentioned before that Number One Son brews beer while he's away at school? This experimental operation has come home with him. My kitchen? Smells like a brewery. And a wet dog . . .

As if all that isn't evidence enough? Number One and his friends, to celebrate the birthday of our proud nation, like to do what I circumspectly refer to as, "altering fireworks." I try not to know too much about this particular endeavor. Except to say that I don't allow the product to be stored inside the house.

This afternoon I went to the home improvement store to pick up some flooring material. I drove Number One's SUV so I could lay the seat down and the flooring would easily fit. Before I could load the boxes into the SUV, I had to move my boys' hiking gear to one side of the vehicle.

While moving their gear, I came across the raw materials Number One uses in his "alterations." This made me suspicious that he was also storing the finished product in his vehicle rather than, say, in the garage where it wouldn't be jostled about?

I made a quick call to Number One. Speaking in code so the warehouse attendant wouldn't catch on to my illicit cargo, I asked him if his "project" from last week was in his vehicle. "Yeah," was the answer.

"Is it a problem if the flooring gets stacked on top of it?" I asked.

"Uh, yeah. That's not a real good idea."

Surreptitiously, I unearthed it from amongst the other junk and moved it aside while the attendant, none the wiser, loaded the flooring.

Still on the phone, "Son, this terrifies me."


"Why?! Are you kidding me?"

Imagining what the ramifications for his mother could actually be should something go awry, Number One offered to meet me so he could remove the danger.

Oh yeah--and as I write this, the boys are outside fabricating a "hot tub" (on this 90 degree day) using the garden hose, a 55 gallon drum and stones in a fire pit, the contents of which were ignited using highly flammable chemicals.

(cooking Youngest . . . )

A frat house.

Need I say more?

Sunday, July 8, 2007

But it's the thought that counts, right?

I have a foodie friend who is an amazing cook. For Fathers' Day and her husband's birthday, she gives her hubby the choice of a great steak dinner or great sex. But he can't have both because by the time she's done producing one of her stellar meals, she's drained.

Thursday was a miserable day for my husband. In the aftermath of his back injury, he is unable to return to his job and is on disability for a bit. Sadly for him, his disability insurance requires him to apply for Social Security as well. Thursday was our interview day at the Social Security office.

We sat together with our stack of paperwork and began answering questions about his work history, his level of pay, his injury and surgery dates and the like. While giving the details regarding our number of dependents and their ages, the agent commented that she is accustomed to interviewing retired folks. She had never done a family before. I didn't realize it at that moment, but her phrasing had struck my sweet Mister's heart. Everything he has worked for, all that he thought our lives were going to be has changed and he can't fix it. Something broke inside him.

The agent and I were busy with my portion of the questions when I caught sight of my husband's odd posture out of the corner of my eye. Turning to look at him, I saw that he was holding his head in one hand and his eyes were closed. This was not good.

My husband is never, ever not strong. He's never so upset by a situation that he can't laugh his way through it or at least see the silver lining. Head in his hands with closed eyes? Oh, God. This was tantamount to a full tilt breakdown for him.

I thought of my foodie friend. Squeezing hubby's hand and sending him out for coffee while I finished the interview, I resolved that to help reestablish his equilibrium, I would treat my man to a great steak dinner and great sex. 'Cause red meat and sex possess the power to cure anything, right?

We cleared the rest of the day. I dropped Mister off at home so he and the kids could go out on the boat and enjoy a sunny, summer afternoon together. I went to the grocery store and in no time I had all the makings for a succulent, beefy dinner that would raise my hubby's spirits. Oh--and speaking of spirits, since it has been a pretty crappy year and a half for me too, I dropped by the liquor store.

I frequently joke about a good margarita being my cure-all, but the truth is that I rarely drink. So hubby was a little surprised when he came up off the boat to find me with a blender full of booze in the middle of the afternoon.

My neighbor and I sat on the deck and enjoyed a couple. Then my older son joined us for one. Later--but the details get a little fuzzy at this point--I think my daughter may have talked me into letting her "sample" a little bit too.

Somewhere between the third blender full and waiting for the sun to go down before firing up the BBQ, I laid down on the couch for a quick nap. I tried to open my eyes after about a half an hour, but the couch felt all twirly and I thought maybe I needed to rest a bit more.

By about 11ish, hubby shook me awake to tell me he was going out with his best friend for a bit. I must have asked him if he'd saved me any dinner because I remember the look on his face as he stood over me asking, "Excuse me? You cooked something?"

At three in the morning Mister came to join me in bed. (How did I end up in bed anyway?) He made some sort of advance toward me. I kicked him. Politely, of course.

Let's check the score, shall we?

  • Great steak dinner--not so much.
  • Great sex--ummm . . .
It's true what they say: the road to hell truly is paved with good intentions.

Friday, July 6, 2007

We Request The Honor . . .

Mr. and Mrs. CountryMouse

Cordially invite you to raise your glass in a toast

This 6th day of July, 2007,

As we celebrate that our lovely daughter,



For better or for worse

(yeah--it would always have been worse)

For richer or for poorer

(poorer's a gimme)

In sickness and in health

(not that he ever would have lifted a finger if she were ill)

Until death

(or the first pretty girl to walk by)

Do they part,

Vowing to become

Mrs. Crap-Weasel.

Hell. Yeah.

Bottoms up!