marmite breath slept here

You started out like this, Tom

Naval Hospital, Pozzuoli, Italy, 2002

And in the space of one year, you had grown to look like this and used baby sign language to say "More boob" or "more cake" (whichever!).

And then you were two, and ate blue cake while you shouted, "To affinity and a blonde!"

And when you were three, you were as three as you could be.  The robot madness was beginning.

Four brought Transformers and Robots and Blocks.  Four is what you were all the way up until I woke you up last night at midnight. You opened your eyes and said "Hey". 

 "Happy Birthday Tom," I said.  And then I went to bed too.

Five.  Today.  Woah.  Stop growing so fast. 

This morning, we kept the ritual alive (yes, Aaron, I should stop fobbing my own childhood traditions off on the kids, but they like it).  We got up and immediately opened all the cards and presents.  Is there anything more lovely than sitting in bed, opening cards and finding money and lovely wishes from people?  And waiting for the postman?  And opening presents? And having tea and waffles?    I love seeing their faces--Hadleigh reading the cards out to Tom and trying to tell him what to spend his money on.  I love seeing them get excited when they figure out how much the English money is worth. 

Tom spent a lot of the day on the phone--although speaking to him while he is building with Lego is like pulling teeth, as Dad says.  He had a great party with all his buddies, and afterwards he took my face in his hands and said, "Thanks for preparing that" and I melted and died right there.

It made up for the fact that I came downstairs this morning and thought that a Betsey Johnson-inspired mouse had died on my floor.  Look.  What would you think??

It was some sort of whorish clothing for one of Hadleigh's My Scene dolls.  But I did scream. 

And then an hour later, I had to scream for the old man across the street to come and help me get rid of another mouse.  It was on the trap, and I was about to dry heave everywhere and have a complete and total nervous breakdown.

"Mom, calm down" said Tom.  "It's just a mouse, and it scares me when you scream"

The lovely neighbour man didn't understand my complete and utter TERROR and tried to get me to hold open a carrier bag so that he could drop the mouse into it.  I think he began to get an inkling when I screamed, ran into the bathroom and yelled, "I want you to do it!  I called you over here because I caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan't deal with thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis!!"

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So. Now the party is over, my kids are sleeping happily, the dog is whimpering in his sleep while he lays next to me on the couch.  Aaron is in Lincoln for the night.  He has an exam in the morning.  I have a Mother in Law coming to visit at the end of the week and then a Mum coming to visit the week after.   Life is plodding on, as Grandad Tom used to say.  I miss him.

I should take break from blogging here to get a snack and to take my birth control.  Because this time five years ago, I looked like this*.  And I'll be damned if that's going to happen again.

*But it was worth it.  Check out the prize next to me.

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Toby called tonight.  He used to call when he was on his way home from the pub at stupid o'clock in the morning and ask me to bring him a pack of smokes.

"Um, Tobes, I'm actually in America" I used to say.  And he would laugh and say he forgot.  And then the next weekend I'd get a call saying, "Hi Spesh, I'm just coming home from the pub and it's freezing and I want a curry and also, I'm out of fags"

And I'd be all, "Waaaaaah, Curry!!!! and Waaaaaah Smokes" because I stopped saying fags about five minutes after I moved here.  Because I liked not having my ass kicked.  And I wanted to keep it that way.

Tonight Toby was in Paris and I had to mock him for complaining about his tough life.  In Paris.  Heh!  I miss traveling.

I'm looking at plane tickets to England--they're ridiculously cheap at the minute.  I'm thinking and planning and dreaming.

But I'm still not really writing.  Shit.  Curse you, writer's block!

(I do not, however, have Reader's Block.  This situation has kept me pretty pissed off this week.).  Melissa, if you readt this, I love you and thought you were poised and brilliant on the show.)

I am alive, I promise.  I've had thousands hundreds tens ones of people wondering where I am, and I'm pleased to say that I am not dead and not missing a hand and I haven't frozen to death in this Godforsaken tundra.  There really is a good explanation for why I have not blogged. (It has nothing to do with the fact that I am turning into a sewing nerd)

I have writer's block.  I'm trying to work through it, but it sucks.  I have the words in my head, but they don't translate.  I've even taken to wearing my Quill and Scroll (high school journalism award) around my neck on a necklace for inspiration but nada, zip, zilch.  I got the award eleventy billion years ago and it doesn't mean anything to anybody anymore--except me.  I used to be a writer, you know.  Before the crippling writer's block.

I'm wanting to write about Italy because I miss it.  I know I'm always banging on about how much I miss England and how I hate saying goodbye to people and places all the time, but lately I feel the distance from Naples so keenly.  Perhaps because this time five years ago I was sensitive to feelings, smells, sights, everything.  This time five years ago I was eight days past my due date and feeling like this baby would never come out.  My big ass had to stop driving, which meant no cherished trips into the village at Gricignano to buy fresh fennel or arugula for my salads.  Eh, I wrote about Tom's birth last year, but this year I am feeling the passage of time go by very fast, and it's at once terrifying and amazing.  We have been away from Naples for almost three years.  I have been gone from England for seventeen.  I have been married for ten.  I have known Sarah for twelve.

Sarah is in town this weekend.  We met on an online BBS in 1995 while I was in college in Arkadelphia (one semester! yay me!) and she was in Austin, Texas.  One weekend, she caught a ride up to Arkansas with a friend of mine who was also attending U.T so that she could come and meet me.  We both missed England (she had been stationed there with her family) and both liked the same things.  We were kindred spirits and became eachothers closest ally.  She was my maid of honour at my wedding.  Her parents live in the next town from where I live now.   Over the years, we have drifted in and out of touch, but there is always something there--an understanding that we lived through some intense times, the both of us.  We're still the same at the core.  And now she's here and it was as if no time had passed, except for the constant interruptions from my kids while we were drinking endless cups of tea and eating cake yesterday.  

Now for the gruesome news.

We have mice again.  It makes me freak out to think about it.  The other day, I opened the cupboard and reached down to get the washing up liquid and nearly grabbed a mouse!  I screamed the place down and then the kids and I watched as it played Hide and Seek in the cleaning cupboard.  It is avoiding the traps that I have put down.  Perhaps it knows what happens to mice who try to live here.  Tonight though, the most awful thing--we opened the pantry and there was a small mouse.  Cue to me screaming again (kids laughing at me) and me begging Aaron to please do something about this problem!  So he went and bought some of those sticky traps where the mouse walks on it and then gets stuck.  He put the traps out and after an hour and a half we had caught three mice!  I just about died.  I am getting the shivers thinking about it, seriously!  And the worst part?  They were squeaking pitifully.  My heart broke.  I hate that these poor little things came in out of the bitter cold and tried to find some refuge and a few crumbs and we just trapped them and left them to die.  I hate it.  I also hate that I couldn't stand to hear them squeak so I made Aaron put them in the bin and take it outside.  Oh.  Oh. *much wringing of hands* Poor things.  I did ask him if he could put them out of their misery by perhaps bashing them in the head or shooting them, but he said no.  I read an article about mice coming in the house during the winter and that it is quite common, so none of you had better judge me for having mice.  With these traps though, we won't have them any more.  I am sad and grossed out at the same time.  And squeamish.  And sad, did I mention that?  I don't like cruelty, but I also don't like vermin.

For somebody who has Writer's Block, I certainly am blabbering on.  For real, I'll get my shit together and write a proper blog soon, but I wanted to let you all know that I am okay and haven't frozen to death or been put in jail or anything like that.   But thanks for worrying about me and making me feel loved.  And I have finally caught up on my emails (Elena, I just have yours from last week to respond to--and I will, I promise!). 

On a funny note, I woke up with Pete Wentz hair the other day.  And like a dutiful blogger, I captured it in all its ugly glory.  You're welcome, my poppets.  Never let it be said that I keep my dark side hidden.

Coming soon:  a blog about Italy and how it makes me cry when I think about not being there.  Or, if I can't manage that, a blog about how religious bumper stickers make me laugh.  Example: In case of rapture, this vehicle will be unmanned.   I almost fell out of the van laughing. 

Okay, not the blues, but the blahs.  The snow has caused me to not leave the house in four days and I am craving the conversation of anybody that I'm not related to.  Also, God, the COLD!  This morning when Aaron woke me up, it was actually -11 degrees.  That is NEGATIVE ELEVEN DEGREES!!  Oh my GOD!  That is forty three degrees below freezing! (is that right?  Did I calculate right?)  And we are talking in fahrenheit too, not celcius.  What would that be in celcius? Pretty frigging cold.  Ugh.  I hate cold.  I can't keep my hands and feet warm.  Thank God for tea, coffee, and soup.

Do I look bothered?  Because I am!

In other news, my Dad (You know him as Titch from my comments) started a blog, so why don't you pop over and see what he has to say.  He's led a very interesting life and done a lot of cool stuff, so I hope you'll enjoy reading his thoughts.  He's quite wise, actually.  Wish he'd have been that way when I was a teenager.  Okay, maybe he was.

I'm taking the week off from blogging to get caught up with my emails.  I've not been very good about keeping in touch with people lately, and I don't want to be that person.  I usually get really upset when people don't write or call back, so I need to get on it.  I haven't even done Thank You cards with the kids from CHRISTMAS!  Do you see how behind I am?  To all my friends and relations who think I am a shitbag, please bear with me.  Toby, I am sorry I said you were dead to me just because you didn't keep in touch with me for a while.  I love you, really.  But don't do it again, or for real, you're dead to me.  I know it's stupid, but I've been so pissed with people for not getting in touch, and the thing is, they don't even realize they've done anything wrong.  So, yeah, anyway, I don't want to be that person and am dedicating the week to writing long letters and emails to the people I love.

And now, the sleepiness is taking over, so I must get some espresso.  I'll be back next week.  Have a good one, and stay warm!!

I haven't weighed myself.  I have had a particularly self destructive week in terms of food.  Today I'm back on track.  It hasn't helped that the Weight Watchers website is not letting me use the Point Tracker without messing up, but I will not give up.  I wish I didn't love food, but I do.

If you always do what you always did, you always get what you always got.  I don't know who said that (I'm sure a quick Google search would help me, but I'm too lazy).

Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.  I said this to myself as I threw away the Nigella espresso cupcakes and rum frosting this morning.  I have to think about how good it felt to step on the scale every week and have lost two pounds.  I want that feeling again. 

I need to save my need to be creative for once in a while (baking wise).  I can't create cakes, muffins and biscuits every day and expect to lose weight.  The kids eat some of it, but I end up eating the rest.  There's a sample slice of banana bread here and a couple of scones there, and a slice of cake just to test it and then I end up screaming at myself on weigh-in day.

So, back to the grind.  Again.  No matter how many times it takes.  My Mum says I can do anything I put my mind to.  I'm not sure I believe her, but I'm going to try.

Expect a weigh-in report next friday.

Just to let you know it is National Delurking Week.  No pressure though, people.  I already hosted my own delurking back in September, but if anybody is reading that hasn't commented, now would be a good time to let me know who you are!  Thank you for reading me.

It's cold tonight.  The dog is whiny.  The kids were happy tonight, but wild.  Hadleigh had a friend over after school.  They had a tea party and introduced the friend to the concept of milk in tea.  Then they all drank about 6 cups each and spent the next hour taking it in turns to go to the toilet.  Had's friend said she really liked the tea though!  Tom claims to be "in love" with this girl.  It's funny that he seems so much older at almost five than Hadleigh did at that age.  I guess she influences him a lot. 

We ate Shepherd's Pie and roasted parsnips.  Okay, I made the roasted parsnips, but they didn't make it to the table.  The kids hated them, so I ate them all before Aaron got home.  Sorry, Az.

I know I should say the best part of my day was being with my husband and kids, but remember, it is Thursday, so after the kids went to bed, we kept our marriage alive and kicking.  Yep, we watched The Office and Scrubs!  Dare I say that Must See TV is making a comeback?  How I love those two shows.  Love.  Absolute true love.

Hadleigh had her second piano lesson tonight.  She is enjoying it and is promising to teach me what she is learning.  She got her report card.  She can't wait to call her Aunt Angel and brag about it.  Aunt Angel pays cold hard cash for good grades.  Hadleigh said, "I let her off last semester, but I'm calling her tomorrow!"   We also got the results of a standardized test that she took and she did very well indeed.  I won't brag too much, but we have one smart kid!  She is still in love with Mistur Bad Speler but I'm hoping that he will use the greengrocers' apostrophe one time too many and she'll dump him.  Tomorrow is the start of Girl Scout Cookie sales.  Yeah!  We are trying to raise money for the troop.  We're going to have an overnight at the lasertag place like last year and the girls can go for free if they meet their goals.  Only, I'm hoping that this year no girl throws up on their neighbour's pillow in the middle of the night, because I don't do well with that sort of thing, and I'm the leader, so I know they'd all be looking at me to fix things and I would already be in the van on the way home.

Tom got a little Lego set at Target today and put it together with hardly any help.  He is pretty damn talented with the Lego, let me tell you. Those pieces are tiny, but he's meticulous and dedicated.  Unlike me who storms off after not being able to put it together.  Patience, that's something about Tom.  And he wore the glasses for most of the day, too.  Would you like to see how he looked?  He is insistent that he is Harry Potter.  I heard him tell Jacob that he had been trying to defeat Voldemort all morning.  I about died laughing.  Oh, and he got a sad face from preschool last week.  But we're totally over it.  All a big misunderstanding.  Won't happen again.  Blah blah.  Mum, have you got over the shock yet that Mr Butter Wouldn't Melt in my Mouth got a time out?

Tomorrow I'm going to give the Kitchenaid and the oven a rest.  I've baked and eaten all week.  I'm not mentioning my weight or the fact that I am paying Weight Watchers Online for nothing right now.  In fact, pretend you did not just read that. 

The nights are long here.  I love it.  They have gone by so quickly this week, but I do love the lazy winter evenings.  Except when the kids are being needy and I just want them to go to sleep already and stop talking to me!!!  When they both talk to me at once, that's when it's tough.  But man, even when they're bugging the shit out of me, they're melting me.  I love them.  They're the best.  I thought I talked about taking them to the Lincoln Children's Museum this weekend, but I guess I didn't.  Pictures are on Flickr.  Anyway, it was brilliant.  Wish we lived closer to it.

I'm off to bed.  The guest bed, that is.  I took the sheets off on Tuesday.  The kids sheets are washed and put back on.  Our sheets are washed, dried and are sitting in a pile on our bed.  I must put them back on tomorrow.   

(PS) Bought a new shirt and new bra.  Az and the kids said the shirt was cool and told me not to take it back.  It's quite a departure for me.  One word.  Boobalicious.  That's all I'm sayin'.  And I looked at some heels.  Small steps.  Small steps.  It's like Miss Havisham trying to morph into Halle Berry.  Gonna take a long time. 

(Note: I am too tired to find all my errors in spelling and punctuation.  Please forgive me.  I keep finding mistakes but I am giving up on caring). 

Mum called me last night and said, "I read your blog and I still don't know what a Milf is.  I typed the word Milf into my search engine and it wanted to take me to a bunch of filthy websites! What does it mean?" 

So I had to tell her.  And I've got to tell you, it was my proudest moment as a daughter.

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Go and read this:  It is the story of how I discovered a blogger through the comments section of another blogger who was introduced to me by my friend (and fellow blogger) from real life, who, when we were teenagers, we used to drive up and down the same street that the new blogger lives on!!  And have I mentioned that I am practically related to the new blogger??  Because that is the damn cool part!  Seriously, go and read it!!  She explains it better than I could! 

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Just when you thought I couldn't get any more ridiculous, there's yet more focus on why I am not a sexpot and am boring and have no taste in shoes.  I read all your comments about them (my Dad called me a muggle and my Mum admitted to hating the shoes) and put them (the shoes, not the comments, durr) at the top of the closet in a time-out.  They're headed to the shop for the less fortunate, that's for sure.  Or are the less fortunate just about to become more less fortunate if I do that??

Anyway.  While I was in the closet (shut up, twelve year olds) lamenting my lack of style and wondering why I am so unpopular, I realized that for a girl who spent her teenage years being asked "Are you that girl from Blossom?" I have very little "flair."  I don't wear hats as often as I used to.  I no longer wear "fun" things.  Aaron claims that I have a serious aversion to wearing shirts that show cleavage.  Uh, that is because I am now an A cup since breastfeeding for a hundred years.

Oh, hold on.  Sorry, there's somebody at the door. 

Okay, I'm back.  It was the T.M.I police.  Apparently, you should not tell the world your cup size.  It's bad form.  Whatever.  I got a warning.  But if I even think about talking about ovulation, they said they'll be back with a warrant.

So I may not have discovered a cure for cancer, but I think I've gotten to the root of my clothes issues.  And I didn't even need Clinton/Stacy/Trinny/Susannah to tell me. 

Here it is.

I'm dull as dishwater and need to buy some push up bras, silky underwear and interesting shirts and skirts that show off my legs.  I also need some new shoes. 

(I bought a pair of shoes this summer and I have not worn them, but I do love them.  I just have the fear that I don't have what it takes to wear them.  And plus, they could be ugly, because it's obvious that I have no idea what looks good).  And plus, I still have (and occasionally wear) a skirt that I have had longer than I have been with Aaron.  That's ten years.  In the words of Hugh Grant in every Hugh Grant movie, "Bugger, Bugger, Bugger!"

Here's the thing.  I buy t-shirts and grab two or three (or five) that are all the same, but I just get different colours.  And they are usually hideous colours, because while I'm buying two or three (or five) of the same frigging t-shirt, I'm thinking to myself, "I should branch out!  I should buy a colour that I wouldn't normally wear!".

And that is why stuff like this happens.  Yes.  There are five of them.  Oh, I'm embarrassed!  How many Old Navy t-shirts can a girl have?

And it wasn't a one time thing.  Oh no.  That would be forgivable.  This is silly.  And so is this.  And sadly, this is too.  And if you look at this, you'll see another problem.  Grease stains and bleach.  I have a cool apron from Grandad Tom, but I always forget to wear it.  I'll try from now on.

Did you think the madness was limited to excruciatingly boring t-shirts?  Au contraire, my lovely readers.  There is stupidity in the capris section and the skirt section.

I do have some shirts that are not completely plain.  There are shirts for when I want to proclaim who I am.  And shirts that I wear in the summer that are somewhat cute and patterny and are at least not plain, no matter what else you might say about them!.  And I do own two turtlenecks that are wildly different.  Except that they're both stripey, so maybe not so much with the different.  I didn't bother taking pictures of my jeans because I have four pairs and they are all size four short, low rise flares.  Boring, boring, utterly boring.  But no, Carls, they are not Mom Jeans.

It's very sobering, I'll have you know.  I didn't take a picture of my burgundy cardie, because it's sacred.  But Carly wants me to burn it.  She says I dress like an old lady.  That is easy for her to say.  She is gorgeous and has a huge rack.  She is also bubbly and outgoing, and we have a joke amongst ourselves that she is the one who is confident with her shoulders back, boobs sticking out, walking into a room and talking to everybody, whereas I am the one who shuffles into a room with her head down and is carrying a tray of scones.  And Rhonda is the bitchy one.  But as Rhonda doesn't read this blog, I can say that.  Unless you are reading, Rhon, and then that previous sentence was a typo.  I meant sensitive.

This week, I am going to buy some new clothes.  I am going to hold my shoulders back.  I am going to be proud of who I am and what I do.  I used to have pink hair!  I used to be wild!  What happened to me?  I'll find out and let you know.  I will also start shopping remembering the acronym WWCD.  What Would Carly Do? 

In other (non-clothing related) news, it's a new semester here at Chez Marmite Breath.  Aaron made the Dean's List again last semester but this one is looking rough.  He has calculus and physics among other classes.  YIKES!  Wish him luck if you see him around here (which you won't because he is going to be studying 24/7). He still has time though, (bless him) to dance with me in the kitchen to Rufus Wainwright songs and humours me when I sing The Weepies' song, Take It From Me to him.  That's love, guvnor!  But still, Aaron, if you take the last Pocket Coffee, you die.

The kids are fine and will feature heavily in a later post called, "Why My Kids Were Beaten For Leaving Fifty Billion Bits of Paper and Legos EveryBleepingWhere."

I expect it to be one of my most popular posts. 

Just like all the emails I have in my inbox (which, by the way, don't mean I'm popular, because they're like three months old) I also have some memes that I have been tagged with, and I keep saying I'm going to do them, but I always think of something else I need to say here first.

Lotta's got a future Milf group going on.  It's a weight loss group for women to inspire eachother and cheer eachother on.  There has been some discussion of the word Milf.  (Mum and Dad, please stop reading here).  Like I told Aaron, I think the world Milf is hilarious, but I don't necessarily think of what it stands for.  To me, it just means "hot mom" or "yummy mummy" and it never twigs with me that it might be offensive or whatever.  If you know what it stands for, then you've seen American Pie.  If you've seen American Pie, then I know you are not offended easily.  I belong to the future Milf group not because I want to be seen as sexy (even the thought makes me laugh) but because I think it's hilarious and the way to inspire me is to make me laugh.  (Also, we know I am not sexy, because, oh, Jesus, the shoes).

I didn't think I was fat until I was in the tenth grade.  I was sixteen.  My best friend was a twig.  I weighed 115lbs.  News flash to my teenage self: That is not fat!!!  The twig always went on about "fat girls" and stuff like that.  I wish I had told her to shut up.  I also wish I was still punching her.  There are many reasons why.

I gained a little weight in 1996 (thank you, weed).  I was at my heaviest when I got pregnant with Had in early 1997.  I was 127lbs.   I was enormous when I gave birth to her (183lbs), but I didn't diet after she was born.  I lived my life, and it took about 18 months to get back to 127lbs.  I did not want to stay that weight, but I didn't know how to diet.  I couldn't exercise properly (so I thought) because I had a small child.  I was so miserable about so many other aspects of my life that I didn't really care enough to lose weight.  I had crippling self esteem problems and weight was just the icing on the cake.

When Hadleigh was three, I moved in with the inlaws for a few months.  Aaron was in Chicago doing training.  I ate a LOT.  Not a reflection on them or anything, I made the decision to eat for comfort.  Nevertheless, when Aaron came home, I was 135lbs.  I immediately became pregnant with Tom.  Again, I was a hoss when I delivered him (hello! I was pregnant in Italy with gelato and pasta!).  I knew I was not meant to be fat.  I knew that I was going to get off the pregnancy weight, so when Tom was three months old, I joined Weight Watchers Online, and between that and breastfeeding, the weight fell off very very easily.  By the time Tom was eleven months old, I weighed 112lbs.  It was the first time in my life that I had ever "watched what I ate".  I did not call it a diet, because it really was (cliche alert) a lifestyle change.  I was so happy that it was working, and my confidence skyrocketed.  I took lots of progress pictures.  I felt amazing!  Seriously, it was like a drug.

In 2003, I fluctuated between 108 and 115lbs.  I couldn't seem to stay at the same weight for long.  I was no longer worried about my weight, and I learned to recognize when I was eating for comfort or boredom.  I was still doing Weight Watchers, but was just interested in maintaining my weight, not losing.

Since the summer of 2004 when I weighed 113lbs, I have only done WW sporadically.  I felt that I could do it on my own.  Well, I can't.  I like control.  I like order.  I function well with points and budgets, much like Jessica from Oh, The Joys.  It's fun for me to see how much food I can squeeze out of 19 points for the day.   I signed up for WW online again this week.  Not having much success because I am a baking fool.  But I know I can do it.  I've done it before.

I also need to get back to the gym.  I was doing so well before Christmas and I lost eight pounds just like that, from watching what I ate and going to the gym every day.  Well, now I weigh 123 again (thank you, cake with fresh cream for breakfast), and while I know there are people who will yell at me and say, "That isn't fat!" or "Shut up!" I have to tell you that my clothes are meant to fit a person who weighs between 115 and say, 120.  Any more than that, and I can't breathe well in my clothes.  What are my options here?  Buy clothes in a new size?  Or get back down to where I feel the most comfortable?  I am 4'11", people.  I want to weigh 115.  That's my goal.  So I have eight pounds to go. 

I do not claim to be obese.  I do not claim that I am sooooooooo fat.  I know I'm not.  But I'm heavier than I want to be, and I am definitely not as healthy as I want to be.  Even at 108lbs, I would not wear a bikini.  My feelings about my body change all the time.  I wish I was curvy, I wish I was big boobied, I wish my "Christmas ass" (the padding from Christmas) was voluptuous and attractive instead of looking like a table.  I'm none of those things. 

Neither do I want to look like a child.  I am not elfin.  I am not a pixie.  While you might call me petite, you could never call me tiny.  I am very, very short.  When I gain weight, I don't look good.  That's my opinion.  It's not giving in to the idea that women should be thin.  I don't care about thin, per se.  I care about fitting into my clothes.  I don't care how much you weigh if you're happy.  Nor do I think that you are disgusting if you're overweight.  I have had some people say to me before, "If you thought you were ugly at 135lbs, what do you think of ME!?"  My answer is that I think everyone is different.  I only know what I feel about me.  I don't know what you feel about you.  If I know you well enough to discuss weight with you, I probably love you.  If I love you, and you love me, why do we give a fuck about how much we weigh?  Why aren't we drinking wine and discussing Zach Braff?

Last year, I remember distinctly that I weighed 117lbs when I went to England, and when I came back, I couldn't fit into my clothes.  I had to unbutton my jeans on the plane home.  That should be proof that I eat for comfort.  I was home for my Grandad's death.

So, here I am.  Not obese, not tiny.  A few pounds overweight.  Eight pounds.  I know I can do it.  I want to have a healthier lifestyle.  I want to fit nicely into my clothes.  I don't want to give up and buy bigger sizes.  I'm just me, plodding along, trying to count points and get in shape.

Yummy Mummy or Milf, I don't care.  I would love it if people said, "Wow! She looks great for having two kids!" or "Wow! She has certainly not let being a SAHM go to her ass!" but is it my number one goal in life to have other people's opinions of me be good??  No.  I am working on that every day. 

So.  I must know.  Are the shoes ugly??  You must tell me! Unless it inconveniences you, of course.

They look really nice with a pair of boot cut jeans.  I promise!

I am over it anyway.  I'm keeping them.  Unless, of course, I need to get rid of them.  Oh GOD!  Enough with the indecision, Nat! 

Fine.  They stay.  I like them. 

Unless you don't. 

Just remember that they have sentimental value and also come in handy on Halloween.  And since when do I give a shit what my sister thinks, anyway?  Right?

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A few superficial-type things that have made me happy recently.

I got a Kitchenaid mixer for Christmas. I took a picture of it instead of watching people open their presents. It is very happy in its new home on my countertops.  It has already made a Madeira cake and a Weight Watchers Carrot Cake.  Yes, I'm back on Weight Watchers.  GRRR.  Please, nobody tell me that I don't need to lose weight or I will scream.

Mum found some awesome dishes for me at a garage sale.  They're a set of six smaller dishes with a huge one to serve out of.  LOVE THEM!!  They are covered in olives, a food which I have hated all my life and in the last few months have been inexplicably in love with.  Not with pimientos though--ugh.  Just pitted or unpitted, but not stuffed. 

I love that she knew that I would love them.

Oh, and blabber much, Nat??

Mum also gave me her cast-iron skillet.  I've always wanted one.  It should come in useful to throw at Az when he forgets my birthday.

Speaking of Az.........

The Sexy Carpenter himself and I were wandering around Bed, Bath and Beyond and Lowe's this morning, just admiring all the stuff.  We saw some cool things and got good ideas for what we wanted.  One of the things that I liked was the knife storage tray that goes into a drawer.  So my husband came home, measured up my knives and kitchen scissors, and made one for me complete with space at the front of the drawer for my extra stuff!  Isn't he awesome??  And cute too!

My MIL got a new sewing table to go with her GORGEOUS new house, so I got the old sewing table.  I am in absolute heaven.  This means I can have the serger, the embroidery machine and the sewing machine set up at the same time!  And I got to bring home her old sewing machine which is new to me and more importantly is INCREDIBLE.  She is getting the new top-of-the-line.  I guess working for the company has its perks!!  I'm really pleased with how the sewing area is coming together.  Now if I could just get brave enough to try some big projects.......................

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I have 257 emails in my inbox.  I'm gonna get right on that!  If you haven't heard from me lately (and even care) please know that I am working slowly towards responding to everything.  In case you didn't get the memo, I leave things till the last minute.  (Missy, I loved your email from before Christmas.  I promise, I will write back!)

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Hesitant to mention this, but feel I should, really, because I can't keep it in anymore.  Quick recap first though.  Remember NaBloPoMo?  With the endless look at my life?  With the Uh, That Might Be Too Much Information for a Public Blog and the Is A Grown Woman Really Admitting To Having Crushes On Celebrities? type of posts.  (Looking back through the month though, I think it really captures a good slice of my life).

Where was I?  Oh, yes, with the celebrity crush thingy.  Remember my numbers eight, nine and ten?  Go look.  Because now you will understand why I squealed a couple of weeks ago when I got an email from Deanna telling me that Paul Rudd is coming to Omaha to do a movie with Deanna's husband.  I, of course, had to call her at 7:30 in the morning to scream like a Beatlemaniac confirm that I had read the email correctly.  I read it before coffee, so I thought it said Paul McCartney and Wynonna Judd.  I was very confused until I woke up properly.  "Is it true?" I asked her.

"Yep, Merry Christmas" she said, grinning down the phone. 

Winona Ryder will be here too (Hadleigh wants to meet her.  She was Jo in Little Women, for crying out loud!!) and I'm just in pieces over the whole thing.  Of course I want to meet them (and make babies with one of them) but how can I do it without being sick all over their shoes.  I know you've heard all about how I met Dave Foley, but did I tell you about when I met Matthew Sweet? Of course not, because it happened fifty seven years ago before I had a blog (okay, it was 1995). I had the most intense crush on him, and we got to go meet him on his tour bus after we were AT THE VERY FRONT OF THE STAGE at the New Daisy in Memphis.  I swear, I almost died when I got to hug him.  Again, so wishing I had a scanner right now.  Anyway, nervous about the whole thing, and mostly nervous that (a) it will not happen and (b) I will chicken out because I am the furthest thing from cool, and I think cool is something you have to be with people.  Especially people who have worked with someone who works with Zach Braff and who is also on my list!

On a more positive note, I can't think of anything else to say, so you're spared reading any more total rubbish.  And Aaron and his hot legs are going to bed.  I'd better follow.

Full disclosure:  I am drinking and drunk.  I am listening to Lily Allen and The Killers and am in a thoughtful mood.  Wish I was at a Karaoke bar though! 

I have these shoes.  I love them.  They're black and have a wedge heel.  They have a squared toe.

I bought them in 1999 when we lived in Jacksonville, Florida and we were newly far away from everyone and everything.  Aaron went to the Christmas party on the ship, and I stayed at home because we didn't know anybody well enough to babysit for us.  When he came home, he told me that he had won $1500.00 worth of gift certificates to the local mall. 

We went insane.  I bought underwear from Victoria's Secret.  I bought a bread machine (I still use it weekly).  I bought shoes.  We bought a video camera.  I wish I could remember what Aaron had bought.  I'm sure he liked whatever it was.  I remember he bought Hadleigh some Mr Men books.

I still have the shoes, and I wear them all the time.  I've looked after them, and to be honest, I think of them as some of my better shoes.

Going home this Christmas, Rhon laughed hysterically at them and said she couldn't believe that I was wearing them in public.  She told me that she and Carly had often laughed at my fashion sense and that I needed to get some new shoes.

That, to me, summed up Christmas with families.  T

Things are always snapped cruelly into focus, and things that you believed to be true are exposed as a lie.  Things that you thought you could live with, turns out you can't.   Things that you vowed to face up to are somehow melted into a pile of I don't give a shit and you find moments of tragedy and moments of pure happiness.  I wouldn't trade it.  These shoes that I've loved for seven friggin' years have been exposed as unfashionable.   I know.  Tragic, ain't it?

I had planned a long blog, one full of interesting stories.  I saved them while I was living them, but then I had to give up.   It's too complicated to try and think what you'll blog about while you're actually trying to live the life, you know?  A lot of things happened this Christmas, and they're all saved up with me and I keep them with me. 

I am crooning at the computer.  I should be telling you about the magic and the meltdowns, but it's all done.  I'm a big fat wino, and tomorrow I start back on Weight Watchers.  I've gained six pounds since I went home.  I know, I know, who gives a damn, right?  Well, I do.

But it's the msot fun to sing along to the computer and blog!  I wish you were all here.   The stories lived.  They just lived in the moment.  The kids loved it all, the families were families.  How many times did I think to myself, "I must remember this! I must write about this!" and then not write about it?  A lot, I suppose. 

Now I miss everybody, and crying about this new year and all my goals is silly, and durnk blogging is even sillier.  I missed reading all my blogs, even though I had the PDA and the laptop.  It's not the same, is it?  

Here's to a new year full of insighful blogs.  Blogs that I would be proud to show to my grandchildren.  But not this one, because DAMN! I am totally toasted!

Happy NBew Year!