Wordless Wednesday ~ Partners In Crime

Prostitutes and Therapists

Some of you; ok all of you are probably wondering how I even connected these two professions.  Believe  me, understanding my thought processes is something hubs struggles with everyday.  As they say, "better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool  than open it and prove it"; I too will not go into detail on my madness.

Here is my proposal: If prostitution is illegal; shouldn't therapy be banned as well?  Better yet, just leave the prostitutes alone.

Think about it.

• We pay both professionals to listen to us talk when they are probably thinking about their grocery list.


• I imagine that each client takes a little bit of a soul every time the door closes; then on to the next "John".


• Discretion is of the upmost importance in both industries; you want to gain the trust of your clientele for repeat visits.


• We pay them to make us feel better about ourselves and the decisions we make .


• The best of each bunch share their drugs with us.


• Those that have excelled in their trade; whether through training or education even get paid more for less time.

It's genius isn't it?  Maybe madness?

Seperation Anxiety

In the twelve years hubs and I have been together, we have spent a number of nights apart that I could count on my hands. In the twelve years hubs and I have been together, we have only had separate careers for all of a year, maybe two. Most responses I get from others hearing this for the first time is something like “wow, you must really like each other” or “I could never tolerate my spouse that much”. We will both readily admit that hubs has the patience of Job and should be sainted for dealing with my antics, so he is really the one credited with our success all this time.

Like many couples, hubs and I met at work. However, after that organization moved us around the country together for a couple of years, we started a business together. Now it just feels odd to get up and do separate projects. We have a good rhythm to our routine; he has his strengths, as do I, and they fortunately compliment each other’s weaknesses. We are a good team.

It is really odd when you temporarily lose your right hand. The left hand tries to pick up the slack but can never fully complete the task. The man has a semi-annual fishing trip with his family friends at The White River. The trip is so good for him. He bonds with his man people; doesn’t shave for days, smoke cigars, plays cards, and occasionally gets a line wet. He comes back better than when he left; with his axe sharpened. He tells me bits and pieces of stories that he feels are acceptable for my “virgin” ears and he counts the days until the next trip.

This year he threw in an extra special trip to Canada with one of his brothers and his step dad. He was gone A WHOLE WEEK. I was a little worried (read: freaking out) when I heard how long he would be absent from our daily routine. My saving grace was the fact that the boys do go to preschool a couple of days a week. I knew I would be able to get some things done, or stare off into space like a zombie while they were gone. In preparation for his departure, I cleaned the place like my mother was coming to visit, freeze some easy to reheat meals and plan lots of activities to keep us busy and make the time fly.

Funny thing happened that week though; it wasn’t bad. Sure, I missed him; and so did the boys. Much to hub’s dismay we only had one night of dramatic “I miss Daddy” theatrics; and frankly that was because they were in trouble and think Daddy will save them from Nazi Mommy. Things ran as they normally would, some days even better (don’t tell Brad). I was even able to do some things I normally wouldn’t be able to do with Brad around. Most of you that know us might ask “what on earth does he not let you do”? First thing I did was go to the store and stock up on wine; then I came home and rearranged the furniture and finally….wait for it….it is s a biggie. I let the boys play with the shaving crème in the bath tub! As far as the three of us were concerned, the week was a success.

Fast forward to my girls trip to Florida this week. I too, will be gone A WHOLE WEEK. My already high anxiety level has now doubled. I know I will have a blast in Florida even though I am missing all my friends at Blogher. I also know that I cannot wait to start counting waves while catching up on my vitamin D therapy and my stack of books. I am, however, a little worried about what I am going to come back to when I get home. I know hubs is completely capable of caring for himself and the boys and the house, but have some issues with how effective they will be trying to do all of it at the same time.

The whole idea of these trips got me thinking about that saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder”. Although it is the case when I am apart from Brad, it is not always true with other scenarios. Does absence truly make our hearts fonder, or does the separation just give us the opportunity to learn that we are just in a situation of convenience. I suppose that is where the saying “out of sight out of mind” originated. When I presented this idea to hubs he laughed and asked, “are you worried I will learn to like to live without you while you are gone?”. Once my nervous laughter was over, I reminded him that he may be able to do so, but he doesn’t want to.

What do you think? Is it the subject matter (people, place, or thing) for which you long, or is it the fact that you just are away from it? From what have you recently been separated and what was it like when you reunited; was it what you expected?

My Husband Lies & Other Reasons Our Relationship Works

My relationship with hubs has been based on lies from the very beginning.

After high school I moved from Kansas City to Springfield to go to what is formerly known as SW MO State. I spent about a year in 417 land and then moved back to my birth state of North Carolina. I worked and played in the Tar Heel state for about a year and moved to Connecticut with some friends. Still young and free I was able to go where the wind blew. Things did not feel right in Connecticut so I packed up and moved back to KC on the advice of my sister. Sis informed me of this fabulous new job she had for a great computer company with a marketing theme based on a cow and a box.

I began working for the cow computer company after attending an eight week training program. Consider it a crash course in computers before the Internet was readily available and the hottest selling item was a 166 with 16MB; we called it "The Happy Meal" as it was packaged with a 15" monitor and ink jet printer for just $1,599.00.

During the eight week boot camp, we eat, sleep and breath cows and computers. The class spends all day together and then socializes at night together. There was a great mix of people from all walks of life. We enjoyed our time together but I enjoyed one particular class mate more than others. I was smitten with hubs the minute I saw him; he was charming and funny and knew more about my home town than I did, which intrigued me since he had only been there a couple of years. I was later told by a fellow trainee that the attraction was mutual; at one point hubs told the guy that he would "drink her bath water”. I was guessing that was a good thing. The strange thing was, although we all knew each others names, we did not use them, we used what I will call "stage names". Kind of like strippers, but with clothes and less money or attention. The first thing they do is change our names. We would be working in a call center setting so you can imagine how many folks have the same name: I don't want my commission going to someone else. We are told to pick three names that we like and the one that is available will be our new identity. Our new name will even go on our name badge. My new identity would be Kendall and hubs was known as Gannon.

As our training came to an end , hubs mentioned to me he was having a celebration cookout at his house in honor of our graduation. He drew a map for me and gave me his number. I was a little nervous and decided to dress like I didn't care. I wore my black boots, jeans, white button down, and my Yankees ball cap.

When I pulled up to the house as indicated on the map, I was certain I had read the directions wrong. There were no cars in the drive and no one in sight. I rang the bell to be sure. Hubs answered the door. I walked in to his Westport home to hear David and David on the stereo and no grill in sight. The only thing in the fridge was my brand of beer, some ketchup, and some relish. So much for a cookout. After a few beers and dancing around the inevitable, he looked at his watch and said "I guess it's just me and you tonight". (Maybe because he did not invite anyone else).

We never made it to dinner but filled up on drinks and dancing. Before I knew it he had taken over my spare closet and had stolen my spare key. I was able to forgive him for all the deception the night he played a song for me he had written about our first date (what woman wouldn’t love a song written about them….good or bad). To fully understand the context of the lyrics you need to know that at the beginning of the training class we were both living with our “significant” others. We were both living alone by the end of the training period.

It was an ugly situation, I finally realized one day
I hadn’t been happy in oh so long;
It was time to make a change

So I turned one in and I put her in the past
Trade her ass in on a love that would last

Well I did what I did, if when I did it was wrong,
I can tell you I don’t want to be right

The first time that I saw you, I knew what I had to do
I had to tear down fences and burn down bridges if I was ever gonna be with you

So we went to the Beamont on a Saturday night,
Got real drunk and we did it all night

Well we did what we did, if when we did it was wrong,
I can tell you I don’t want to be right

The moral, if any: Sometimes lies aren't all that bad.

My Husband Lies & Other Reasons Our Relationship Works

My relationship with hubs has been based on lies from the very beginning.

After high school I moved from Kansas City to Springfield to go to what is formerly known as SW MO State. I spent about a year in 417 land and then moved back to my birth state of North Carolina. I worked and played in the Tar Heel state for about a year and moved to Connecticut with some friends. Still young and free I was able to go where the wind blew. Things did not feel right in Connecticut so I packed up and moved back to KC on the advice of my sister. Sis informed me of this fabulous new job she had for a great computer company with a marketing theme based on a cow and a box.

I began working for the cow computer company after attending an eight week training program. Consider it a crash course in computers before the Internet was readily available and the hottest selling item was a 166 with 16MB; we called it "The Happy Meal" as it was packaged with a 15" monitor and ink jet printer for just $1,599.00.

During the eight week boot camp, we eat, sleep and breath cows and computers. The class spends all day together and then socializes at night together. There was a great mix of people from all walks of life. We enjoyed our time together but I enjoyed one particular class mate more than others. I was smitten with hubs the minute I saw him; he was charming and funny and knew more about my home town than I did, which intrigued me since he had only been there a couple of years. I was later told by a fellow trainee that the attraction was mutual; at one point hubs told the guy that he would "drink her bath water”. I was guessing that was a good thing. The strange thing was, although we all knew each others names, we did not use them, we used what I will call "stage names". Kind of like strippers, but with clothes and less money or attention. The first thing they do is change our names. We would be working in a call center setting so you can imagine how many folks have the same name: I don't want my commission going to someone else. We are told to pick three names that we like and the one that is available will be our new identity. Our new name will even go on our name badge. My new identity would be Kendall and hubs was known as Gannon.

As our training came to an end , hubs mentioned to me he was having a celebration cookout at his house in honor of our graduation. He drew a map for me and gave me his number. I was a little nervous and decided to dress like I didn't care. I wore my black boots, jeans, white button down, and my Yankees ball cap.

When I pulled up to the house as indicated on the map, I was certain I had read the directions wrong. There were no cars in the drive and no one in sight. I rang the bell to be sure. Hubs answered the door. I walked in to his Westport home to hear David and David on the stereo and no grill in sight. The only thing in the fridge was my brand of beer, some ketchup, and some relish. So much for a cookout. After a few beers and dancing around the inevitable, he looked at his watch and said "I guess it's just me and you tonight". (Maybe because he did not invite anyone else).

We never made it to dinner but filled up on drinks and dancing. Before I knew it he had taken over my spare closet and had stolen my spare key. I was able to forgive him for all the deception the night he played a song for me he had written about our first date (what woman wouldn’t love a song written about them….good or bad). To fully understand the context of the lyrics you need to know that at the beginning of the training class we were both living with our “significant” others. We were both living alone by the end of the training period.

It was an ugly situation, I finally realized one day
I hadn’t been happy in oh so long;
It was time to make a change

So I turned one in and I put her in the past
Trade her ass in on a love that would last

Well I did what I did, if when I did it was wrong,
I can tell you I don’t want to be right

The first time that I saw you, I knew what I had to do
I had to tear down fences and burn down bridges if I was ever gonna be with you

So we went to the Beamont on a Saturday night,
Got real drunk and we did it all night

Well we did what we did, if when we did it was wrong,
I can tell you I don’t want to be right

The moral, if any: Sometimes lies aren't all that bad.

Confessions of a Naughty Mommy

Prior to my current role as Mom I was many things. I have been a corporate career woman, student, and wanna be rock star. I had my share of boyfriends; after all, you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince. I did things I probably won't tell my boys about; and certainly wouldn't tell daughters if I had them. If my boys bring home a girl like me I may have to keep a close eye on her. I spent many late nights, and some mornings with friend and foe alike, searching for something more. Prior to being a wife and mother there was an excitement or thrill from "that life". Your decisions only affect you. No responsibilities. Nothing to hold you to one spot. Men chase you. You play along. Now I play new games. Go fish. The "eat your dinner" game. Brush your teeth. Get in the car. Go to sleep. Your turn to get up.

Hubs and I were at the mall with the boys this weekend while it was raining. As we walked and talked I asked him if he thought I dressed my age. The question popped in my head as I watched many people that I thought did not, in fact, dress their age. You know the type; sixty years old, with a see-through gauze top on and bra underneath. How about the pre-teen with inappropriately short shorts and a barely there top.

Hub's response was that he thought I dressed older than my age. Spending the last ten years working for myself from home you will typically find me in a t-shirt and jeans or shorts, depending on the weather. Since my move back to Missouri from Florida I still don't have many closed toed shoes so I am usually in flip flops. Hubs asked where all my cute skirts went. He asked where all my high heels went. I guess I still have them but they are tucked back in the closet collecting dust. These items just don't seem conducive to digging in the rock box and looking for worms.

What else is tucked back in the closet collecting dust? What other parts of us as moms, or dads for that matter, are not seeing the light of day? I am not the same woman I was before I met Hubs, thank God. I may have thought I didn't want to get married and have kids at one point in my life but that was before I met him. All three of my "boys" make me strive to be a better person each day.

In my constant pursuit of balance, this conversation at the mall reminded me to clean out the closet every now and then, in more ways than one. It is ok for us to go to out, maybe drink a  little too much and come home and do things like we did before we were married and our names were mommy or daddy. It is ok for us to get a little crazy and "use" the family bathroom together at the Southwest Florida Airport.

Hubs is not a talker; meaning he does not talk openly about things like this.  I, on the other hand, talk pretty freely about just about anything and everything.  I believe we all think about these things, but not all of us are comfortable admitting it.  With that in mind, there is room for everyone here.  Tell me how you are "dusting off" things in your closet?

Get It While the Gettin's Good

If predictions by the Oxford Hair Foundation come to pass, the number of natural redheads everywhere will continue to dwindle until there are none left by the year 2100. The reason, according to scientists at the independent institute in England, which studies all sorts of hair problems, is that just 4 percent of the world's population carries the red-hair gene. The gene is recessive (and therefore diluted when carriers produce children with people who have the dominant brown-hair gene. Dr. John Gray's often publicized explanation of his foundation's findings: "The way things are going; red hair will either be extremely rare or extinct by the end of the century." The gene responsible for red hair - known as the melanocortin 1 receptor, or MC1R - was only discovered in the late 1990s. People have a good chance of being born with red hair if they have a mutation of that gene. Red hair is found in all ethnic backgrounds but is most commonly associated with people of Celtic descent.Maybe I need to have my friend the rocket scientist (ok, ok, genetic researcher) look into this…let me know your thoughts T.

I have a few thoughts about this possibility:

~Thank god I will be gone because a world without Red is no place to live!
~“Studying all sorts of hair problems”; who decides that is what they want to do with their life? ~Recessive my arse: My dad, me (obviously) my brother, and now my son. I won’t even get into my dad’s 7 siblings. (some of which are shown here)
~As I read the article about my people’s pending doom, I thought back to the ridicule I experienced as a young child and then the near celebrity I received as I reached adulthood. I have grown to love my red hair and “angle kisses” (now that I have the sharpie off my skin from my sister connecting the dots in an attempt to see how many I had as a youth; why did I let her do that?) and consider them my trademark.

Quotable and red:

A young man marrying a redhead asked his father for some marital advice. The father said, "Just remind her who wears the pants in your family." The evening arrived; the new husband tossed his pants to his bride and said, "Here put these on." She did and said "I don't fit into these." "That's right!" he said, "and don't you forget who wears the pants in this family!" With that she flipped him her panties and said, "Try these on." He looked at them and said, "I can't get into your panties!" She said, "That's right - and you won't until your attitude changes!"

Waxing Poetic

****The content below is for adults only; or for those that can handle direct language about body parts and the maintenance of said body parts.  If you are related to me, go to church with me, work with me or the hubs, come back later.****

First things first. I have never had to password protect a post. It seems, however, that the hubs thinks the content provided herein is not appropriate for all audiences. Word has it that my father in law has spread the word around town about my little piece of internet and now my damn priest reads the crap I write. I suppose the man of the house does have a valid point when he further mentions that some of his colleagues and my clients read the site too; I can only imagine what they would be thinking about at the next meeting after reading this. So in an effort to keep us both happy; we have protection. What I really wanted to tell hubs was to take off his panties and hose the sand out of his vagina.

Speaking of vaginas; well mine particularly. In all my years I have never waxed any part of my body. I am very fortunate to have not only very light hair but hair that grows very slowly. The down side to my good luck is that if I do not wear mascara, I look like a am nine years old at best. Imagine if you will, me at the age of twenty-nine with braces and no makeup; hubs felt a little awkward at times. He once came in the house to tell me the new neighbor girl had come over to ask if I could come out to play. He is so funny; just ask him, he will tell you.

Back to my vagina. For some reason I got a wild hair to get waxed. Many of you know that I am an all or nothing kind of girl though; if I am doing this I am going all the way. Brazilian baby. The first question I asked myself is whether I should go to someone I know, or a complete stranger. I determined a referral was more important than anything. I called one of my girlfriends and asked her advice. Having moved her business from a local salon to her home last year, she immediately sent me to her former place of business. She informed that the aesthetician was awesome and since I believe everything my friend/hair stylist tells me, I hung up and called the salon.

I had three days to wait after making the appointment. Your imagination can do a lot in three days. I was excited and petrified. My final thought was “how bad can it be really, you have given birth twice for god’s sake”. I wanted it to be a surprise for hubs so I did not tell him. The neurotic in me then starts thinking; “do I even want him to notice, that means I needed it”. We will get to his final reaction later.

Upon entering the salon on Friday and greet my girlfriends that work there and take some Advil; I had been told that doing so might be beneficial. This is one of those things I did to be safe and not sorry. I don’t know if I did not need it but I really did not want to find out if I needed it but didn’t take it.


The aesthetician greets me and escorts me to the servicing room. She explains the process and instructs me to disrobe from waste down and place a towel here and some paper there. I can do this. Towel here, paper there. The irony is that she leaves the room for me to undress but is about to explore places with a magnifying light the way only my gyno has done.

Upon examination and a test run it is determined my “front” hair is not long enough yet. Remember the fact that I am blessed with slow growing hair; it can suck at times. It also doesn’t help that I shave it all off anyway. No sweat. I am still a little nervous anyway and think I may back out of the back side if the front is agony. Kim proceeds to tell me to “hop up” on my hands and knees. The only way I can provide a visual for this position is to describe it as “child’s pose” in yoga but with your butt in the air. Or maybe a frog. The thing about this position is that is perfect for what she is doing, however, the wall that I am facing is all mirrors. Normally I would consider this hot, but in this scenario I do not care to watch, I lower my head.

So I have to admit that the hot wax was not bad; actually quite nice. I have the need to hold a conversation during this process in attempt to keep breathing. What I find out during the dialogue intrigues me. I live in what most would consider a conservative area of the country; otherwise known as “The Bible Belt”. My new best friend Kim moved here from Vegas five years ago and tells me she has seen things here that she never saw or even heard of in Springfield. How about that; I am not the only one in this town after all. I am not sure if that is good or bad.

Rip. Huh. Not so bad. Certainly not the vision from the 40 year old virgin I was imagining. “Blah Blah Blah”. “ Yeah I have two boys, 4 and 2.5; the picture of your girls is cute, how old?” Rip. How about that, it gets easier every time. Rip again. What the Hell! “Did you literally just rip me a new one?” She thought that was funny. Hubs is not the only funny one around here.  Like any quality aesthetician, Kim wants to be thorough, so out comes the lighted magnifying glass. Jesus; my gyno doesn’t even use a magnifying glass. She completes the examination of her work and sounding very proud says “looks great”. I have to take her word for it since I cannot see it. I am going to spare the details about how she applies the aloe in an attempt to prevent any male (or female for that matter) readers from getting entirely too excited about one woman rubbing cream all over another. That was the best part though.

I admit that I am happy I only have to do “maintain” every few months; but in end, hubs and I highly recommended this service.

As I am wrapping things up and paying, I asked Kim out to dinner; it seemed like the next step in our relationship.

*For those of you considering a Brazilian and are curious; there was little if any pain during or after the procedure!  Take off your panties and hose the sand out of your vagina and get it done!

Milk Cow Blues .......and A Contest!

You would have thought he had severed a digit the way he was throwing a fit. For those of you with small children, you know the fit I am talking about. It starts out innocently enough, bottom lip puckers out, eyes squint, and then the tears come. You quickly go into diversion mode to try to avoid escalation. No good. He is on to me and will not have any substitute for what he wants. What could he possibly want you ask? His blanket? A popsicle? A cookie? Heck no, that would be too easy. This kid wants string cheese. I make every effort to avoid this very scenario by anticipating a low stock of dairy in the fridge. I have to say my boys eat more dairy than any other food group. They start each morning with a snack of chocolate milk and string cheese. Upon waking they come into our room and say “I want chocolate milk and string cheese Mommy”, as if I do not already know that.

As we prepared for our recent weekend trip to visit the family in The Lou, I decided to wait until our return to restock the fridge and cabinets. As you can imagine, both boys were distraught by the fact that we did not have any string cheese for nearly four days! When I told them last Wednesday I would go to the store when we got home, they asked if Granddaddy had string cheese at his house.

Not only do they like string cheese, Little Man likes a certain kind of string cheese. Not the brand mind you; but the shape. I guess the generic brand I regularly purchase has a favorable shape for his mouth so when I mistakenly bought a name brand he was not happy. Now that I have made that mistake once; he asks every time we get a new bag if it is "the round kind". Chalk one up for the story brand!

Dinner always consists of some sort of dairy or multiple variations. Cottage cheese is a side that is requested often, as well as yogurt for “desert”. Ask Little Man what his favorite dinner is and he will quickly answer “cheesy eggs!”

I know where they acquired their affection for cheese and all things dairy(or their obsession, depends on how you look at it); my grandfather nicknamed me Mickey Mouse at a young age due to my ability to eat my weight in cheese ( I may be exaggerating a bit but you get the idea). I am telling you I could still sit down and eat a whole block of the dairy goodness. (again, go with me)

Today while I was shopping I purchased the usual items but struggled to think of something new. I am hoping you guys can give me some ideas on new ways to incorporate dairy into our meals; after all, there are only so many cheesy eggs I can handle. If you can, make the recipes easy as I have an aversion to the stove and anything that does not come in a package. Oh what the hell; The Man can cook it.

First person to comment gets a fabulous reusable goodie bag from The Midwest Dairy Council that contains a $25.00 gift card to Price Cutter, a jump rope, recipe ideas, and a coupon! I will then have a random number thingy pick three more winners to receive a $25.00 gift card each to Price Cutter and a coupon!

My kids are getting hungry people and dinner ain't makin itself...

*Don't forget to leave your e-mail addy and url is applicable so I can tell you if you win!

Where I attempt to put down my foot & Other tantrums

I follow the school of thought that I will try anything once, even twice if I like it.  With that said, there are a few things I refuse to do.  By the sound of that statement you might think I must be difficult to deal with.  On the contrary, I am actually the worst kind of people pleaser.  I will do almost anything for you if you ask me with a smile.  It is not that I care what other people think of me; I just like to make people happy.  So when I say “I refuse” to do something, I am really saying “I really try to avoid doing a handful of things if at all possible”.  That statement, however, is not nearly as assertive so I will stick with the original.  That is, if you are ok with it.

• I refuse to parallel park.  The funny thing about this is my car is perfect for parallel parking; not only does it sit low to the ground, but it is not much bigger than a Mini Cooper.  The thing I cannot stand about parallel parking is the fact that I failed it on my driving test.  Something about this makes me feel like I will never do it well.  That and the fact that I hate the idea that people are watching me pull in and out and scoot in and around until I fit in just so.  Don’t deny it, you watch and you judge.  I see you.

• I refuse to eat the white fruit chewy snacks.  You might be asking yourself why in the hell I am even eating those things in the first place.  The only logical explanation I have come to is that I really liked them when I was pregnant with Little Man.  It happens to be one of those things that actually stuck even after giving birth.  I would have rather kept the boobs, thank you very much.  The problem with the white ones for me is that every time the boys eat these things they tell me what they taste like; and at times what they look like.  Even if what they look like resembles nothing of the actual character they were molded to portray.·

• I refuse to eat any food that does not require teeth.  I have affectionately named this food group the “geriatric food group”.  Baked beans, for instance have absolutely no appeal to me.  Gravy reminds me of something that came out of someone or something, not what should be going in.  Although it is not geriatric food, I also refuse to eat cooked cabbage; it is in the “food that smells like bodily functions” food group.·

• I refuse to do that thing that my man continues to ask me to do.  Ladies, you know what I am talking about.  What is it with this anyway?  I think the only reason it is even exciting is because most of us won’t do it (and I do not judge if you do, just back me up and humor me here).  If we just gave in, they would figure out it isn’t that great.  Nah.  Like I said before, I will try anything, and I mean ANYTHING once.  Except THAT.  Get the hint babe.

• I refuse to  put my hand down the kitchen sink to retrieve items that may have mistakenly fallen in it’s trap.  The only exception to this rule, would of course be my wedding ring.  I just have issues with putting my hands in small places that have sharp blades.  I realize that no one is going to flip the disposal switch and forever maim me, but I still have an aversion that can not be overcome.  I won’t even risk it to rescue the pet beta fish I accidentally tossed down the drain; instead I called the fish rescue squad and had them meet the man and Little Man at the pet store after they rescued our family friend.

Is there anything you refuse to do or do I just need my meds altered?

Where I attempt to put down my foot & Other tantrums

I follow the school of thought that I will try anything once, even twice if I like it.  With that said, there are a few things I refuse to do.  By the sound of that statement you might think I must be difficult to deal with.  On the contrary, I am actually the worst kind of people pleaser.  I will do almost anything for you if you ask me with a smile.  It is not that I care what other people think of me; I just like to make people happy.  So when I say “I refuse” to do something, I am really saying “I really try to avoid doing a handful of things if at all possible”.  That statement, however, is not nearly as assertive so I will stick with the original.  That is, if you are ok with it.

• I refuse to parallel park.  The funny thing about this is my car is perfect for parallel parking; not only does it sit low to the ground, but it is not much bigger than a Mini Cooper.  The thing I cannot stand about parallel parking is the fact that I failed it on my driving test.  Something about this makes me feel like I will never do it well.  That and the fact that I hate the idea that people are watching me pull in and out and scoot in and around until I fit in just so.  Don’t deny it, you watch and you judge.  I see you.

• I refuse to eat the white fruit chewy snacks.  You might be asking yourself why in the hell I am even eating those things in the first place.  The only logical explanation I have come to is that I really liked them when I was pregnant with Little Man.  It happens to be one of those things that actually stuck even after giving birth.  I would have rather kept the boobs, thank you very much.  The problem with the white ones for me is that every time the boys eat these things they tell me what they taste like; and at times what they look like.  Even if what they look like resembles nothing of the actual character they were molded to portray.·

• I refuse to eat any food that does not require teeth.  I have affectionately named this food group the “geriatric food group”.  Baked beans, for instance have absolutely no appeal to me.  Gravy reminds me of something that came out of someone or something, not what should be going in.  Although it is not geriatric food, I also refuse to eat cooked cabbage; it is in the “food that smells like bodily functions” food group.·

• I refuse to do that thing that my man continues to ask me to do.  Ladies, you know what I am talking about.  What is it with this anyway?  I think the only reason it is even exciting is because most of us won’t do it (and I do not judge if you do, just back me up and humor me here).  If we just gave in, they would figure out it isn’t that great.  Nah.  Like I said before, I will try anything, and I mean ANYTHING once.  Except THAT.  Get the hint babe.

• I refuse to  put my hand down the kitchen sink to retrieve items that may have mistakenly fallen in it’s trap.  The only exception to this rule, would of course be my wedding ring.  I just have issues with putting my hands in small places that have sharp blades.  I realize that no one is going to flip the disposal switch and forever maim me, but I still have an aversion that can not be overcome.  I won’t even risk it to rescue the pet beta fish I accidentally tossed down the drain; instead I called the fish rescue squad and had them meet the man and Little Man at the pet store after they rescued our family friend.

Is there anything you refuse to do or do I just need my meds altered?

What they don't know & Other lies we tell

I will not deny the fact that I lie on occasion.  I try to make myself feel better at night by rationalizing my motives.  Typically my lies are to protect people.  Sure, the person in question is often myself, but that is not the point.  My point, if I even have one, is that lies do serve a purpose.  The infamous "they" that I would like to track down and tie to a kitchen chair, say "the truth shall set you free".   I am not sure people are paying attention to who needs to be set free when they actually tell the truth though.

I lie to my kids. " Honey, Incredible Pizza is not open right now", when in fact, this is just my way of getting out of having to take them to the indoor carnival of hell.  Of course they are open; they are open all the time, even in the middle of the night while I have nightmares about going there.

I lie to my friends.  I know I know.  If I can't be honest with them, then what can I expect in return.  Well frankly, I do not want to know if those jeans make me look fat!  I don't tell my friends what I think they want to hear, I tell them things that make them feel good about themselves.

I lie to my clients (not you though:).  Don't worry!  I can spin this in my favor too.  I would much rather under promise and over deliver so this is really not lying but setting the right expectation.

I lie to myself, about a lot of things.  Denial manifests itself in many forms; my mother being my current affliction.  I knew she was sick even before the phone call.  Looking back, all the signs pointed to a place I did not want to visit again.  When she was formally diagnosed, I ignored the fact that it sounded bad.  Being an enabler of sorts, my mother did not help matters by leaving out some "minor" details of her condition.

After lying to herself for 30 or more years about the effects of smoking, Mom is now in her second year of treatment.  She has begun to ration details of her condition to us like food stamps in an attempt to prevent us from gorging ourselves.  The whole thing reminds me of that scene from A Few Good Men. "I want the truth? You can't handle the truth!"  I realize she does not want to be a statistic, or focus on how many years she may or may not have left.  I also realize, though, that we all need to be realistic; the controlling planner in me needs to know what to expect.  Under promise, over deliver.

Cancer is the worst kind of thief.  It does not hide itself like a coward; cancer is brazen with it's movement and leaves us cold and vulnerable in it's wake.  It moves in the daylight and does not stop until it gets what it wants from you.  What it takes is far more than it ever sets out to gain.

As a mother, I try to imagine what I would tell my children in Mom's position.  No matter how old my children get, I want to protect them from harm.  Sure, life happens, but why can't I do my part to prevent pain when I can?  As a wife, would I say to my husband "hey babe, it's not lookin so good".  Would I want my friends to feel sorry for me as my hair falls out and I lose my energy?  Like my mother, I would not want my life, and that of others, to be consumed by my illness.

If there is a moral here, it is this: What we don't know really doesn't hurt us.

What they don't know & Other lies we tell

I will not deny the fact that I lie on occasion.  I try to make myself feel better at night by rationalizing my motives.  Typically my lies are to protect people.  Sure, the person in question is often myself, but that is not the point.  My point, if I even have one, is that lies do serve a purpose.  The infamous "they" that I would like to track down and tie to a kitchen chair, say "the truth shall set you free".   I am not sure people are paying attention to who needs to be set free when they actually tell the truth though.

I lie to my kids. " Honey, Incredible Pizza is not open right now", when in fact, this is just my way of getting out of having to take them to the indoor carnival of hell.  Of course they are open; they are open all the time, even in the middle of the night while I have nightmares about going there.

I lie to my friends.  I know I know.  If I can't be honest with them, then what can I expect in return.  Well frankly, I do not want to know if those jeans make me look fat!  I don't tell my friends what I think they want to hear, I tell them things that make them feel good about themselves.

I lie to my clients (not you though:).  Don't worry!  I can spin this in my favor too.  I would much rather under promise and over deliver so this is really not lying but setting the right expectation.

I lie to myself, about a lot of things.  Denial manifests itself in many forms; my mother being my current affliction.  I knew she was sick even before the phone call.  Looking back, all the signs pointed to a place I did not want to visit again.  When she was formally diagnosed, I ignored the fact that it sounded bad.  Being an enabler of sorts, my mother did not help matters by leaving out some "minor" details of her condition.

After lying to herself for 30 or more years about the effects of smoking, Mom is now in her second year of treatment.  She has begun to ration details of her condition to us like food stamps in an attempt to prevent us from gorging ourselves.  The whole thing reminds me of that scene from A Few Good Men. "I want the truth? You can't handle the truth!"  I realize she does not want to be a statistic, or focus on how many years she may or may not have left.  I also realize, though, that we all need to be realistic; the controlling planner in me needs to know what to expect.  Under promise, over deliver.

Cancer is the worst kind of thief.  It does not hide itself like a coward; cancer is brazen with it's movement and leaves us cold and vulnerable in it's wake.  It moves in the daylight and does not stop until it gets what it wants from you.  What it takes is far more than it ever sets out to gain.

As a mother, I try to imagine what I would tell my children in Mom's position.  No matter how old my children get, I want to protect them from harm.  Sure, life happens, but why can't I do my part to prevent pain when I can?  As a wife, would I say to my husband "hey babe, it's not lookin so good".  Would I want my friends to feel sorry for me as my hair falls out and I lose my energy?  Like my mother, I would not want my life, and that of others, to be consumed by my illness.

If there is a moral here, it is this: What we don't know really doesn't hurt us.