Weighty Matters

So, I read somewhere, AOL probably, that the average American consumes something like 60 teaspoons of sugar a day, or 20 tablespoons, or however many cups that equals out to. Either way that's a crap load of sugar, a lot of teeth rotting and whatnot you know. 

I like sugar. Oooh I like sugar. Baked goods, yes. Candy, yes. Delicious Cherry Coke and Dr. Pepper, yes. All of that, yes, very much so. On a normal basis this didn't used to be much of a terrible problem for me. By normal basis I mean back when I used to go to the gym regularly, and by regularly I mean at least 4-5 times a week. That sort of took care of the whole ingesting mass amounts of sugar thing, sweet freedom to eat what I want! And of course, then I had babies, two babies, one of them just 5 months ago, remember? I do, that hurt. 

So, the first time I had a baby, I did weight watchers and lost a good 25+ lbs without a whole lot of extreme effort. I counted points, I made (relatively)good choices, it wasn't so hard. This time I have less to lose but for some reason cannot, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, find the motivation to really stick to it. I've lost roughly 5 lbs in a month and a half, have about 10-15 more I'd like to shed, and this sugar thing has really become the bane of my very existence. 

Effing mini eggs.  

This weekend the man and I are embarking on a romantical winter getaway. He has some random work thing to attend to that takes him to Lake Tahoe and I get to come, on company dime no less! We're staying in a cabin, and it's supposed to snow every day we're there. When I say romantical, I mean it. The kids will be with Connie, and we will be alone. ALONE. For the first time in over 2 years. I plan on doing nothing but sleeping, through the night, all night, every night. Maybe I'll let Paul cop a feel, I haven't decided yet, or if I even have time for that sort of thing since I plan on sleeping so much. And then of course there is going to be a lot of eating, because I get to go to a restaurant without kids and take all the dang time I want, which doesn't help my case one bit really. But when we get back, I am on it, I swear. Those mini eggs, and everything else involving mass amounts of sugar, can go to hell. HELL! At least until I get this situation under control and then you know, we don't have to say goodbye forever.

I really don't know where I'm going with any of this so I will close with a Fatty free for all. 5 months old already, halfway to 6, what??? Look close, the hairs are growing in nicely! *sigh of relief...

the camera phone adds 15 lbs, right?

So, I had a denim crisis this week. I twittered (tweetered?) about it yesterday. My jeans are getting to the point where they button again, somewhat reluctantly, but button nonetheless. I'm getting sick of washing the same 6 pairs of sweatpants over and over, and over (and over) again. My trusties seriously have holes in them (stop cringing Carina). Granted they're about 8 years old but STILL, DON'T FAIL ME NOW SWEATPANTS! Back to the subject, I wore jeans all day for the first time a few days ago. Jeans with no sort of elastic panel or hair tie through the button hole holding them together. We won't talk about the muffin top oozing over the waistband because this is a happy story! The majority of my jeans are at least 3 years old, bought back when boot cut was still happening and when I had money to spend $100+ on a pair of jeans. Those days are over, so I decided to do a little repurposing instead. Look at me, repurposing! Up next: world hunger!

Crappy and distorted iphone pics for you!

BEFORE: 

AFTER:

I used Susan's tutorial found HERE and did everything except pick out the bottom hem. These pants had already been altered for length and I wasn't going to mess with all of that business. They turned out just fine FYI. And I call her Susan even though we've only met once and it involved me talking loudly, and rather awkwardly, down the table to where she sat about how much I love her baby moccs and how badly I need to get a pair for Fatty. I still haven't done that, I have my eye on the gray ones though, someday they will be mine Fatty's.

So there's that.  

Have a glorious weekend friends. After waking up multiple times last night with an angry 22 or 23 lb (give or take a pound) Fatso, my man let me sleep in until almost 9:30 this morning. It was glorious except my extra full bosoms lactated all over my brother's face because I was wearing this shirt. It was weird. 

The Rescuer

Three years ago yesterday I got stuck driving behind my mom in a freak blizzard that left us stranded for almost 4 hours. We called each other every 15 minutes, commiserating our terrible luck and wondering where on earth the highway patrol was. I took some random pictures of myself out of sheer boredom, and may or may not have found some creative ways to relieve my very full and newly pregnant bladder, but that's a story for a different day. There were times during those 4 hours that I couldn't look out or open my windows for the thick ice crusting them closed. People were getting desperate and creating new lanes and advancing chaos, trying to get around other cars that were immobile or moving slowly and as a result, sliding off the road and getting stuck themselves. Poetic justice, no? The wind gusted so hard it rocked my heavy SUV back and forth, the blowing snow obscuring my line of sight, reducing visibility to only a few feet. The tailgate of my dad's white truck was camouflaged in all this cold hustle, and all I could see were the tail lights glowing through the icy dark. But I knew my mom was right there in front of me. I knew I'd be just fine as long as I could see her, as long as I could follow her, as long as she stayed close to me. We inched ahead, foot by foot, and finally mile by mile, until eventually, I followed my Connie out of that rabbit hole and into calmer skies. The storm had concentrated all of it's anger and spite on one 5 mile stretch of road. Once we passed through it, we were free and clear with only a light  snow falling to remind us of what where we'd just been. She turned left into my Grandma's driveway, and I continued on down to my Paul, our warm little townhouse, a hot shower, and a trip to Hawaii. 

Fast forward to this weekend. On Friday night the chills started. I was sewing a baby blanket for my new, soon-to-arrive-next-month niece whose baby shower was the following morning. Soon my fingers were numb and shaking and I was finishing up while layered in sweatpants, socks, a long sleeved shirt and Paul's sherpa lined hoodie. I took a hot shower to warm up, but as soon as I turned the water off the tell-tale goose bumps returned. I layered a heavy denim quilt on top of our down comforter and crawled in for the night. A few hours later Paul got up with the baby, came back to bed only to hear my teeth chattering and feel my body quake with shivers trying to get warm. I was sick. The rest of that miserable night was spent hunched over a heating pad, and alternating between throwing off my layers cloaked in sweat and clutching them back on, chilled to the very bone. 

Saturday wasn't much different, I stayed home from the shower I was supposed to be co-hosting and parked it in bed. Paul wrangled the Nub and baby Fat Fat who wasn't feeling so good himself, refusing to nap, congested terribly, and protesting his general unhappiness rather loudly. I'm afraid I was quite useless to the situation.  Dosed up on ibuprofen, I perked up enough to venture to the doctor at one point, and out for egg drop soup, only to be told it was something viral and nothing could be done. Once home and back in bed, the cold shakes set in yet again. 

That night at 8 pm, I fever-drunk texted my mom that we might need reinforcements the next day. She texted me back and said she would pack up and get on the road. I wanted to protest and say we'd be alright. I hated the thought of her driving through the deer and elk infested roads and down dangerous Highway 6 through Spanish Fork Canyon especially at night, but I didn't say anything other than "thanks Mom, please drive safe". I wanted her there. Two hours later the calvary had arrived (safely thank goodness) in the form of Connie and her overnight bag. My sick baby was passed off into her care, Paul fell exhausted into bed next to me. 

We were saved. 

She left this afternoon, me feeling much better and the baby sleeping in hourly measured increments once again. He's still stuffy and somewhat warm, but we are both none too worse for the wear.

I think about those tail lights and that storm, I think about following my mother through that blinding snow and I know it deep and hard as much as I did that night three years ago, as long as I stay close to my Connie, as long as I can see her and keep her near, I will always be just fine. Mothers are there for the rescue, even when we are grown and mothers ourselves. The call and answer will always exist in some form, and for that knowledge and assurance I am eternally grateful.

Another Post About Hair

Here is where I prove to you exactly how vain I am.

My duly gorgeous sister has this hair, this hair that I covet and yearn for, that curls in all the right ways, whose baby hairs cling to her forehead sweetly and don't stick straight up and kink like someone else's that I know (*cough ME), that looks glorious when tossed up in a messy bun thing, and hangs straight and long when told to do so. It doesn't need special attention and hasn't been touched by scissors in like a year but still, it manages to incite fits of jealousy on my part whenever we're together. I feel drawn to it. Yes, in a weird way. After spending the last 5 days with her, I'm convinced even more that she has the world's best hair and that I should probably give her a plaque or something, and also, that my hair sucks.

Sisterly competition. 

There isn't any at this point in our lives. Except when she has the hair I want I guess, and then it seems to be more of an inappropriate longing on my end more than anything. It's not like we're knocking each other around fighting for rebounds on the basketball floor anymore, or brawling on her bed with slap fights and hair pulling (why we always fought on her bed, I'll never know). Thankfully, that ship sailed a long time ago. One of the best parts about being an adult is this developed sense of appreciation you have for the people you love and the relationships you've cultivated. Spending the better part of last week with my sister only reinforced that feeling for me. 

I am covetous for her amber waves of grain. I am jealous of her glorious tresses, and happy that I don't have to hide her in the closet because she's so ugly. We all know families where one sister is vastly better looking than the other and luckily, I don't feel that extreme about it. I might always be some version of Slagathor deep inside, but neither of us is a troll. She does, however, win in the hair department hands down, that I will concede any day.

Most of all I'm just grateful she's my sister, better hair and all. 

I went to the Superbowl and all I got was this t-shirt

It's a little weird walking around a town you've never been to and seeing your brother's hairy face plastered left and right, even on t-shirts and billboards, sung about in a piano bar (truth!), and even an appearance on Leno I heard (where was the invite from Coco I wonder?, beard to beard that seems like a better fit). The game itself could have gone better, but you know, winning 2 out of 3 isn't a terrible record to boast. Sometimes the stars don't align, even in Texas. So you treat yourself to some nachos, a healthy sized Dr. Pepper,  and maybe a bbq pork sandwich for good measure and then move on.  Our seats were good, the halftime show was entertaining (apparently it sounded terrible on t.v., live was a different story, minus Fergie Ferg rubbing up on Slash), and did I already talk about the nachos? 

You know, and then there was this little slip:

Mercy.

I am glad to be home. Back to my Shorty and the Nublet, who didn't ask for me once in 5 days so I'm told. Nice.

Texas is grand and all, but I'll take those two over just about anything.

thanks Rochelle for watching the babes! you're my hero and iloveyourhair

Texas and The Universe

I'm leaving on a jet plane, on Thursday, away from Paul and the Nub and off to Texas with Mr. Fatty in tow. 

Texas isn't exactly my vacation destination of choice, nor is leaving behind half of my whole, but you know, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. I wish it were at least going to be in the balmy 60's while I'm there but the forecast for Dallas looks just about as bleak as it does for here. 

And to the universe I say, what's up with that? 

Meh.

On another note, at 6:00 this morning I told Paul we weren't having any more kids until we were rich enough to hire a nanny/wet nurse to wake up with them at night which will happen like, never. So I guess we're done having kids then, at least until I forget about this junk and go get myself pregnant again. I believe short term memory loss is the reason people have so many kids around here, but who am I to think deeply about such a thing?

Only 4 months until June.

Just sayin'