my “hangover” parade

We live in a tourist area as I’ve mentioned a bazillion times before…and so our town does weird-ass things to attract tourists. Year-round.

There. That should suffice as an explanation, when you wonder why I went to a Mardi Gras parade last night. Because yes. I know. It’s August. And I’m not still drunk.

And actually…the night was even weirder than that…yes.

Weirder than a Mardi Gras parade in August.

It started out innocently enough; Hubs and I went to the parade and we planned to meet up with some friends, have a couple of drinks and then head home for dinner. We both had to work today.

Well..Things don’t always go as planned for me. Shocker.

Hubs ended up being the only guy there, so he went home and left me with my girlfriends; we all live in the same area so I had arranged to ride home with them.

The night started to change shape from there…somehow I ended up IN the parade, paying fifty-dollars for a glass of iced tea, coming home at nine-thirty and passing out face-first on my pillow, make-up and everything in tact. I woke up at five-thirty this morning with a swollen nose, cotton mouth, a wonky stomach and a raging headache.

As I sat in a lawn chair in my driveway this morning, wearing my RayBans and pajamas, slowly drinking water and eating pretzels (don’t judge me, the house was too cold)…I unpacked my clown bag purse…and tried to piece together last night’s events.

I found my underwear, a wad of receipts and my wedding ring under a bunch of gay-ass coozies. In. My. Purse.

Thankfully I didn’t find a baby.

This is what I concluded:

The underwear – They’ve been in my purse for a while. Ever since I went shopping for shorts while wearing yoga pants (commando-style). Either that or they are the ones I yanked off in the bathroom a couple of weeks ago when Hubs and I were at a beach bar and I was hot, sweaty and twisty.

The wedding band – I hardly ever wear it since I lost 100lbs. I need to get it sized. It falls off when my hands get wet. When I found out I’d be IN the parade, I put it away because I didn’t want to lose it when I was flinging/throwing beads off the float. That was probably my only good decision of last night.

The gay-ass coozies – I have a feeling my klepto-friend Susan-Six-Fingers had a role in this. Oh. You want to know why they are gay-assed?

Would you use this if you lived here? Exactly.

Would you use this if you lived here, five seconds from Destin? Exactly.

The receipt – Turns out I bought my friend Tanya’s drinks and dinner. Apparently I’m quite a wealthy drunk.

The paradeI don’t even want to talk about it.

This pic was floating around Facebook this afternoon. It was taken at the end of the night...I'm the one with the glazed look - no glitter needed.

This pic was floating around Facebook this afternoon. It was taken at the end of the night…I’m the one with the glazed look – no glitter needed.

 

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dance it out

My sweet friend had a really shitty day today, so I decided to cheer her up by expressing myself though finger dance; essentially. In reality, I hijacked random memes from the internet and strung them together. Like this.

When push comes to shove…
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And…
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Then the next time the ugly people mess with you, just be like…
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And remember…
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The end.

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what are names?

Recently I had lunch with my oldest son Jamie, and the subject of names came up because a relative recently gave her baby an oddball name, from a character in a popular slasher flick.

Then my son told me about a kid he knew in college named Baskin Knight. Naturally I asked if his middle name was Robbins.

Like, was he conceived at a Baskin Robbins?

All three of my sons have strong, common names; James, Alexander, Nicholas. And their middle names are just as strong. And common.

As Jamie and I sat and laughed over lunch, our conversation snowballed..and I wondered aloud…if twenty-seven years ago, I had decided to launch into parenting with trendy, artsy or unique names…names that had personal or private meaning…what names would I have saddled my boys with…? And of course, Jamie asked me what names I would have picked…

HA! That was easy.

Jamie would have been James Tequila, because he wouldn’t be here without it (and his first name was a pre-determined family name so that would have stuck).

Alex would have been Hershey SpaghettiO, because I survived on Hershey bars melted in SpaghettiOs during my first trimester of pregnancy.

And Nic. I would have named him Crash Wonder, because he is the thriving, miraculous result of wonderful accidents, including the car we totaled when I was four months pregnant.

After a great, long laugh, Jamie was very happy I wasn’t feeling trendy, artsy or creative when I filled out his birth certificate. And I have a feeling, as a member of the military, my middle son is quite thrilled not to be named Hershey SpaghettiO.

I’m not even going to ask my youngest son, who is eighteen going on fifty, what he thinks about his near-brush with the name Crash Wonder. He already thinks I’m weird.

But hey, weird is relative, and much better than trendy, unique or creative when it comes to exercising your parenting power to name a child. Right? I mean, just ask Baskin Knight.
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we’re fixed so it’s not THAT something

One of my BFFs, Tanya, is a hair stylist, and between her jam-packed schedule and mine, it’s hard to get an appointment; seriously, it’s like aligning planets…so Tanya makes a house call for me every now and then, and I make us lunch.

Today Tanya came over to put “just a few more” strands of red in my hair. She was here a few weeks ago and put some red in my hair and I loved it. Today she added more red, and some more of my regular blonde highlights.

We started chatting, ate lunch, and quickly lost track of time. Tanya had to rush off to an appointment so she left me with specific instructions…this is the part where I tell those of you who don’t know me that I’m not patient with the frilly shit

“In ten minutes, rinse your hair in cool water, and leave the papers ON your hair, that way the red lowlights won’t bleed on the blonde highlights.”

Got it. Easy-peasy. I assured her I could handle it. I set my phone timer so I wouldn’t get sucked into a work-hole, and I sat down at my desk to check my email.

My timer went off. Just a second…almost done with this reply…okay.

I decided to hop in the shower because that seemed like the easiest, quickest way to rinse my whole head with papers on it. I have a large head y’all.

Well…
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My shower looked like a crime scene.

So I didn’t do a very good job of keeping the red from merging with the blonde because I sort of scrubbed it all together with shampoo after the papers fell out…well some didn’t fall out, some got tangled in my hair…and that’s how it splashed all over the walls.
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And then I was so busy par-drying my hair so I could text a picture to Tanya and make it to my conference call, that I forgot to clean out the bottom of the shower before Hubs got home from work.

Okay. In my defense I also had to wait for the shower to drain ’cause the papers were clogging it up.

Fortunately Hubs wasn’t grossed out, and he didn’t lose his cookies.

I’m the only female in the house, besides one of our dogs, and we are both, well…the dog is fixed and I lost my junk years ago.

Hubs just calmly asked WTF happened in the shower? I think he figured it was a craft project or something…but he knew it wasn’t THAT something. And before I could answer him, he saw my hair, smiled big, and said…

“Hey Red.”

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common name rewards

Hubs and I just got back from doing our major-heavy-duty-grocery-super-shopping.

Power. Style.

For those of you that don’t live in a tourist town, let me explain power style grocery shopping to you. We hurry to the closest (large) Walmart before the tourists arrive because they clog up the aisles with long-lost-third-cousins and loaded-down grocery carts, and leave empty shelves behind. When we get to Walmart we split up. Divide and conquer. Hubs and I race through the grocery store and we each complete our portion of the grocery list, kind of like they do on Cutthroat Kitchen. Then we meet up at the checkout line. It works.

We do this every Saturday of the Summer. Saturday is turnover day. And if you live in a tourist town, you know exactly what I mean.

As we are standing in the check-out line, Hubs is antsy (read: crabby) because are running later than usual with our Saturday errands, and the clock is inching closer to three (zero hour).

And I’m not even going to mention traffic.

Hubs grabs a Diet Coke out of the cooler by the checkout line.. And I let out an excited scream!
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Me: OH-MY-GAWD! THAT COKE HAS MY NAME ON IT!

Hubs: Huh?

Me: Look! That Coke has my name on it!

Hubs: Whaa. Why do they do that? When did Coke start putting names on their labels?

Me: In June! Where have you been? Oh-my-gawd! I want that one!

Hubs: You don’t even drink soda. And what do you mean where have I been? I don’t work online like you. How would I know?

Me: Ssssh! You make me sound like a prostitute! And I want that Coke! It has my name on it! See. It says you have to share it with me. I want to keep it.

Hubs: Fine. You can have the bottle when I’m done drinking it.

Me: I’m not keeping an empty bottle. Then it’s garbage. I want to keep the full Coke.

Hubs: Geesch. Fine. But I never want to hear you bitch about Nic keeping empty bottles in his room.

Me: Nic collected trash. He was nine. That was different.

Hubs grabbed another Coke.

Hubs: Is Steve okay? Or what about Jason? Jason was in there.

I just smiled at him and shook my head.

Hubs: So? Can I drink Steve? Do we know a Steve?

Me: Go ahead. Drink Steve. I don’t know a Steve.

The guy behind us (in line): I’m Steve.

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to watch or not to watch

Hubs wanted to rent Divergent tonight but I said no.

I’m in the midst of forcing Hubs to binge-watch The Killing on Netflix. Not hard-core-binge-watch. I mean, I let him go to work, run and eat…

I don’t know if Hubs actually wanted to see Divergent, or if he just wants a break from Linden and Holder. For. One. Night. Since he keeps asking me if I want a break. I’m guessing it’s the latter.

To be honest, after our binge-fest of The Killing, I’m not sure I even want to see Divergent. I’m not a fan of sci-fi, teenagers or dystopian dramas, in general.

I read Hunger Games with my youngest son years ago just so I had something to talk about with my then-preteen.

As it turned out I loved the trilogy. I loved it so hard that when I finished the second book at two in the morning, I couldn’t wait for my kid to wake up and share the book with me from his Kindle. So I bought it again.

We are the proud owners of two Kindle copies of The Mockingjay.

I’m just not sure about Divergent. I mean, besides what appears to be another Twilighty-dystopian-sci-fi-drama, I grew up watching the Lenny Kravtiz and Lisa Bonet romance and its subsequent implosion. They’re my age.

So there’s that.
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sea monkey challenge

Along with stepping up my miles for the fourth (or fifth?) half marathon I’m running in seven weeks, I’m doing the 30 Day Plank Challenge this month.

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I’m planking a minute-a-day for eleven days until the challenge calendar exceeds my ability, and I’m doing my planks on my hands; because I can.

As with any challenge, I should take a before photo and post it. Right?

Not.

After seven major abdominal surgeries, growing three humans and stumbling through middle age as gracefully as a bulldozer, I question the mere existence of my abdominal muscles.

Therefore I will not post a Before photo.

And I know, I know, this challenge isn’t like Sea Monkeys. I’m not going to grow abs in 30 days.

Therefore I will not post an After photo. Either.

But hey, if it magically happens…

Honestly though, I’m not looking for magic. I don’t want to squeeze my forty-seven year old ass into low-rider jeans with bedazzled pockets, or a string bikini. I just want to build my core strength.

The hardest part of my last half marathon wasn’t the running part. It was maintaining my form; keeping my abs sucked in and my shoulders in line with my hips to support my lower back -specifically my wonky L5 vertebrae.

During my last half marathon I maintained my form, but I was pretty tired by mile ten and I slowed down quite a bit by mile twelve. Even in my sunny yellow #swirlgear top I looked like a Walking Dead zombie. Of course, the mountains I ran up and up, AND UP, were a factor too.
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So… For my next half, I want to make better time and that’s why I’ve incorporated more core work into my training and I’m trying the plank challenge. At the end of thirty days I’m supposed to be able to do a five minute plank, better than an elephant. I’ll keep you posted…
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just. like. that.

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I saw this infogram on Facebook a few minutes ago and I was shocked. Horrified. Worried.

Hubs and I LOVE to read, our boys are all avid readers (even as adults), and we all LOVE bookstores; in fact, new books were treats for our kids when they were little. How could somebody not love to read? Not love to wander through a bookstore?

I read it out loud to Hubs.

And he said…

That’s bullshit. How do they know that? That’s like saying 80% of sharks only like tuna. They get 25 people in a room, and there you go. That’s how they get their statistics. So 20% of the population is supporting all the giant bookstores? That’s just dumb.

POP! *that was my worry-bubble bursting*

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i think i know you

I met my new doctor today. Well, she’s not really a doctor, she’s a nurse with super powers, which is cool with me. I’m fine with her power, I just worried if I’d like her; if we’d click; if she’d get me, or if she’d think I was crazy.

My old-man doctor of ten years moved away last month. I liked him to pieces; he was thoughtful, kind, medically-conservative and nothing rattled him -not even when I launched into one of my medical-neurosis-animated-over-explanations, or Google diagnosis’ Ethel and I concocted. He just absorbed it. All. And moved on unaffected.

Mainly I didn’t want to meet the Super Power Nurse because I don’t like changes to my medical line-up.

So today I was unnerved when I knew my swimmer’s ear had turned into Ebola or Bubonic Plague. Even though Ethel plays a pretty good internet doctor and she said it was a sinus infection, I still knew even if Ethel was right and I wasn’t gonna start bleeding from my eyes, it was time to go to the SPN after a week of trying to treat myself at home with vinegar, alcohol, denial and some leftover antibiotic drops from an old ear infection.

This morning I called my old doctor’s office, and I drug myself kicking and screaming like Lily Tomlin drug the other half of her Steve Martin body in All of Me, to my one o’clock appointment.

And imagine my surprise when the SPN walked into the room, and she knew me! She was the very same nurse (sans super powers), who worked for the doctor that delivered all three of my babies, who are no longer babies, but whatever, it sounds weird to say he delivered three grown men.

I couldn’t wait to tell Hubs I was nervous about meeting SPN for nothing. I knew her. And Hubs said it was creepy that she recognized me. Of course. Hubs thinks everything that has anything to do with childbirth is either creepy, freakish, gross, or disgusting. So I explained to him that creepy would be if SPN was doing a vaginal exam, looked up and said, “I think I know you.”

THAT would be creepy. THIS was not creepy.

When your former OB/GYN’s nurse recognizes you after nearly twenty years WITH your clothes on. Not. Weird. Right?

No. Not weird.

And I don’t have Ebola, or Bubonic Plague. Super Power Nurse agreed with Ethel’s diagnosis. I have a sinus infection -which is disgusting, Hubs.

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in sickness and health, but not vinegar

Have you ever seen that episode of Cheers where Rebecca finally decides to give it up to Sam? The one where she is all snotty and coughing and un-showered, with matted-bed-hair, unbrushed teeth, and sporting well-worn pajamas?

Well. Last Wednesday night, I remembered that episode…

I returned from my Chicago business trip last Monday with a raging ear infection, a budding fever blister, a ton of work and zero energy.

By Wednesday I had not showered (don’t judge me, it was only day three), not brushed my hair and not changed the t-shirt (Hubs’ shirt) I’d been sleeping in for days.

I also reeked of vinegar because I had been pouring a home-remedy-douche-like-concoction in my ear trying to get rid of a brewing outer ear infection.

And then there was the budding fever blister. It never quite erupted beyond a little bump because I started a round of L-lysine the minute I stepped off the plane; but the little bump turned into an ugly scab, smack-dab in the middle of my face.

So there was that.

And the duck sauce incident.

Duck sauce looks an awful lot like honey when you don’t have your glasses on. And duck sauce tastes like shit when you pour it into hot tea. So I gagged. Just for a little while.

After my gagging fit I crawled in to bed where Hubs was reading. I was still coughing a little and my nose was runny when I cozied up to Hubs because I was feeling amorous. He immediately reached over and turned off his reading light. Then he turned away from me and put his head on his pillow.

I sat upright. Coughed and wiped my nose on my sleeve.

“What?”

Uh not tonight.

“Didn’t you miss me?”

Of course I missed you.

“Well? Don’t you want me anymore?”

Of course I want you. Just. Uhmm. Not. Tonight.

Then he rolled-scooted all the way over to the opposite edge of our bed. And he went to sleep.

That’s when I remembered the Cheer’s episode and decided I should probably shower. To save my marriage and junk.

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