Over the past few months I’ve been evaluating the way that I live my life. I’m not proud of many things in my life and I realized I was shutting people out. So, I decided I was going to make some changes. The first major change was to start opening up my home to family and friends. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m ashamed we’re still renting a home. Even though this home we live in now is much nicer than The House With The Ugly Cabinets, it’s still not what I would want in a home of my own. I could tell you a million things I hate about this house and wish I could change, but, you know, Not My House. I’m tired of living this way though. I’m tired of feeling ashamed about material things (or lack of them.)
So.
I decided to throw a Christmas Party for the first time ever.
I invited old friends, new friends, family.
I came up with a theme! Ugly Christmas Sweater Party! With a nacho bar! And s’mores by the fire pit! And a walk to see the neighborhood Christmas Lights! And cookie decorating for the kids!
I even bought a Triple Slow Cooker Buffet! (Which I did not pay $100, but $50 at Costco. RESPECT THE COSTCO CARD!)
Me and PigHunter spent an entire day thrift shopping looking for the perfect Ugly Christmas Sweater.
I’ve been more excited about this than I’ve been about anything in a very long time.
“Who cares if you don’t have a beautiful house.” I keep telling myself “No one will notice, they’ll only notice the love and laughter!”
Seriously. I’ve been saying things like that.
I’ve sent a couple reminders about the party, as well as directions to my house. But I noticed something kind of odd.
No one was responding to my messages.
“They’re just busy!” I’ve been telling myself.
Then today. I got a message.
“We’re not going to be able to make it. I have to work longer than I thought, you can be mad at me for a while. sorry.”
Then, I started to panic. Maybe everyone is going to cancel! I mean, no one is responding to my messages, maybe they’re all waiting to cancel at the last minute.
So, I sent one last message.
“Please let me know if you’re going to make it. I am starting to get nervous since no one is responding.”
I’ve got one response since then.
“We MIGHT be able to make it, but my wife doesn’t get off til 8.”
(Which, basically, is a NO.)
Then, someone else says their baby is sick and well, if the baby still has a fever, they can’t make it.
I know of 2 couples that are coming FOR SURE.
My sister is one of them.
I’m feeling pretty upset about this. Not so much that people are canceling. I get it, things come up, kids get sick. It happens and that’s life. I just feel kind of stupid for opening myself up to be hurt like this. THIS IS WHY WE DON’T INVITE PEOPLE TO OUR HOUSE.
At this point, I’m not sure what to do.
Do I cancel and reschedule for next week? Do I just keep it on and enjoy the few people who do show up? Do I cancel altogether?
I am not sure yet.
In any case, I keep telling myself “it’s their loss!” because, seriously, they’re missing out on a Triple Slow Cooker Buffet Nacho Bar.
And also, ALL OF THIS:
Edited to add–
I love how you guys can almost always talk some sense into me. The party is still on. And it’s going to be awesome. Now, can I just got a few prayers that it stops raining at some point during the evening? I really need for God to make that happen.
Monthly Archives: December 2009
It’s My Blog and I Can Post Videos of My Kids If I Want To [/defensive]
A little holiday cheer, courtesy of My Awesome Kids.
I Believe This is What They Call “A Breakthrough.”
200.8
201.4
202
200.4
These are the numbers that have flashed on the scale for the past month. It’s been mentally frustrating to not be able to break the 200 pounds mark. To be honest, it’s been so discouraging that I started to give up. I wasn’t going to the gym regularly. I wasn’t watching my sugar intake like I should. It just felt like it was never going to happen, so why am I killing myself trying?
Then, I came across a video on YouTube about insulin resistance. I was reminded yet again of what could happen to my body if I don’t take care of it properly. I had become so focused on “the numbers” that I temporarily lost sight of what is really important.
My health.
Not getting diabetes.
I was slipping back into my old way of thinking regarding weight and body image. And that is UNACCEPTABLE. If I allow myself to think and behave in that manner, my health will deteriorate. That’s the reality of my life now.
Luckily, I saw the errors of my way and snapped out of the funk.
I started working out regularly again.
My body has responded in a way I was beginning to think it never would.
The photo is titled “Here Comes the Rain.” This post is titled “Testing. Again.”
Is this thing on again?
P.S. Stop being an asshole, dreamhost.
To Sum it All Up– Naked, Soapy, Joy, Upgrade.
Last month me and my husband celebrated our 19th wedding anniversary. People tend to assume that we must be Really Good At Marriage. “19 years!” They say. “How DO you do it?”
Here’s the thing. We’re not very good at marriage. I mean, we love each other, obvs. We love our family, double obvs. But we don’t nurture our relationship the way that we should.
Let me give you an example: The last time we had spent a weekend alone together was when I was pregnant with our second child– 13 years ago!.
There really isn’t an excuse for this, other than the one we use every time we even THINK about planning a weekend getaway.
“We can’t afford it.”
This year, we promised each other we were going to plan a weekend in Vegas for our anniversary.
“No more excuses!” I said. “We’re doing this!”
Then, work slowed down for PigHunter. And unexpected adjusted tax bills came in the mail.
So, I canceled the trip.
Even though we had money saved.
Even though it was going to cost next to nothing.
“It’s the responsible thing to do!” I said. And PigHunter agreed.
But really, no. It wasn’t. We weren’t taking a luxurious cruise that was going to cost thousands of dollars. We were going to Vegas, where I could get a room for $60 on Hotwire.com. I mean, seriously, what the hell, Us?
Our marriage was worth that $60 room.
I booked the room, got a sitter and off to Vegas we went to make our marriage stronger. ( and when I say “make our marriage stronger” I mean “play quarter slots and have lots of naked sex.”)
The drive to Vegas was smooth, no fights, no arguments. Only lots of excitement about naked sex and quarter slots. And possibly, buffets. However, once we arrived in Vegas, things started to fall apart.
“You know how to get to The Strip, right?” I ask as we entered Vegas.
“No. But I assume the signs will tell us where to go.” He said.
“True, so we should just see our hotel when we’re on The Strip, right?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s not a big deal.” He replies, all High and Mighty-ish. “We’ll find our hotel.”
20 minutes and a Lots of Cuss Words later, we were at the end of The Strip and our hotel was no where in sight. Thanks to my G1, we finally found the hotel. However, that’s when the REAL fun started.
We pulled into what my husband, who has a Masters in Knowing All Things, was SURE was the Harrah’s parking lot. I had suggested perhaps, maybe, we were in the wrong place. He assured me that he was right, I was wrong. “I think you’re wrong.” I said. “but, WHATEVER.”
We parked and as we walked to the hotel, I kept asking “are you sure we’re in the right place?”
Suddenly, he was only “95%” sure.
We got into the elevator with all of our suitcases, camera’s sweaters and jackets. I saw a sign that said “Imperial Palace.” I pointed, all “YOU WERE WRONG” like. “So, you still think we’re in the right place?”
He wasn’t willing to admit defeat just yet. So, we got off the elevator and started walking. Even though we both knew we were at the wrong hotel. I finally had enough, so I verbally communicated my feelings, (something along the lines of “I’M SO PISSED HOLD MY BAGS I HAVE TO PEE YOU JERK.”) he tried not to laugh, we turned around and left to find the correct hotel parking lot.
Long story short. We found it. He dropped me off to check in while he parked.
“Next, please” the man at the check in counter called out. I handed him my credit card, he looked up my reservations.
“Would you like to upgrade to the jacuzzi suite?” He asked
“How much?” I asked.
“$75.”
I thought about it. And as I thought about it, I felt what can only be described as Joy in the Pants. The Cheap in Me was all “don’t listen to the Joy (in your pants.) Be responsible! Say no!” But the Joy in my Pants was all “NAKED SOAPY BODIES FUN NAKED!”
Joy in the Pants won.
I upgraded the room.
I didn’t tell PigHunter about the upgrade. I figured I’d let him be surprised once we got up to the room. I opened the door. We looked around and he goes “wow, this is really roomy. I can’t believe we only paid $60 for this!” I giggled. “I upgraded to the suite… check it out.” I took him by the hand and led him to the jacuzzi.
Instant Joy in HIS Pants!
He didn’t even care about how much! He just cared about “how long til we were both naked and soapy!”
It took about EXACTLY 6 seconds of looking at the jacuzzi for the Joy in my Pants to turn into Fear of Bacteria and Disease. The excitement of I felt (in my pants) when I heard the words “jacuzzi” and “suite” had temporarily shutdown the OCD portion of my brain because not once did the thought of Other Peoples Sex register while I was handing over my credit card to upgrade. But now that I was there, face to face with it, that’s all I could think about. And there’s nothing that will kill sexual excitement quite like threat of getting an STD.
Meanwhile, PigHunter was standing there wondering “how long til we’re naked in this thing?”
I convinced him that we should go out for dinner before getting naked and (possibly, catching a disease.)
We headed out looking for some of the places that twitter had suggested. However, somehow, we found ourselves in line at the Harrah’s buffet. (Which, by the way, WAS THE ABSOLUTE WORST. Next time, I’m listening to twitter.)
After dinner, we decided to take a walk. Just outside of the hotel, there was an outdoor bar. A cover band was playing. “Oh, let’s go!” I shouted, as I grabbed his hand and led him down the stairs. Cover bands are one my favorite things about Vegas. Let me rephrase that. Old Ladies in tight leather pants dancing nastily to cover bands is my absolute favorite thing about Vegas. And man, were there plenty of them at this place. It was pure Vegas Magic.
We stood there for at least 30 minutes, watching, pointing, laughing, but also admiring. I love people who don’t give a shit what other people think and just enjoy themselves. You know?
Something you should know about my husband is that he doesn’t like to dance. (Probably because he is stuck in the 80’s when it comes to dancing.) The only time we have ever danced together was when we used to go line dancing in Orange County. We’d do the Cowboy Cha Cha together (and also the Boot Scootin’ Boogie. NO LIE.) That was years ago. We haven’t danced together since. So, imagine my surprise when I asked him to dance to a Cheesy Cover of Poison (as in Bel Biv Divoe’s song, not Brett Michaels band.) and he said “yes!”
We took the floor and that’s when the real magic happened.
My husband began to dance.
I tried to let him be himself, I tried to just be glad he was out there with, I really did. Who am I to judge? I can’t dance either. However, I also don’t move my arms like I’m dancing at a Hoe Down. So, I kind of felt like I should say something. I walked over and gently grabbed his arms. “Simmah down with the Hoe Down Arms, babe.” I said. He laughed and did it even harder, which made me laugh. (I’m so glad he has a sense of humor. If he had walked up to me and let’s say, grabbed my ass and said “Simmah down with the Ho Ass Movements” I would have BEEN SO PISSED.
I decided to embrace Hoe Down Arms and just have a good time. They kind of grew on me, to be honest. The more I think about it, the more I believe the world would be a little better if we all could be so lucky to have moves like this.
I’m not going to tell you the Juicy Details about all of the sex we had later that night, but I will say that I was able to get over my fear of disease to enjoy the jacuzzi, but only after I made my husband rinse it down for an hour with hot water. (Even then, I was still worried and disgusted and SHUT YOUR FACE RIGHT NOW IF YOU’RE EVEN THINKING OF TELLING ME HOW MANY DISEASES I PROBABLY HAVE NOW.) What I will tell you is that the $75 I spent on the upgrade was possibly the best money we’ve ever spent. Two weeks later, we still can’t stop talking about that night and are already planning another trip to do it again.
I’m kind of stressing out about what I’m supposed to do with them when I’m running.
I love my new hair stylist. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a stylist and more. She’s honest about what she thinks will or will not look good with the shape of your face. She’s an expert with color and gets it perfect every single time. And most importantly, she’s hilarious, fun to talk to and has Big Ones.
Tonight, as I sat in the chair waiting while she mixed my color, she asked if I was upset.
“No, I’m just tired… Oh! Must be the PMS! Didn’t know it was that obvious.”
PMS has always been pretty bad for me, but the last few months it’s become even worse. That is really bad news for everyone in my life. I’m irrational, over emotional, I get angry over stupid things. I cry a lot. I EAT MC RIBS IN MY CAR.
I tell you all of this because tonight I told her I wanted to do something totally different style wise.
“How do you think I’d look with bangs?”
She took a moment to look at my hair, at my face.
“I think they’d look really cute, but you should know I’ll have to cut all the way from here.”
I was all “I’m so nervous, but…do it!”
She asked how much I wanted off the length. I told her to cut it short. She suggested we only cut an inch off the length.
She thought the bangs would be such a drastic change, I may want to take it easy with the length. She said within a week, if I still wanted it short, to come back and she’d do it for free.
After she cut my bangs, I mentioned cutting my hair short again.
“I think it will look CUTE!” I said. (Was totally high from thrill of new bangs. BANGS!)
She leaned over to me and whispered. “I don’t really want to cut it short, I think you’re a liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiittle hormonal right now and you may regret it later on.”
Love her! She was absolutely right. I do think if she had done it, I would be laying on the floor crying right now saying things like “I LOOK LIKE A WEIRD BOY.” ( Lena totally got that.)
I like the bangs, but they’re taking some getting used to. I feel paranoid about the roundness (fullness? fatness? Oldness?) of my face. I love the idea of them and the way they’re cut, I just have to get used to seeing them on my face.
I think.
Anyway. All this to say…
Bangs!
McAshamed (Alternate Title: McSoSoBad but McSoSoGood.)
I spent my lunch break at the gym today.
I ran. I did the elliptical.
I did free weights. Squats. Push ups. Crunches. Leg lifts.
I was drenched in Sweet, Glorious Sweat.
As I left the gym, I was PUMPED UP.
I had burned a ton of calories. I felt strong. I felt healthy. I felt like I could kick your ass and then her ass and his ass. I think I could have kicked the ass of the entire world.
I got in my car, Jay-Z blasting in my ear. I was like IN YOUR FACE, DISEASES THAT TRY TO KEEP ME DOWN.
And then, I drove by McDonalds.
“The McRib is back!” It said.
Next thing you know, I’m sitting in my car, BBQ sauce dripping in between my fingers as I stuff my face with FAKE RIB MEAT.
As I was cleaning up the mess on my face with a wet wipe, I began to feel pretty disgusted with myself. I felt like crying, puking and kicking my own ass all at the same time.
I didn’t have to tell anyone about this. I could have thrown the evidence away and went about my day as if it never happened. However, I need to be accountable for the way I treat my body, what with all of the diseases and disorders I’m trying to keep under control. I realize it’s okay to occasionally indulge in Not So Good For You Food. But honestly, with the amount of weight I have to lose and the fact that I’m pre-diabetic, doesn’t give me much license to EAT A MCRIB IN MY CAR AFTER A WORKOUT.
This can’t ever happen again, self. YOU HEAR ME?
To Sum it All Up– Naked, Soapy, Joy, Upgrade.
Last month me and my husband celebrated our 19th wedding anniversary. People tend to assume that we must be Really Good At Marriage. “19 years!” They say. “How DO you do it?”
Here’s the thing. We’re not very good at marriage. I mean, we love each other, obvs. We love our family, double obvs. But we don’t nurture our relationship the way that we should.
Let me give you an example: The last time we had spent a weekend alone together was when I was pregnant with our second child– 13 years ago!.
There really isn’t an excuse for this, other than the one we use every time we even THINK about planning a weekend getaway.
“We can’t afford it.”
This year, we promised each other we were going to plan a weekend in Vegas for our anniversary.
“No more excuses!” I said. “We’re doing this!”
Then, work slowed down for PigHunter. And unexpected adjusted tax bills came in the mail.
So, I canceled the trip.
Even though we had money saved.
Even though it was going to cost next to nothing.
“It’s the responsible thing to do!” I said. And PigHunter agreed.
But really, no. It wasn’t. We weren’t taking a luxurious cruise that was going to cost thousands of dollars. We were going to Vegas, where I could get a room for $60 on Hotwire.com. I mean, seriously, what the hell, Us?
Our marriage was worth that $60 room.
I booked the room, got a sitter and off to Vegas we went to make our marriage stronger. ( and when I say “make our marriage stronger” I mean “play quarter slots and have lots of naked sex.”)
The drive to Vegas was smooth, no fights, no arguments. Only lots of excitement about naked sex and quarter slots. And possibly, buffets. However, once we arrived in Vegas, things started to fall apart.
“You know how to get to The Strip, right?” I ask as we entered Vegas.
“No. But I assume the signs will tell us where to go.” He said.
“True, so we should just see our hotel when we’re on The Strip, right?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s not a big deal.” He replies, all High and Mighty-ish. “We’ll find our hotel.”
20 minutes and a Lots of Cuss Words later, we were at the end of The Strip and our hotel was no where in sight. Thanks to my G1, we finally found the hotel. However, that’s when the REAL fun started.
We pulled into what my husband, who has a Masters in Knowing All Things, was SURE was the Harrah’s parking lot. I had suggested perhaps, maybe, we were in the wrong place. He assured me that he was right, I was wrong. “I think you’re wrong.” I said. “but, WHATEVER.”
We parked and as we walked to the hotel, I kept asking “are you sure we’re in the right place?”
Suddenly, he was only “95%” sure.
We got into the elevator with all of our suitcases, camera’s sweaters and jackets. I saw a sign that said “Imperial Palace.” I pointed, all “YOU WERE WRONG” like. “So, you still think we’re in the right place?”
He wasn’t willing to admit defeat just yet. So, we got off the elevator and started walking. Even though we both knew we were at the wrong hotel. I finally had enough, so I verbally communicated my feelings, (something along the lines of “I’M SO PISSED HOLD MY BAGS I HAVE TO PEE YOU JERK.”) he tried not to laugh, we turned around and left to find the correct hotel parking lot.
Long story short. We found it. He dropped me off to check in while he parked.
“Next, please” the man at the check in counter called out. I handed him my credit card, he looked up my reservations.
“Would you like to upgrade to the jacuzzi suite?” He asked
“How much?” I asked.
“$75.”
I thought about it. And as I thought about it, I felt what can only be described as Joy in the Pants. The Cheap in Me was all “don’t listen to the Joy (in your pants.) Be responsible! Say no!” But the Joy in my Pants was all “NAKED SOAPY BODIES FUN NAKED!”
Joy in the Pants won.
I upgraded the room.
I didn’t tell PigHunter about the upgrade. I figured I’d let him be surprised once we got up to the room. I opened the door. We looked around and he goes “wow, this is really roomy. I can’t believe we only paid $60 for this!” I giggled. “I upgraded to the suite… check it out.” I took him by the hand and led him to the jacuzzi.
Instant Joy in HIS Pants!
He didn’t even care about how much! He just cared about “how long til we were both naked and soapy!”
It took about EXACTLY 6 seconds of looking at the jacuzzi for the Joy in my Pants to turn into Fear of Bacteria and Disease. The excitement of I felt (in my pants) when I heard the words “jacuzzi” and “suite” had temporarily shutdown the OCD portion of my brain because not once did the thought of Other Peoples Sex register while I was handing over my credit card to upgrade. But now that I was there, face to face with it, that’s all I could think about. And there’s nothing that will kill sexual excitement quite like threat of getting an STD.
Meanwhile, PigHunter was standing there wondering “how long til we’re naked in this thing?”
I convinced him that we should go out for dinner before getting naked and (possibly, catching a disease.)
We headed out looking for some of the places that twitter had suggested. However, somehow, we found ourselves in line at the Harrah’s buffet. (Which, by the way, WAS THE ABSOLUTE WORST. Next time, I’m listening to twitter.)
After dinner, we decided to take a walk. Just outside of the hotel, there was an outdoor bar. A cover band was playing. “Oh, let’s go!” I shouted, as I grabbed his hand and led him down the stairs. Cover bands are one my favorite things about Vegas. Let me rephrase that. Old Ladies in tight leather pants dancing nastily to cover bands is my absolute favorite thing about Vegas. And man, were there plenty of them at this place. It was pure Vegas Magic.
We stood there for at least 30 minutes, watching, pointing, laughing, but also admiring. I love people who don’t give a shit what other people think and just enjoy themselves. You know?
Something you should know about my husband is that he doesn’t like to dance. (Probably because he is stuck in the 80’s when it comes to dancing.) The only time we have ever danced together was when we used to go line dancing in Orange County. We’d do the Cowboy Cha Cha together (and also the Boot Scootin’ Boogie. NO LIE.) That was years ago. We haven’t danced together since. So, imagine my surprise when I asked him to dance to a Cheesy Cover of Poison (as in Bel Biv Divoe’s song, not Brett Michaels band.) and he said “yes!”
We took the floor and that’s when the real magic happened.
My husband began to dance.
I tried to let him be himself, I tried to just be glad he was out there with, I really did. Who am I to judge? I can’t dance either. However, I also don’t move my arms like I’m dancing at a Hoe Down. So, I kind of felt like I should say something. I walked over and gently grabbed his arms. “Simmah down with the Hoe Down Arms, babe.” I said. He laughed and did it even harder, which made me laugh. (I’m so glad he has a sense of humor. If he had walked up to me and let’s say, grabbed my ass and said “Simmah down with the Ho Ass Movements” I would have BEEN SO PISSED.
I decided to embrace Hoe Down Arms and just have a good time. They kind of grew on me, to be honest. The more I think about it, the more I believe the world would be a little better if we all could be so lucky to have moves like this.
I’m not going to tell you the Juicy Details about all of the sex we had later that night, but I will say that I was able to get over my fear of disease to enjoy the jacuzzi, but only after I made my husband rinse it down for an hour with hot water. (Even then, I was still worried and disgusted and SHUT YOUR FACE RIGHT NOW IF YOU’RE EVEN THINKING OF TELLING ME HOW MANY DISEASES I PROBABLY HAVE NOW.) What I will tell you is that the $75 I spent on the upgrade was possibly the best money we’ve ever spent. Two weeks later, we still can’t stop talking about that night and are already planning another trip to do it again.
There is so much more to tell you, but honestly, this post is officially Too Long. So, I give you a few pictures instead of an actual ending to this post.