(Heyyyy)

I’ve recently developed a really embarrassing habit.
I have no idea why I have started doing this, or why I can’t seem to stop doing this, but I do know that I must be stopped because it’s embarrassing my children
I can’t stop giving people The Thumb’s Up. And I’m not talking about it in a joking manner. I’m talking about using it in actual, real life situations as a valid form of communication.
I’ve already busted out The Thumb twice today.
While at Starbucks, the barista asked me if it was ok that she put whipped cream on Gabby’s hot chocolate. Instead of saying “Yes, that’s fine!” I did this…

Then, while at my Weight Watchers meeting (More on THAT in just a bit) I threw a Big Thumbs Up combined with a wink to the lady who asked if I was happy with the program.
Maybe it’s not as big of a deal as I’m making it out to be, but in my experience, only Assholes use The Thumb’s Up gesture in real life conversations.
Well, assholes and The Fonz.
I suppose there are times in life when using a “thumb’s up” is necessary and/or acceptable. For instance, your husband asks you to help him back the moving truck into the yard by letting him know if he’s going to hit the tree. You stand behind the truck and when you realize he’s going to clear the tree just fine, you throw him a big ol’ thumb’s up to let him know that it’s all good and he can back that shit right up.
But when the Dish Network Technician tells you he’s all finished installing your service, TOTALLY NOT COOL to flip him the thumb while saying something totally not cool like “Right on, man..
I suppose that I have bigger things to be concerned with, like, you know, finding a place to live and um, losing the 30 pounds that I have put back on.
Of course, the finding a place to live is much more important than losing weight and so I’m spending much more time on Craigslist than I am on Weight Watchers, BUT, I am spending time (and money!) on Weight Watchers because over the past few months, I’ve let my weight once again spiral out of control and have put 32 pounds of the 70 that I had lost back on.
(Yes! I am spending my husband’s money on Weight Watchers! That makes you angry, doesn’t it? You’re outraged, aren’t you? Have you created an anonymous account to tell me to “get a job” yet? HAVE YOU? Well, don’t waste your time, because, I got a job. And? I may be getting another job that is actually kind of a dream job, so stop making your head explode by worrying about my life, ok? It’s all good. Alllllllll gooooooood.)
Long story short, I stopped taking care of myself. I stopped making healthy food choices, I stopped working out (except for an Aerobic Dance Class here and there), I pretty much stopped caring. Life got overwhelming and I caved to the pressure by taking it out on my body.
But, it wasn’t all sad and upsetting as one may think. Sure, I hated that I wasn’t fitting in my clothes, and I hated that I didn’t have to put my head down to make a double chin, but I also was enjoying the HELL out of not obsessing over what foods I was eating and going to the gym.
It was actually kind of scary just how little I cared.
I was tired of working so hard to lose weight, I was tired of watching every damn thing that I put in my mouth, I was tired of feeling guilty for having a cookie.
And I won’t lie, it was kind of fun turning into “Doug Heffernan” for a few months. (Yes, I actually rubbed my fat stomach and said “This is for the kids” on more than one occasion.) But, the truth is that being unhealthy is NOT funny. I may be all “ha! ha! none of my clothes fit me! and ha! ha! Look at my belly slap me in the face when I jump!” But deep down, I want to cry.
Because I don’t feel good.
When I finally decided that I needed to get serious about my health again, which was just last week, I decided that Weight Watchers was the way to go.
Hi, my name is Y and I am a have joined and quit and rejoined Weight Watchers at least 40 times.
I’m happy with my choice to once again count points and obsess over everything that I put into my mouth. I only (YES, I SAID ONLY) lost 3.6 pounds in my first week and that pisses me off (and the first person who says “at least you didn’t GAIN weight” gets my thumb up their ass, unless you like that sort of thing, then it’ll be my foot in your teeth.) but it just motivates me to try harder next week.
(And by “try harder” I mean “actually eat vegetables and not use all of my points on coffee and string cheese.”)
I’ve thought about whether I should document my progress/failures/but mostly progress (positive thinking!) in pictures again, but I’ve not made up my mind yet. I am not sure if that was actually more harmful than helpful for my progress. I do know that my pictures and my candor on my battle with this thing called The Fat has inspired and encouraged complete strangers on the internet to lose weight, so that’s one reason to do it, *cue song by Chicago* but I also know that there are some raging, throbbing assholes on the internet who have nothing better to do with their time then create flickr accounts to leave me asshole comments. In the end, I realize that no one really cares what I do, but that it’s a personal decision I have to make.
And I think that I should do it, but let’s be honest, it’s going to be really embarrassing to post a picture with the numbers “203” in the title after having posted a picture like this. (oh, how I miss you oh 170ish waist)
But hey, at least I’m being honest. And at least I’m trying to do something about it and I think that deserves one big old Fonzarelli Thumbs Up.
fonz.jpg

When did we turn into that gross “Older Couple” that your parents know but never invite over anymore because that ONE time I plucked his ear hair out with my nails at their dinner table.

You know you’ve been married for too long when you sneeze and immediately proclaim that “I just pissed my pants!” and your husband reaches into your underwear drawer without even blinking an eye and hands you a clean pair of underwear.
But then again, I don’t blink an eye when he bursts through front door after a hard day at work and declares that he will be in the bathroom for a while because “I NEED TO GO CLEAR THE POOP SHOOT CHUTE!”
And to think we still very much love to “Do It” with each other.

For “The (Blogala) Record”.

Ok.
A couple of things.
-I did not say “And I’m not just saying that because I got to pee on Stage 5 of the Warner Bros. lot where Julia Louis-Dreyfus might also pee between takes!” Liz said it in her post about the taping.
-I did not say that I was “inundated with free stuff”. I said that I am inundated with OFFERS for free stuff and that I have turned the offers down because I do NOT want my content to turn into a “today, I made ::insert name brand biscuits here:: for dinner and mmmmm they were delicious and hey! have you entered their recipe contest yet?” blog**. When I do write about any type of products on this blog, (which is hardly ever) it is because it is a product that I am in love with, ((OMG! Fabric Softener!) that I bought with my (husband’s hard earned) money and want the entire world to know about them(OMG! Oxiclean!). I also said that yes, I do have ads on my side bar and am not opposed to that in any way, but that’s because I do not have to change my content or write product reviews on the ads placed there.
-That said, if anyone ever starts handing out free Starbucks gift cards or Laker tickets, I’m ALL OVER THAT.
-Blogola? HAHA.
-Unfortunately, I did say “it was totally rad” in reference to my visit to the set of Old Adventures of New Christine. What can I say? I am a dork and you all know this.
-I sign all of my emails with “xoxo”.
-I did the interview with the cast of New Adventures of Old Christine because I thought it would be an great experience (hello? When you get a chance to talk with Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Wanda Sykes, you freaking TAKE IT.)
-I was not pressured to write anything that I didn’t want to write about my experience or the show itself. I wrote whatever I wanted to write and no one told me to do otherwise. I don’t deny that they used me to help promote the show. I mean, DUH, that was the whole point. But, no one told me that I had to write good things about the show or my experience.
-I hope my parents don’t read the WSJ. But if they do, um, today is going to be TOTALLY RAD!
And finally
-I finally gots me my own internet connection. Let the blogging resume!
**not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Continue reading →

I always feel like somebody’s watching me

It is Wednesday night. Do you know what that means?
It means my parents are at church and I can play on their internet!
Technically, I have access to The Internet, but, not really.
I have yet to set up my computer in the room that we are staying in and my dsl modem (hells yeah I ordered my own DSL) will not arrive until May 16th . So, that means the only internet connection available is the one on my Mom’s computer, which means I can only use it when she’s not here, or when she’s talking on the phone in another room.
Excuse me for one minute.
Clear browsing history.
Clear cache.
Delete cookies.
Ok. What was I talking about again? Ah, yes, the fact that I am a wimp who doesn’t want my parents to know that I have a blog.
How old am I again?
I know it’s only a matter of time until they find it, because my mother finally learned how to use “google”.
Last night, she was all “I think I have a *insert infection that I am not willing to name in case she googles it again* and I’m going to google it!”
I’ll admit, I panicked a little and started to recall if I had ever written about *insert infection that I will not name*.
“Let me look it up for you!” I shouted as I practically knocked her down to get to the computer first.
If she ever googles “Aerobic Dancing” I’m so screwed.
I just had a conversation about this with my sister last week. She asked if I was ever going to tell my parents about this blog. She asked me if I was tired of “hiding.”
I don’t feel like I’m hiding. (as I’m clearing “browsing history” for the 15th time in 2 minutes while listening for a car pulling up in the driveway) For me, it’s more about feeling like I don’t have to tell them everything that I do in my life.
They would not approve.
They would be offended by the things that I write.
So, what benefit would it be to me or to them to tell them about it?
I know there are people reading this who don’t understand what the big deal is, but you don’t know my parents.
They are good people, but they have ZERO tolerance for anything that does not align with their beliefs.
I was 30 years old when my parents found out that I “drink devil water” (thank you for ratting me out, SON.) and OH MAN, you people do not understand what I had to listen to for days and even now, five years later.
Maybe I am hiding, but I think of it more as “choosing not to deal.”
Does your family know about your blog? If so, does it affect how/what you write? I know that if I KNEW my parents were reading, I’d certainly feel the need to censor myself.
And, honestly, is that what you want?
I don’t think that it is.

You can have the cabinets, but we’re taking The Love with us.

As I was swinging Gabby in the swing that Tony hung from the tree in the front yard, I started to think about how much I’m going to miss that tree.
So many happy memories revolve around that tree.
Sitting under the cool shade it provided while eating ice cream on warm, Sunday afternoons.
Playing hide and seek with my kids.
Blowing bubbles with my daughter.
Raking up leaves into big piles so the kids could jump into them.
Watching my kids have fun with water in the summer time.
Sitting underneath it while watching my boys shoot hoops.
SO many wonderful memories have been made around that big, beautiful tree.
I started to cry.
I’ve cried a lot since finding out we’d have to move from this house and it has nothing to do with the house itself and everything to do with the memories that have been made inside of these walls.
Ethan’s just as upset as I am, if not more so, because of the very same reasons. This morning when he was finished brushing his teeth as he was getting ready for school, he came out of the bathroom with tears in his eyes.
“This is the last time I’ll brush my teeth before school in this bathroom, Mom.”
And then he broke down and sobbed like a baby.
I hugged him as tight as I could and I told him that I know how he feels.
Because I feel the same way.
I didn’t realize how deeply it would hurt to tear the kid’s bedrooms apart. With each picture that I took off of the wall, a little piece of my heart was yanked from my chest because someone else is going to be sleeping in their rooms and the thought of that makes me so sick that I could puke.
When I see my youngest son so upset about not living here anymore, when he cries because he’s “never going to sleep in his bedroom ever again” I am reminded of when my Grandparents sold their house and how devastated that I was.
I loved my Grandparents house. It was just down the street from my mom’s house and it was like a second home to me. I spent almost every weekend there. It’s funny, all of these years later, I still can close my eyes and remember exactly how that house looked, and how it smelled and how happy I felt when I was there.
I was in high school when they decided to sell it. I couldn’t believe it, I couldn’t understand the idea of NEVER being able to go there again. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that I’d never be able to swim in her pool again, that I’d never be able to bake with my Grandma in that kitchen, that I’d never sit on the porch swing ever again.
Oh, and I couldn’t bear the thought of some stranger living in that house. I cried for days.
The day that my Grandparents moved out was one of the saddest days of my life.
I was there, helping them pack and clean and I cried the entire time.
I remember sitting on the coach and picking up a piece of paper and a pen. I began to write a letter to the new owners of the house.
“I love this house so much, I’ve had so many great memories here, please, take very good care of it because I love it so much and am so sad that I can’t ever spend the night here again.”
I taped notes like that all over the house. It helped me so much to write my feelings out and to tell the people who would be moving in how deeply I loved that house.
I feel compelled to do the same thing here, before we leave for good tomorrow.
“Hi,
I know this house is old and ugly, trust me, I’ve hated it for a long time, but this is the place where we’ve raised our family for the past 10 years. When we moved in, our first born son was only 4 years old and I was pregnant with our second son.
You see that window right there in the living room? When we first moved in there, my little 4 year old would stand there, barely able to see out and he’d watch the neighbor kids ride their bikes. He wanted so badly to play with them, but he was so little, I was afraid he’d not fit in with the kids.
But he did and one of those little boys, Mikey, became his very best friend and every single day, they sit on that wall right there and talk.
Are you a Laker fan? I hope so, because I sure would hate to know that you’re going to paint over that purple and gold stripe that my husband spent hours on. That was Ethan’s room. He loved that room more than he loves the Lakers, and that’s a whole damn lot. I spent a lot of nights sitting at the foot of his bed right there, rubbing his little head to feet to help him fall asleep when he was having a bad dream. Sometimes, I’d fall asleep there next to him and in the morning, he’d wake up and thank me for making him feel safe.
That purple room was our daughter’s room. We spent so much time and money on that room, because we wanted it to be perfect for our unexpected joy. I imagine you’re going to tear the pretty border off of the walls. A lot of work went into putting that border up. My husband would wet it and I’d follow behind him with a blow dryer to make sure it dried quick and stuck to the wall just the way it was supposed to. We would talk about our little girl and what we thought she’d look like and how we still couldn’t believe we were having a daughter seven years after we swore we were done having kids. My little girl loved that room so much and when we had taken all of her furniture out, she cried so hard and said “But I NEED my dresser, daddy, please! Put it back! I need it so bad.” And I cried, and she cried, because no matter how many times I tried telling her that we were moving to a new house, she just didn’t understand.
The master bedroom, that was our room. Our daughter was conceived in that room, on the floor, in front of the bathroom.
Oh, that bathroom. We used to play hide and seek with our boys when they were little and we’d always hide in the tub in there. It was so funny, because they’d get so freaked out when they couldn’t find us, and my oldest son would beg his little brother to “go look first” because he was too scared. Me and my husband would laugh so hard, because it was cute. I guess you had to be there.
There was a lot of love in this house. So much love that as I’m writing this letter, I feel as though my heart might explode because MY GOD, there’s so much love in this house and I hope you feel it and I hope you appreciate just how many wonderful, amazing, sometimes heartbreaking, but mostly beautiful memories were made in this house.
What matters.

Dear God, Thank You For Wine. Amen.

I’m sitting here calling various utilities to have them shut off/transferred to my mom’s house.
Apparently, some of these mother fuckers are using “voice recognition” symptoms instead of the old fashioned “entering of a number” to get to the right agent to help you with all of your needs, which, by the way, is VERY IMPORTANT TO THEM because they love you and value you as a customer.
But, if that’s true, if they really value me then can someone please explain to me why these asshole voice recognition systems do not recognize simple answers like “ONE” and “NO.”
Why, God, WHYYYYYY?
I just about had a mental breakdown just now while trying to schedule the disconnection of my broadband.
Asshole Automated Computer Dude: If you are calling your high speed internet account, say “one”.
Me: one
AACD: I’m sorry, I did not understand your request. If you’re calling about your high speed internet account, say “one.”
Me: (a little louder and also slower.) o-n-e.
AACD: I’m sorry, I did not understand your request. If you’re calling about your high speed internet account, say “one.”
Me: (very loudly) ONE!
AACD: I’m sorry, I did not understand your request. If you’re calling about your high speed internet account, say “one.”
Me: (screaming like a crazy bitch from hell. No Seriously. I lost all control on this one.) OOOOOOOONNNNNNNEEEEEEE OHHHH MYYYYYYY GOODDDDDDDDD OOOOONEEEEEEEE.
And then I threw my phone through the window and cut someone.
Not really. But I wanted to because why must it be so damn complicated? AHHHHHHHHH.
Had this happened on a day when my stress level wasn’t THIS HIGH, I don’t think that I would have wanted to cut people over such a thing.
We have 2 days to be out of this house, so PigHunter took these two days off so that we can get out of here on time and um, well, we don’t work well together when it comes to these sort of things.
Anytime we attempt to do any sort of work that involves anything to do with a “house” (Painting, rearranging furniture, loading the dishwasher, moving.) you can bet yer ass that The Fingah will be used frequently and with great passion.
Now, when you combine the fact that we don’t work well together with the fact that he has gas and has to figure out EXACTLY WHAT CAUSED THE GAS, things are a leeeeeettle “tense” around here.
And things are going to to continue to be tense until we find our own place and are not living with my parents. (But, thank God for my parents, because without their generosity, we’d be making reservations at a Motel 6 right about now.)
Despite all of the craziness that is going on here, there are some good things happening for me, for us. And I’m trying to focus on those things and not on the fact that we’re technically “homeless” or that my husband is STILL carrying on about what could have possibly caused his gas.
So, um, how you doin’?

The Beginning of The End.

One room down, 6 more rooms to go
Cleaning out my children’s bedrooms has been the hardest thing about this entire moving process.
I’ve cried a lot over the past 2 days because of all of the memories that this place holds for our family. At the same time, I’m looking forward to finding a new place for my family, one that I’m not ashamed of living in.
There is so much I want to write out, so many things I want to remember about this process, about this difficult time in our lives, but finding time to sit down and do it is almost impossible right now because we have to be out of here by Saturday.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to carve out a few minutes tonight to write it all out, because I never want to forget this.
Until then, you’ll get pictures. AND YOU WILL LIKE IT.

You should see the smile on his face. (And the dry humping moves he makes every time I look in his general direction.)

It was exactly SIX months ago that my husband bravely and voluntarily offered up his nut sack to a doctor he barely even knew to do a little procedure called The Vasectomy.
I’d like to think that he did it out of love for me, out of respect for my tired uterus and my thrice stitched vagina, but deep down I know he did it so that he could “Tap That Ass” as frequently as his little, er, extremely large heart desires, without threats of bodily harm and/or death. (Example: “FINE! But I swear, if you get me pregnant, I WILL KEEL YOU!”)
And what a better way to celebrate the six month anniversary of The Day He Got His Shit Snipped then to get a voice mail from the doctor’s office that said the following words:

Dear Mr.PigHunter, we got the results from your sample and they were negative. You don’t need to bring any more samples, you’ll all done.”

(Yes, it took him SIX months to take a flippin’ sample in. Someone was Proscratinatin’ with the ejaculatin’.)
I had mixed emotions when I heard that message. I felt a bit of sadness because, Wow…I can never make babies with this man ever again and also, WOW…I can never use the term The Weapon of Mass Fertilization&trade ever again.
But mostly? I was happy and excited because OH MY GOD! PIGHUNTER’S STERILE, Y’ALL! Let the spermless humping begin!

This is how it happens.

It was a typical Sunday night here at (not) our house.
The boys were in the garage jamming with their guitars and drums; Tony was doing some cleaning in there while Gabby danced around listening to her brothers rock out with their instruments. I was in the house sniffing the steak to make sure it hadn’t gone bad.
I went into the garage and asked Tony to come inside so that I could have him sniff the steak (because I am paranoid when it comes to meat and always think it smells bad and must be rotten.) I told the boys “I need your dad for one minute, keep an eye on your sister while she’s in here with you.”
“Ok, Mom, we will.”
Tony followed me inside and the great “The Steak is Bad!! IS NOT!!” debate began.
“It smells fine, it’s not bad.”
“I think it smells funny.”
“Well, you always think meat smells bad. You’re a paranoid freak about meat.”
“Well, better to be safe than end up with food poisoning from bad meat.”
“IT’S NOT BAD.”
“Fine! I’ll cook it for YOU, but I’m not feeding that to my children. I’ll go get them something for dinner.”
“Fine!”
I started to season the steak when Tony came up behind me to tell me he didn’t want THAT spice on it but THIS spice.
So, I let him take over steak seasoning duties and I headed over to the TV to turn on Celebrity Fit Club.
About 5, no more than 10 minutes had passed since Tony had come inside and left Gabby with her brothers in the garage. I got this really weird feeling in the pit of my stomach that I needed to make sure she was ok, because as much as the brothers love her, sometimes they forget they’re supposed to be watching her (which is why I never ask them to watch her for more than a few minutes at a time.)
“I’m going to go check on the kids, I need to make sure the boys are paying attention to their sister.”
Tony followed behind me.
The garage door is immediately to your left when you open the front door, so I opened up the screen, looked at Andrew who was holding his electric guitar in his lap and said “Is your sister ok?”
“She’s not here. I thought she went with you guys.”
“Are you kidding? I told you to keep an eye on her while I talked with your dad.”
“I know, but I thought she went inside with you.”
Tony ran out front to see if she was there. I ran inside to see if she had snuck inside. I began to search all of the rooms and didn’t see her.
I ran back outside, where my husband and the boys were frantically searching all over the yard. We were all screaming “GABBY!? GABBY?”
I ran back inside thinking maybe she was hiding in her brothers room or something silly like that. Ethan had ran inside with me and I turned to him and screamed “WHERE IS SHE, ETHAN? OH MY GOD, WHERE IS SHE?”
He started to cry.
“I don’t know, Mom.”
I could hear Tony and Andrew screaming for her outside.
I was trying to stay calm, because I have a history of overreacting (OMG! BEES!) and surely, my little girl wasn’t really missing! So no need to lose my fucking mind!
But then, I heard my husband shout out to the neighbor down the street in a frightened, hysterical voice, “Have you seen a little girl?!?”
And my heart stopped.
And I felt the room spinning
And I felt like I was going to throw up, or pass out, or die.
I ran back outside.
Andrew was crying and saying “Oh my God, Gabby.”
Tony was white as a ghost.
Ethan was crying while riding around on his bike screaming “GABBY.”
“WHERE IS SHE TONY? OH MY GOD WHERE IS SHE?”
“Go call 911” he shouted at me.
I ran inside, head was spinning, heart was pounding out of my chest and all I could think was “this can not be happening. This can NOT BE HAPPENING TO MY FAMILY.”
I was shaking so violently that I could barely pick up the phone.
9-1-1.
At the exact moment that I heard the operator answer my call (“What’s your emergency?”) I heard my husband scream “Y! I found her! I found her!”
“I thought our little girl was missing, but we found her, we found her!”
I began to sob as I hit my knees because they were so weak they could no longer support my weight.
Tony ran inside and brought her to me while the 911 operator was asking me a few questions.
I hung up with her and asked him where he found her. “Where was she?”
“She was in my car, playing around in the backseat.”
Apparently, while he was running around outside frantically screaming her name, he heard her little voice, but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Then, he turned towards his car and saw her little beanie bouncing around in the backseat of his car. (His car was parked on the curb just in front of our house.)
You see, she loves to play inside of the car. Sometimes, I’ll take her outside, we’ll climb in my van and I’ll let her play with the steering wheel while I listen to talk radio. And sometimes Tony will let her play inside of his car while he’s washing it. So, the little princess had walked out of the garage, headed down the driveway, walked over the grass, stood on the curb, opened up the car door, climbed in, shut the door behind her and was having a Party For One in the backseat totally clueless the to fact that her entire family, the people who love her more than anything else in the world, were frantically looking for her thinking she had been snatched by a stranger. (Because that is what we ALL thought.)
The only other time that I have been as scared as a parent is when Ethan almost drowned in our neighbor’s swimming pool.
It felt as though hours had passed by in those moments where we couldn’t find our little girl, but in reality, the entire ordeal lasted less than 10 minutes. And in those 10 minutes, I thought of so many awful things that could have happened to her and I thought of all of the times where I hadn’t paid enough attention to her and all of the times that I had been angry with her for stupid things that don’t really matter.
Tony handed her to me, I started to cry and kiss her all over and tell her how much I loved her and how she should never climb into daddy’s car without telling us first and how I’ll never complain again about how ever since she started wanting to wear make up and “be pretty like mommy” all of my lipsticks look like this.


And then, we all sat down as a family to talk about how important it is to obey your parents if they tell you to “watch your sister” for a few minutes, but more importantly, how we should hug each other more, kiss each other more, tell each other how much we love each other more because life is crazy and life as you know it can change in a split second and you never, ever want to regret how you treated the people who you love the most.