So I’ve been completely remiss in posting.  I could give you a myriad of excuses.  But alas, thats all they would be… excuses. 

I should be one of these people who make time for things they enjoy.   I happen to be one of those people who think about the things I enjoy, and am always doing the things I detest.

 So, despite my lenghthy absence, I want my re-emergance to blogging to be on a low note (yes - I know it should say a “high note”, but trust me  - keep reading, you’ll soon get the picture).

 Let’s do some catching up first:

1) I recently recieved court ordered custody of my adorable 18 month-0ld nephew.

2) I’ve had no sleep since recieving said custody of adorable child.

3) I have been thrust into the world of figuring out how to become a foster parent (in order to legitimatize said custody of adorable child who causes me to have no sleep.)

 One step in becoming a foster parent is getting a physical. 

Now, if you’ve read my previous post, On Being A Weight Watchers Flunky, you know that I’m not the crowning example of physical fitness.  But that aside, I had no choice - and I couldn’t imagine that a few extra pounds (okay - more that a “few”.  Don’t be so judgemental  - I’m working on it !) would keep me from parenting my nephew.

So, this past Monday, I walked into the doctor’s office.

 I was greeted by a friendly (and good looking), male nurse (did I mention good looking).  This nurse (whose name I forget), escorted me to a private room where he proceeded to do all the things you would expect a nurse to do.  He took my temperature, took my blood pressure, put me on a scale (Ugh!), he hurled the usual mundane questions at me, such as:

“Are you allergic to any medication?”

“Are you taking any medications currently?”

“Have you had any major surgery in the past 6 months?”

“What’s the capital of Colombia?”

Well he didn’t ask that last one… but he should have.  Because I would have answered “Bogota”, and I would have been right.  And…I’m WAY off topic.

Anywho, finally, said nurse presented me with a small plastic cup, and informed me that he had to get a sample (of urine, for the unfamiliar).  The friendly (and good looking), male nurse (did I mention good looking),escorted me to the restroom and left me with instructions on how to deposit my “sample” thru an innocuous little opening in the bathroom wall.

I went about getting the job done (feeling pretty proud of myself for having produced anything at all, since I’d had ZERO to drink).  Seated on the toilet, I mustered a “2/3″ full sample.

This is when the truly amazing happens.  I mean -  a rare spectacle - such as to leave one speechless… and confused… and awed.

I. spilled. the. urine. into. my. pants.

 Now don’t rush - ponder this for a moment.  Imagine yourself seated on a toilet, looking down… and before your eyes are your urine soaked pants.  Imagine the feeling of shock, and then wonder, and then confusion - until you reach understanding (that you don’t have another pair of pants), finally giving way to HORRIFIC EMBARRASSMENT.

I must have sat there for a full minute before I could actually get my brain to tell my limbs to move.  Once I’d emerged from my coma, I began to furiously rinse my pants in the sink (which of course made the thing worse).  I now had about 1  1/2 cups of water soaking into my pants !

There’s no heat source in the bathroom to dry my pants.  So, I hung them over one of those metal railings that are in hospital bathroom stalls.  The ones that aide people who need to extricate themselves from the porcelain throne. 

I’ve also realized that I have no urine sample to present to said nurse (the good looking one).  So while waiting for the pants to dry (’cause I’ve got time to kill), I went about producing another sample.  This, of course, is fruitless, because I JUST DIDN’T NEED TO GO any longer. 

I would guesstimate that I’d been in the restroom for a good 10 to 15 minutes - more than reasonably expected for what I was asked to do.   I knew that even though my pants weren’t dry, and I didn’t have any sample to turn over, I’d have to leave the bathroom (before they came looking).

 So, with much discomfort, I put on the wet pants, cleaned up any visible mess, threw away the cursed plastic cup, and exited the restroom.

I was immediately confronted by said nurse (still good looking).  He appeared concerned, and inquired if everything was okay (If I could have blushed I would have, but it just doesn’t happen for people with skin as dark as mine).  As I clung to the wall (in an attempt to hide the fact that the back of my pants were SOAKED), I unleashed a torrent of explanations summarizing the event.

 He tried to soothe me, and told me that it was okay and that we  could try again in a bit.  As I walked behind him down the hall, he told me that I could wait in the room for the doctor to come and complete the exam - and of course, he did the gentlemanly thing, and at the door’s entrance, held out his hand, gesturing me to to pass him and enter the room.  At which point he must of received a disturbing surprise once he got a glimpse of my backside.

 Once in the room, I immediately called my husband.  Who found my story very funny (men never know when it’s too soon to laugh at a thing) - however, he did redeem himself by most sincerely offering to come to the doctors office with another pair of pants.  I declined - I wasn’t going to be spending any more than another few minutes in that office.  If I could have bolted at that moment, I would have.  But you see, I needed that doctor’s letter that said I as physically fit.

Said nurse must have explained to the doctor what had happened, because my esteemed physician came in to the room trying hard to stifle a grin (he’s only human… I guess). 

Anyway, I unleashed another hurricane of explanations and apologies on the dear doctor, and asked if there was any way to wrap this thing up because of my condition.  He was kind and hurried through the rest of the exam, and even let me out of having to produce another sample.  He explained that it was basically a formality anyway (but I secretly suspect that he was worried that I’d produce a repeat performance).

Once done, I rushed out that office like the building was on fire.  Needless to say I’m never going back there.  Facing the doctor (and the good looking nurse) for some reason feels like a fate worse than death… Okay - that was a bit dramatic.

 But that’s me - dramatic, diaper needing Tracy.

I. HATE. SCALES.

For the past few years they’ve told me nothing but bad news.  Occasionally, they’ll give some small ray of hope - only to snatch it back on the next visit.  They’re intrinsically evil.

 Every once in a while I’ll try to reason with the scale.  I’ll say things like -

Listen - here’s what I’ll do - I’ll go to the gym all this week.  I’ll even give up the sausage and eggs for breakfast on Tuesday, and Thursday.

 (Monday’s don’t count because it’s a depressing day and I need something to cheer me up.  Wednesdays don’t count because they’re a reward for surviving Monday & Tuesday - and Friday doesn’t count, well… because it’s Friday).

So inevitably I go into this bargain, believing that if I hold up my end, the scale will hold up its part.

SCALES. ARE. LIARS.

People like to say that the scale never lies.  Well those people are liars as well.  Scales are infamous liars !

I put a 10 lb dumbell on a scale once, and it told me it weighed 12.5 lbs.  Now if that isn’t a brazen lie, then I don’t know what is!  I mean, how am I expected to trust something that tells such obvious fiction !

Because there was a period of time when I bought into the rhetoric of the scale - I decided to take it’s advice and join Weight Watchers.

I don’t really have a problem with this organization (it’s worked for many people), but the results always seem to be short term, and I’m still trying to figure out where in their message is affirmations of healthy eating habits.

 For instance -  I went to a meeting where we sat around and discussed all of the “substitutes” we could find for the less than nutritous snacks that all got us joining Weight Watchers in the first place.  I heard things like - “Try this new Netstle product, you can eat 20 of them and they only count for 1 point“, or “Try these fabulous chocolate thing-a-ma-bobs, you can eat like a 100 of them and they only count for 2 points“.

 Correct me if I’m wrong here - Isn’t a MAJOR part of the weight gain issue MODERATION.  Shouldn’t we be teaching the concept of moderation.  I get that this chocolate thing-a-ma-bob only counts for 2 points - but Honey, you shouldn’t be eating a 100 of anything - that’s not being moderate. 

And inevitably, people come off of Weight Watchers feeling good for having lost the pounds - but they’ve learned no lessons.  So they put the weight back on.

With that said - the reason I failed at Weight Watchers was not as a result to that.

I. SADLY. HAVE. COMMITTMENT. ISSUES.

and….

When put in tempations path:

I. WILL. ALWAYS. CHOOSE. CREME BRULEE.

That, my friends, is why I have been a Weight Watchers flunky.  No will power. 

Thinking I could fix this issue overnight, I decided to join with a girlfriend of mine (Tina dear - you are a pearl - and to quote you, “the hottest woman on the planet“).  Tina and I have an interesting dynamic.  We both have this uncanny ability to influence the other for bad.  Now, it’s not the catty, female - I don’t want you to suceed, so I’m going to sabotage - kind of influence.   This is how it usually goes:

Me:  Remind me - why are we doing this, again?

Tina:  Because we’ve looked in the mirror.

Me:  I’m hungry.

Tina:  Me too.

Me:  Lets blow this popscicle stand and go get deep fried sushi.

Tina: I’ll drive.

The problem here is that there is no one in this relationship to say - hey guys, bad idea.  Deep fried sushi is like 1200 calories in one sitting.  Think about your heart.

Had there been someone their to share that nugget of wisdom, we would have - backed over them with the car on the way to Mikado - but we would have had a serious discussion (after the sushi was consumed) about the evils of giving into temptation.

So now you know why Weight Watchers has me down in their book under “The Failures”.  It’s a tragic tale - but it has a happy ending…  I don’t know what it is yet - but I’m supremely optimistic that it’ll end with me losing like 300 lbs (total exaggeration for those of you that have no idea what I look like… seriously…I don’t need to lose 300 lbs).

Oh, by the way, those aren’t my feet in the picture.  My ankles are much fatter…and browner.

I’ve just returned from a bruncheon attended by women from my church.  So much fun ! Anyway, I was in charge of bringing the muffins.  Really an exciting task for me, because I have the BEST muffin recipe thats been lurking around my family cookbooks for years.  Very simple, very delicious - and because of that - not the healthiest.  But don’t let that dissuade you.  Ever Everyone deserves a treat every once in a while.  In our family, these muffins show up at Thanksgiving (I know -  muffins at Thanksgiving?  you may ask.  I don’t get it either - family traditions are unexplainable).  Try it out, I promise they won’t disappoint:

1. 1 Package Jiffy corn muffin mix
2. 1 egg
3. 1/3 cup of whole milk
4. 1/2 cup of fresh sour cream
5. 1/2 cup of grated cheddar cheese
6. 1/2 cup of creamed corn

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.  Mix all the ingredients together in a large bowl (batter will be lumpy).  Scoop mixture into muffin tins.  Cook for 15-20 minutes.  Let cool (will be considerably hot !) for 5 minutes.

Yields 6 muffins.

 Now I’d like to point out that I’ve been conservative in my estimates of those “good” ingredients (i.e., sour cream, cheddar).  Feel free to up the sour cream by another 1/3 cup if you’re daring ;o).  Makes muffins nice and moist !

My husband has announced that he’s going camping -I am, obviously, filled with dread.  I have this thing about being alone in the house.  Mind you I’m not technically alone - my 7 year old is with me.  But by alone I mean “without the comfort of an adult who knows how to shoot a gun and/or fight intruders.” 

I unforturnately can do none of those things (and neither can my 7 year old).  I’ve had bad experiences being home alone.  

A few years ago my husband was working graveyard shifts, and I - to avoid being home alone - spent most of my time at my mother’s house.  One Friday, after spending most of the evening in my mother’s company, decided to be a ”big girl”, pack it up and go home…at midnight (my 1st mistake).  

Thirty minutes later finds me walking through my front door (turning on every light - because for some unrational reason it makes me feel safer), and I notice something strange… The outside door that leads to my backyard is wide open. A million things beginning spinning round my mind.  It’s midnight - how long has the door been open?  Do I see anything visbly missing from the house?  Why didn’t I invest in an alarm system? and of course… Is HE still here??? 

 I closed the opened door, and proceeded to check every bedroom, bathroom, and closet on the 1st floor.  Nothing there (what I would have done if I’d actually found someone I’m not sure - but somehow I felt that I ought to at least look).  After my search (if you could call it that), I stood in my family room staring at the stairs leading down to my basement (all the while clutching my poor daughter, and pressing her tightly against my thighs). 

It was ominous - there might as well have been a green glowing light coming from the crack under the door - it was that creepy.  I stood there for some minutes trying to convince myself that I was a grown woman and should be able to go down there, turn on the light, and have a look around….yeah right!

In times of crisis people often lean on their faith in a higher being for comfort, I knelt right down in my living room and started to pray ! Pray for intruders that would miraculously disappear - pray for movie star heroes to show up and save the day - pray for a gun…. Aha ! a gun.  My husband owned a few handguns.  I could get one of his!  I rushed to the case where they are kept locked and stored…and realized I had no idea where he kept the key.  Typical. 

The next best thing was an old BB gun from my husband’s childhood.  I went and retrieved it from my bedroom closet, held it in my hands, not knowing if there were any pellets in it (not even knowing how to figure out if there were pellets in it), and not believing that it would be any great protection to me - but somehow I felt better about having it. 

My daughter and I got dressed in our pajamas and jumped into my bed, gun in tow.  I couldn’t fall asleep.  Not with a burglur in the basement. 

As my daughter slept, I sat up in bed, holding the BB gun, and and listening to every sound in the house - imagining that I heard footsteps on the soft carpet outside my bedroom door.  I sat there devising a defence plan, thinking about escape routes.  I was quickly losing my mind.  I sat in that bed for about an hour an a half, imagining the most horrific of deaths, that I couldn’t take it anymore !  I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

I’d like to pause for a moment and answer the question that may be on your mind.  Why hadn’t I called the police in the first place?  Well, there are lots of reasons…Well, there’s actually only one - I was embarrased.  I knew I was being silly.  I know myself.  I knew that I’d probably left that door open myself, and it had remained that way the entire day.  I didn’t want to have the police come to my house at midnight on a Friday night for no reason.  But at this point, I was having a mini heart attack, and the only way I was going to get any reassurance, was if SOMEONE went down into that basement and confirmed or denied that there was a burglar down there.

I explained to the 911 operator that I came home and found my backdoor open and, that I might have been burgled, and was concerned that the intruder was still there (I did neglect to mention that I’d been home for at least 2 to 3 hours at this point). 

Two police officers (one pleasant - one surly) came right over (I bundled up Morgan and sat outside on my doorstep waiting for them).  I told them everything (including timeline, the BB gun, and the earnest prayers to my Heavenly Father), and they looked at me wearily - but they’ve got a job to do so… they fetched this huge German Shepard from their police cruiser, stood on my doorstep (guns drawn), and started yelling to the unknown suspect that they were sending the “dog in”, and if they didn’t want to be mauled then they ought to “give it up” (or something to that effect). 

With no reply from inside, they unleashed the dog, and it proceeded to go through every room in my house, including the basement. The dog came back without even a piece of  hide torn from a dangerous criminal.  The officers looked at each other, and then at me (wearily), and entered the house.  They too checked every room, entered the basement, and returned.  They told me (wearily) that there was no one there, and that I ought to go to bed. 

I recognize that I completely wasted their time, and that I’m a very silly woman - but I’ll tell you what - I had the best night sleep after that.  There’s nothing better than being reassured that there are no monsters hiding under your bed, in your closets, and especially in your basement.

Oh by the way, my husband has decided that he won’t be going camping this weekend.  His friends flaked out on him.  I’m grateful for flaky friends, they save taxpayer dollars.

So what’s the deal with flies? I mean - what’s their function exactly? 

Just to give you some background - I hate flies.  I know, I know - we all hate flies.  But I really hate them.  I may even take a small amount of sadistic pleaure in ridding them from the planet (nothing clinical -but definetly not normal). 

Come summer, my fly swatter and my water bottle are my constant companions.  I keep the swatter near because I literally cannot have a fly in the house.  Once I’ve become cognizant of one, I become the hunter.  I stalk. 

I move slowly (so not to disturb the “nemesis”), and I creep my way to it’s resting spot.  I raise my swatter in the air (all the while calculating the speed and force with which I should employ in order to sucessfully kill this pest), and in one swoop I bring my hand down and… miss spectacularily. 

Nemesis takes off, and I stand perfectly still - only shifting my eyes to track the its movements - waiting for it to land in another opportune spot.  It goes on for hours.  I’m crippled until the fly is dead.  I can’t think, I can’t sit still (for fear that it will come buzzing by my ear - THE WORST OFFENCE), my whole day is in shambles. 

But now I’ve become philosophical about this…You really out to know your enemy before going into battle.  So here we are - what is a flies occupation? 

From what I remember of 8th grade biology, within the animal kingdom there’s this heirarchy, and every mammal has a job - somehow centered around population control (of course, I could be making this up…I’m not the foremost expert)  But, assuming this to be true, where does the fly fit. 

I Googled it, and what I learned was, to say the least, disturbing (learn more here).  Let me sum things up for you: They have no real function except to annoy and make us sick. As a matter of fact, they’ve been known to kill thousands of people. 

I know that scientist have better things to study than the extermination of insects, but - for the sake of quality of life (okay - well really just the quality of my life), we need to effectively rid ourselves of these pests (that was me on a soapbox). 

Oh!  And that leads me to another thing - what’s the deal with the fly swatter? That things useless…

This is a short story I wrote in late 2006.  I entered into a writing contest that was recommended to me by a friend.  The jist of it was that each contestant was to take the 1st line of a published work of fiction (a list of sentences was provided), and create a short mystery story around it.  I wrote this one in about an hour, and spent another hour doing revisions.  It’s far from perfect (umm… probably the reason I didn’t win)- but, it’s at the very least, readable.

Reasonable Doubt

You will find here samplings of my short stories (mostly mystery fiction), my thoughts about writing, and inevitably, my struggles with it.  I love to write - it’s theraputic, and on the whole, I encourage it.  You can journal and write for your posterity, or you can write beautiful poetry, and bear your soul in prose.  Whatever form it takes, whether good or bad, WRITE! - because everyone has something to say, and there will always be people willing to listen.

So I’m completely obsessed with DIY projects, and as I was Stumbling today, I came across this nifty little site that shows you 100 Things you can make yourself.  I’m going to start with the gingerale. 

Have you ever wondered how supermarkets decide what products should be displayed around the checkout counters to entice us into that one last impluse purchase? 

 There’s the staples: gum, hard candy, chips, gossip magazines.  Those seem pretty straight forward to me.   But the other day as I was standing in line, I took a closer look at some of the other items on display. 

My observations; dog chew toys, pencils, beef jerky, tampons. 

Very strange combinations of things - and I thought to myself, “why these things?”. 

• Did someone do a survey? 
• Did they find out that when standing in line,  people are more likely to buy these things? 
• Is there a science to the impulse purchase?  

It’s bizzare…but oddly enough, my dogs needed a squeaky ball, my seven year old is constantly in need of a pencil, I love cured meat, and it was that time of the month.  c’est la vie.