Vicky tried to murder me

Today I got a serious cardio workout. By the end of it, I was heaving, sweating, and red in the face. Some of my skin might have come off in the process.

I'm talking about trying on a bra. And not just any bra. This was a Victoria's Secret body shaping bra - one that lifts and hoists the twins and sucks in everything that bulges.

Unfortunately, I chose my bra size. One would think that this garment would go over my body with ease, as I chose my size. Um, that would be a negative, sir. No, see, apparently a woman with my bra size shouldn't have the butt size I have. There's no taking into account that some women are bottom heavy.

So here I am, in the dressing room, super excited about being able to look good in my clothes with the help of this bra/body shaper. Little did I know the experience would be one of rib-crushing pain.

For my first attempt I step into the shaper. I begin to pull up on the bra, only for it to get stuck around my thighs. I manage to shove it back down my legs.

For attempt number two I decide that perhaps the shaper is made to go over the head. So I slip my arms through the straps and begin to pull down... And pull... And pull... Um... It's stuck. I begin to tug. Tug. Tug. TUG!!!

Yeah, it's stuck.

There is no way I am pushing the help button. I do not need assistance getting out of a stupid bra. I will conquer.

Little by little I begin my tug of war with the body shaper. Inch by inch I pull. I suck in my stomach. I squeeze. I hold my breath. I wince. The time elapsed is about ten minutes. But I have managed to get on the body shaper.

And I can't breathe.

Oh my gosh, this bra is cutting me in half.

I can hear my internal organs crying.

On top of all that, it doesn't even look good. I now realize that this bra does not fit. What was I thinking? I should have known this would happen. I even told myself this would happen. What is the matter with me?

Oh, yeah. I'm fat.

Now the real battle begins. I need a game plan. I don't think I can pull it back over my head. Luckily, the straps on this thing are removable.

I remove the straps and begin the process of peeling my skin away from the shaper. At this point I'm almost positive it has somehow adhered to my body. To make matters worse, the shaper has non-skid surfacing on the inside. This it meant to keep the shaper from riding up and bunching. However, it also keeps it from being removed from the body at all.

I seriously consider putting my clothes back on over the shaper, buying it, then cutting myself out of it at home. But it costs $70! No. Freakin' Way.

I consider the level of embarrassment this will cause me, should I have to push the help button and get a sales woman to pull me out of the garment. It would be an embarrassment of epic proportions.

Around this time, my phone starts ringing. It's my dad. I cannot answer this phone call. I CANNOT talk to my dad while I am stuck in a bra, with my boobage hanging out. Sorry, dad... I'll have to call you back.

I keep pulling. Tugging. More sucking. More breath-holding. I have made some progress. The hardest part is pulling it down over my butt. But once I get it past my widest part, it's a much easier process.

After another ten minutes of wincing, I'm free. My skin is red and chafed. I'm actually panting. I need water.

It's time to go.

I've had enough humiliation for one day. I want to go home. Sad-pants.

One good thing that has come out of this experience is my continued resolve to lose weight. The bad thing, I realize, is that Victoria's Secret is discriminatory against bigger girls. The kind of woman who can fit into this brand of body shaper doesn't need to wear one. She's the woman who eats raisin skins and celery and still thinks she's fat. She could be a Victoria's Secret model herself - none of those models need to wear a body shaper.

So why not make a body shaper for a woman with real curves? You know, Vicky, the lumpy kind - not the little ripple of skin under your belly button or the cellulite under your butt. That doesn't count.

I'm not saying I'm going to stop shopping at Victoria's Secret. I really like their memory foam bra, and their PINK collection is one of my faves. I'm just going elsewhere for my body shaping needs. Like the gym.

Have a contracting uterus? Here, take these drugs. Um, yes, please.

So I'm a drug addict.

Or at least the praise team at church says so. Can I help it that I'm bouncy in the morning - with or without coffee - and I happen to have a love for the good stuff the hospital gives you when you're in pain?

No. I cannot be blamed. Pain is a disease! And it should be treated with the utmost care, in the form of Vicadin.

I know the hospitals have the good stuff. I've had kidney stones, and I've given birth - so I know where they keep the drugs that make you go, BYE-BYE SLEEPY TIME. They're awesome-pants. And all you have to do to get the magic pills is puke up your lungs from the pain of a tiny, jagged pebble lodging itself in your renal tubage, or push a watermelon out your hoo-ha.

Honestly, I don't recommend either form of drug obtainage. Both require more than an adequate amount of pain, plus the ripping of internal vessels and tissues. Not a good way to go. But on the off-chance that you find yourself in a similar situation, in which your level of pain is quite possibly the most horrible, blood-curdling, ebola AIDS-level of pain, then by all means, go to the E.R. and get yourself some of the good stuff. You deserve it.

As someone who has been through the blood-is-about-to-spray-from-my-eyes kind of pain, I have a profound appreciation for pain-relieving drugs. If that makes me an addict, so be it. Bring on the rehab, baby!

No. In fact, don't... Because if I ever give birth again, I'm going to want the good stuff. I was dumb enough to go through it the first time drug-free. Don't know if I'm willing to do that again.

Then again... I'm kind of a pride-whore... at least when it comes to being Super Mom. And by Super Mom, I mean going through labor, delivery, and the stitching of the crotchal area without an epidural. At the beginning of labor, I will admit, I had a little Nubain. When that wore off, I begged for Stadol, which did nothing for the vice grip on my uterus. By the time my son was born, all forms of pain-numbing goodness had worn off. Then it was just me, my girl, and a giant hook-shaped needle. Fun times. Let me tell you. FUN times.

Looking back, I think I may have been a real-life addict for about a weekend. I kept asking the nurses for the good stuff they gave me during labor... They did not give it to me. In fact, they ignored me. Not even that - my request never even registered. At the time, I thought they just forgot. I mean, nurses are busy people, right? I kept asking. It wasn't until I got home from the hospital that I realized CVS hadn't filled my prescription for Demerol. What!? This is a mistake. Hubby, go back to CVS and ask them for my pills. I'm sorry, but in what psycho-twisted-pants universe is it okay to give a woman who has just birthed a hippo only half a day's supply of oxycodone? Really? Are you freakin' kidding me!?

Apparently, the only way to get the good pills is to give birth again. Guess the nurses are keeping them at the hospital for themselves. Oh, just you wait. I'll be back. With a kidney stone. Or a contracting uterus. And I'll get those drugs. I'll get them. And stuff them in my cheeks, take 'em home and hoard 'em all!

Just kidding... No, seriously.

Barnes and Noble increases jobs for old people - staring contest winners inquire within

Beware the Barnes and Noble Cafe Guard. She will... stare at you!



It was a day just like any other day. Jack and I are taking a stroll around the outdoor-made-to-look-like-Italy-mall when we decide to quench our thirsts and Jack's intense desire for pastry at the Barnes and Noble Cafe.



I push the stroller to the dessert case, where Jack repeatedly points to the largest puffed rice treat imaginable and yells "Mama! Mama! Mama!" thus expressing his need for sugar and sweets. (At the time Jack was only a little over a year old and therefore not the great linguist he is today. "Mama! Mama! Mama!" was about all he could muster to show his want for something, other than his classic last-ditch arsenal of blood curtling screams. But we weren't at DEFCON 1 just yet.)



Thanks to my magnificent mommying skills, I quiet Jack with the promise of an ooey, gooey rice treat. (Bribery is a one-hundred percent legit form of parenting at this stage in development.)



So I order my vanilla soy latte and a vanilla steamer and a crispy rice treat for my little Roo-Bear... and then I see... Is that lady staring at me? ... Naaaahhh... She's probably just trying to read the menu from her seat at the cafe... Just pay, get the food, and go... Oh my gosh, I think that old lady is staring at me! Do I have something on my face? Do I know her from somewhere!?


It takes very little time to realize that this old woman is, in fact, staring a hole through my head. The only thing... I still can't figure out why. (And I just feel it neccesary to point out here: Jack has been quiet from the moment I shushed him at the beginning of this encounter.)



I push the stroller (with Jack in it) and all my stuff over to the sugar and milk area, where I plan to pour Jack's steamed milk into a bottle for him. But what happens as I do this? Yep, old-pants woman is staring at me again. Now I am just annoyed. Why is she still staring at me!? I don't get it!



I finish pouring the milk in Jack's bottle, give him a piece of his pastry, get everything adjusted with the stroller, and begin to leave. Only... old-pants is still following me with her eyes. Are you kidding me here!?



I find this to be an appropriate time to respond. "Can I help you with something?" I ask, as politely as I can. I mean, she's been staring and squinting her eyes at me for a good ten minutes now. The old woman says nothing. She just keeps staring. I continue walking away.



But I can feel her eyes on me. Oh my gosh! She is still staring! I stop. I turn. I look directly into her squinty little eyes and ask, "Why are you staring at me?" Finally, she speaks: "THAT WOMAN OVER THERE (points to woman in corner of cafe) IS STUDYING!" to which I reply, "Okay. Thanks for telling me?" To this, old woman says, "THAT WOMAN IS TRYING TO STUDY, AND YOU NEED TO TAKE THE CHILD OVER THERE! (points to opposite side of the cafe)" (Apparently, there is a special mother/child area of the cafe I was unaware of, where parents can take their socially inappropriate children, in order to spare non-parent-customers the indignity of breathing the same air as a baby.)



By this time, I am about as offended as I've ever been offended. To add insult to injury, the "studying woman" has earbuds in and isn't paying a bit of attention to the scene the self-nominated Cafe Guard has just caused. Everyone else within the entire bookstore, however, has heard the exchange, including the store manager, who at this time approaches me, asking if there is a problem. I say yes, that the old woman is harrassing me, telling me I have to leave a public place because my son, who is sitting quietly in his stroller drinking milk, is "disturbing" people by his very presence alone. The manager talks to the Cafe Guard, to no avail.



As I stand in the middle of the cafe, still very much confused and amazed at the events that have just transpired, I see that mostly everyone has gone back to their own business. Everyone, except old-pants. She continues to stare at me as I turn to leave, and then as a fellow customer (who has witnessed the scene) and I discuss the fact that a cafe is a public place where anyone is allowed, and that if one expects perfect library-like quiet, then perhaps one should find said library and leave the rest of us in peace, and the fact that old-pants woman actually caused more noise than my sweet little boy ever did. Cafe Guard stares at me as fellow customer and I finish our chat, as I walk past her, and finally as I make my way toward the door of the bookstore.



I still look for Cafe Guard each time I go back to the Noble. Partly, because I'm kind of scared of her. Partly, because I want to sock her in the face. But mostly... because I feel there was some specific reason she was there that day. Maybe she needed a hug. Of course, if I'd tried to give her one, she probably would have shanked me. Crazy-pants!

A heaven full of rainbows, soy, hand-holding, and lions

Cousin and I talked on the phone today. We discussed what heaven will be like when we get there.

In heaven, we are going to have a rainbow chock-full of soy lattes. Up there, we will sit on the arch of our rainbow and hold hands and talk about our feelings, which will always be awesome and happy, because we'll be in heaven! Yeah!

No more problems or money issues. Just rainbows, soy lattes, hand-holding, happy feelings, and lions. Lots and lots of lions.

Cousin wants to suck on the faces of cute little lions in heaven. And hey, it's heaven, so why not!? I dig it.

And we'll be able to eat all the food we want and not get fat! Chocolate and red velvet cake and cookies! Roast with glazed carrots and creamy mashed potatoes! Bomb! Oh, and pizza.

And we'll never have to worry about picking up after pooping, peeing animals again, because instead of pooping out waste, they'll poop out blessings made of flowers. Then we'll be able to run through the meadow made of these blessings and sing songs with Cousin's scruffy, flannel-wearing, guitar-playing husband. Which will be amazing-pants.

And then Hubbs will be there too. He and his best guy-friend will get to spend all their time at the range, shooting their guns and discussing grenades and rifles and bazookas. And they'll play Army and wear war paint.

And I'll write songs and bake cookies and eat lots of spaghetti. It's my fave. Especially when there's garlic toast. And EVOO with cracked black pepper. Yums!

And Alli and Max will be there, and we will get to suck on their faces once again, and they will love it.

Dollops and Panties and Rags, Oh My!

Sister has this thing where she doesn't like certain words. Whether it's the way people say them, the context with which the words are used, or even just the way the words themselves sound out loud, she hates them.

These words are fairly inoccuous. They don't have any particularly foul or crude definitions. They're just your everyday run-of-the-mill words.

Take for instance, the word dollop. What's the first thing that comes to mind when you see, hear, or say this word? Could it be, perhaps, the Daisy Sour Cream jingle? It is for Sister. The advertisement comes on the tv, and just the words of the song are enough to turn her into a crazy-hurry-grab-the-clicker-and-mute-the-tv-I'm-gonna-shank-someone-right-now-if-I-hear-the-word-dollop-pants. So naturally, it's funsies to sing the song. Often.

If dollops of sour cream don't get her blood boiling, it's panties. In case you didn't know, those lacy garments under your pants are not panties. They are undies. Somehow the word undies is much less disgusting. I don't even know where this comes from. I say panties. Who doesn't say panties? I mean, if it's good enough for Victoria, and especially since Sister shops at her secretive lingerie shop, then why can't she bring herself to say the word? Why does the mere thought of the word panties send her into spastic wretching and vomiting? I don't get it. But just for social experiment's sake, I say the word when she's around... you know, to see if she'll have the same reaction every time. She does.

As for the word rag, this time it's in reference to someone who is "on the rag." I don't think I've heard anyone use this phrase. Ever. The only times I've heard someone say the word rag was in the context of, "Hey, throw me that rag over there. I need to wipe up this water I spilled." Who, Sister, says "I'm on the rag"? Really?

Oh, Sissy, I heart you and your weird word phobias!

It's that time of year again: summer colon cleansing!

I'm trying to lose weight. I have been since October 2008, but I'm still a Fatty-McFat-Fat, twenty months later. So not the plan.

I had kind of thought that maybe by this time, Hubby and I would possibly be working on bringing Baby #2 into the world, but I just can't bring myself to do that when I haven't even lost all the preggo weight from the first time around. When Hubby and I were first married, I decided (and when I say decided, I mean I did so without actually consulting Hubbs) that it would be a fantastic idea to put no more than two years between each of our children. At the time I did not realize that Hubby would actually have to consent to this plan, nor did I account for the fat still hanging out around my mid-section.

I really feel I should explain myself here... I'm OCD. I thought that if I meticulously planned my child-bearing years, I could have my chosen number of four children before I reached the age of 30.

I now see the flaws in this plan.

For one, by the time I'm 30, if I had four children between the ages of 0 and 8, I'd be crazy-pants and not even able to raise them... as I'd be institutionalized.
Two, labor and childibrth hurt like a mother. Three, I'm still fat-pants. Four, I'm poor. Five, I live with my parents. Six, I don't think I want four kids. I think maybe I'd like two, because... seven, my hoo-ha can only take so much. Eight, I don't want to be the next Duggar woman with a tv show. She seems super-sweet, but I don't want to perpetually shop at Motherhood, Pea in the Pod, or Boat World.

Now, this is not my little Roo's fault. I used pregnancy, and then nursing, as an excuse to eat whatever I wanted to, saying, "It's for the baby. He needs this chocolate mouse cheesecake laced with 300 grams of fat!" Ugh. Hindsight is 20/20.

So anyway, I'm going to do a cleanse! It's a ten-day herbal cleanse from AdvoCare. I've done it before, and even though I struggled to follow all the tiny, little food do's and don't's, I still felt great by the end of it. So this time, I'm hoping that not only will I have more energy and clearer skin again, but that it will also jumpstart my weight loss plans and get me back on the right track.

Facebook quizzes cause paranoia and identity crises

Do you suffer from multiple personality disorder? Paranoia? Identity crisis?
If you do, I have the solution to your problem! It's called Facebook.

It's a magical world where you can discover the color of your aura, which Golden Girl or Kardashian sister you are, or even the personality of your inner unicorn.

It was late, I couldn't sleep, there was nothing to watch on TV... and as a consequence of insomniac-induced insecurity, I decided to find out more about myself. Surely Facebook could tell me all the things I was secretly needing to know.

Here are my results...

My musical key is G Minor. I have a flair for the dramatic. I'm argumentative, emotional, and I have a hot temper.

• This is true. I do have a hot temper. I am a redhead, after all.
  

If I were one of the Kardashian sisters, I would be Kourtney. I'm very stubborn. I hold grudges. But I also have a sweet and loving side.

• Yeah, I can see that. I always have had a problem with bitterness. Plus, Kourtney is the oldest sister, and I am in my family too.
  
  

If I were one of Shakespeare's characters, I'd be Viola or Rosalind. I don't give up easily, and I like to wear men's clothes.

• Okay, so while I may be tenacious and go after things I really want, men's clothing is not one of them. Or is it? I wonder what the Facebook quiz guru recognized in me that caused me to get this result?
  
  

I am a pink Sharpie.

• There was no explanation from Guru on this one. Maybe it just thinks I like pink. But I mostly wear black. What does this mean!?
  
  

My inner instrument is the clarinet. I am versatile with fingers of fire. I love speed. My enemy is the trumpet. My best friend is the oboe.

• But I played the alto saxophone! To think I was a clarinet this whole time? How could I have missed the truth within me for so long? Maybe I need to go back to school... Surely, the key to my absolute bliss lies in playing the clarinet and being besties with an oboe-player!

My inner pin-up girl is the typical housewife. I am a bright, happy girl. I am full of joy and always ready to help others. Sometimes I am a trouble-maker.

• I am a wife and mother, and I do live in a house. But it's not my house, so I don't know how typical that makes me. I thought I was happy, but am I missing my true calling? Somewhere out there is a typical house with my typical name on it, and I am supposed to have typical shutters and a typical white picket fence. Where's my typical husband and my typical son? My typical dog? What does that even mean???
  
  

My inner nationality is Swedish. I'm friendly, gentle, and modest. I have a good heart and a lusty nature. I have a well-developed sense of irony. I tend to understand people intuitively. I have a sense of insider vs. outsider and stick to people within my own circle. I am loyal and timid.

• Wait? I thought I was an American... Does this mean I'm going to be deported? I don't speak Swedish! I don't even know where Sweden is! This is bad. Really, really bad. Or does this mean that I'm adopted? And my parents never told me!?
  
  
  

Are these quiz results supposed to make me feel better? Somehow, I've been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic! Which one of my personalities is Kourtney Kardashian? Is there a secret part of me that wants to wear Big Dog t-shirts and Birkenstocks!? Will I be shipped off to Sweden and forced to play the clarinet? Will the Swedes make me marry that typical husband and make typical babies with him?

I wonder if I can check these symptoms on WebMD?

You never know what you'll find in the home remedy section of a health food store

I'm disturbed. Like, for reals. Not in an "I-need-my-meds-now" kind of way, but just in a general "I-really-wish-I'd-never-seen-that" way.

Sister, Friend, and I went to Earth Fare today, which honestly, is pretty much my fave store these days, as far as grocery stores go, that is.

Until today, I'd only ever grazed on free snackage from around the store... because they'll let you try anything... so I can make a whole meal out of taste-testing the peanuts, various trail mixes, almond butter, olives from around the world, cheese, crackers, chocolate... really, whatever I can get my hands on.

But today, Sister and I were with Friend, who may be preggo, so because she was feeling queasy, I decided I'd find her some preggo tea. Mother-in-Law got me some when I was preggo. I mean, I never drank it because there were naked nursing women on the box and in the magazine that came with the tea, and seriously, I was freaked out and charged with preggo hormones, so you know, I threw it away. But since I at least knew of this type of weirdo tea, I thought maybe Friend might find it helpful for her upset tummy.

But on the way to looking for this magic tea, we stumbled upon the home remedy aisle of the beauty section of the store. What we discovered was strange, weird, bizarre, disturbing, creepy... (I'm running out of adjectives... ooh, disconcerting)... to say the least.

There are photos.

Because who would believe there are actually products with these names?...

• Yeast Free Vaginal Salve




• Sweet Annie Vinegar Douche




• Vital Vulva Wild Yam Salve




• Diva Cup

The salves, I can only imagine must be for a raging case of genital warts.

As for the vinegar douche, um... ga-ross!!! Why not just squirt a bottle of Heinz 57 up there?

The Diva Cup was by far the most disturbing of all. Really, it was the final straw. We had to leave after this one, because Friend was getting sick. The Diva Cup is an alternative to other brands like Tampax and Always... You get the idea... And every woman is entitled to her own way of taking care of things... Even the hippie ones... But the thing that made us want to wretch, and frankly, confused the mess out of us was that this Diva Cup came with a charm... like on a charm bracelet... What we couldn't figure out was, "Where the heck does THAT go!?"

On Rainbows, Soy, and Hand-Holding

Yea! My first blog post ever! How excited are you to read the thoughts that come straight from my head to the keyboard? Well, actually, you might not be that excited, but that's okay, because I am excited enough for everyone!

Let me tell you a little about myself... I'm Kimi. I'm married to my high school sweetheart. We've been married for 3 years, but we've been together for 10. Well, almost 10. We have a son, and he is pretty much the cutest little boy you will ever meet. When I see him, I just want to squish him and suck on his cheeks! And no, that's not awkward or weird or anything... He digs it. Totally. We also have an Aussie Shepherd mix named Jake. Yeah, well, we didn't get to name our dog. You see, he was a rescue dog, and he already had a name... So that's my family. Well, I have a bigger family than that, but that's boring-pants stuff, and you don't care. Unless you do, in which case, I can tell you all about them... but for now, I'm leaving them out.

So about the rainbows, the soy, and the hand-holding... It's this thing with my cousin Shelly. And I know I said I wouldn't get into the whole family thing, but we're like, super close. And she lives in Washington (the state, not D.C.)... so we don't really get to see each other a whole lot, but we do get to talk on the phone, and sometimes we even Skype. Which we need to do again soon, by the way. Anyway, when we have a bad day, we call each other, so we call each other A LOT. On one such day, we were venting, and I said, "Wouldn't it be great if we could just get away from all our problems and sit on a rainbow for a while instead?" The rainbow, of course, being the magical ability to escape reality, because let's face it, everyone likes to do that every once in a while. Right? And then Shelly said, "And we'll drink soy lattes and hold hands too!" I said I dig it, and she did too. So it has kind of become our thing.

I am super excited to write about my life! Be prepared for rants on things that bother me, my love affair with chocolate, my weight loss journey as a result of said love affair, bad days, and just complaining in general over the ins and outs of mommyhood and wifery. Oh, and old people who can't drive. Really, anyone who can't drive. Please get off the road. Also, what bothers me? Geico. And their advertising. Those cavemen are butt. Other things that bother me: Oprah, Joy Behar, Whoopi Goldburg, Shar Jackson, and anyone else on The View... BP bothers me. Yappy dogs bother me. I'm bothered by women who think it's okay to wear a two-sizes-too-small babydoll John Deer t-shirt with no bra, to a healthfood store! It's one thing to walk into Walmart looking like that, and something else entirely to step foot into Earth Fare like that. If you can afford to shop at a fancy-pants grocery store, then you can afford some Victoria's Secret, okay?

I also feel that I should preface every post with "I have a dry sense of humor. I love irony and sarcasm. Please do not be offended. This blog is for funsies." But that disclaimer would get super-redundant and annoying, so here it is, just this once. Enjoy!