Yes, today was one of those days, you know, one of those shopping days, where you come home from the mall and swear, "I will never eat again." You got it, it was swimsuit shopping time.
Since my siwmsiut got a hole in the knee last year, I thought it was time to buy a new one. Wow, how things have changed. The men's siuts have gotten extremely longer and the women's siuts, well...let's just say that there's more material in the men's suits than in the womens.
I'm really wishing, right about now, that I would have started my weight lifting routine back in March...it really would have paid off by now, I'm sure....or that I wouldn't have eaten for the last month.
I was lookin amongst all the itsy-bitsy-bikinis for something modest but not grandma-style. Classy, not smutty; stylish, not made out of wool...I finally found that suit that I liked (had to undress the manequin to get it!), but it was one size too small. Yes, thank you, I needed a larger size. And, of course, they didn't have any. I find the prefect siut and it's one stinkin' size too small. Oh, the irony!!
What's with all the halter top swimming siuts, anyway? Does anybody actually swim in their swimming suits anymore? Ya know, I just didn't find the suit selection for "Women Who Have Had Four Children" in amongst the "I'm Anorexic With Fake Boobs" section. Pity, pity.
It was soo funny...here I am trying to find the perfect suit, which, infact (which is technically two words and not one), I did, just not in my size, and I just happen to be in Target with the hubby, the fourth store in search of the impossible find. We look at the suits in the junior section, let me describe them for you in two words: dental floss. Hubby says, "Can you fit a junior's size?" I throw him daggers with my eyes and say, "Yes." He says, "Well there's nothing here, let's go look in the women's section." I tell him I'm sure there's no more, but we head off towards the back of the store anyway. I'm gawking off, my atteion being redirected to all the clothing racks I'm passing that say "75% off" (I mean, really, how can you pass that up?!?), and I hear Hubby proudly proclaim, "Here! I found some!" I look at the rack of colorful suits and look back at him, beaming with his wonderful hunting skills and say, "Hello! These are PLUS size! These are parachutes with elastic in them!"
So, not only is the perfect swimsuit one size too small, but now my hubby's lead me to a rack of plus-sized swim wear. Yes, thank you. Thank you Jenny Craig, and Martha Stewart and Dr. Suess.
So, in stride, I say, "Okay, I'll see if something fits." I go through the rack, look for the smallest sizes and grab some to try on. I get to the dressing room and count out how many suits I have for the lady at the counter. She looks at me, looks at the suits and says, "Aw honey, those ain't gonna fit you, those are plus sizes." I very politely tell her I know, but I'd like to try them on anyway. She looks at me like I'm an idiot, points to the front of the store and says, "Did you look up there, I'm sure you could find something in your size up there." Deciding to skip the dental floss description, I sweetley explain to the woman, who is making such a wonderful scene for me in front of everyone whose curious ears have know perked up, that I need a suit that is bigger on the top than it is on the bottom, doing a little Vanna White hand action to show her that my bust will not be covered by dental floss. I explain that I thought I'd give the swimsiuts in my hand a shot (they were all two pieces, the new hit now-a-days). She looks at me very disapprovingly and says in an exasperated tone, "Well fine, go try 'em on," as she lets me pass into the dressing rooms. The she says, "Have fun." Have fun? Have FUN? I'm surprised my head didn't spin as my forked tongue spit out something like "Look lady, I'm not Barbie and you're not my mother. I've got a 4 year old son that doesn't need to be looking at his mother's cleavage and other body parts that are barely covered by dental floss. If I want to wear a parachute, LET ME!!"
But, of course, I'm much too polite to say anything like that, so I didn't. (But I'm obviously not too polite to print it!)
There was this one suit, I would have got it if I hadn't been looking for a "Mom" swimsiut. It was white with big blue polka dots and silver piping. It was sassy with a capital "S"; a tankini with attitude. It made me want to dye my hair blonde and put on bright red lipstick and a pair of Prada's. Yes, it was that sassy. The bottom was navy with a funky little polka-dot belt and a cool clasp. But, no, no, no--I was looking for the "Mom" suit, remember, not the "Sassy, Let-Me-Splash-You-With-Some-Attitude" suit. Such a shame.
Why am I writing about swim wear at 10:48PM?
Oh yes, I remember why--I've been a little insomniac lately. It's part of the greif cycle, ya know. At least I've started eating again. And I have started sleeping more, just not back to usual yet.
Give it time, just give it some time.
Alright. Well. Let's hit the sack, shall we. So much for my glorious early mornings, so quite and pristine. I'm already looking forward to fall: turtlenecks, no bikinis. Leaves falling, no 90 degree weather. School schedule, no wasted days. Scrumptious things in the oven, since that swimsuit is packed away. Anticipation for the holidays, Christmas music and decking out the house for the seasons...fall. Yes, fall will be good.
Until then, I'd like to strangle Barbie.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Why, Yes, I'd Love a Staple, Why Not Two?
Ya know, it's kinda hard to go running when one's husband drops the staple gun on one's foot. Yes, I know you may be astonished, but it is true. And yes, this is just one of many lessons I've learned the hard way, by being in the wrong place at the right time. Yet, on the bright side, I have found that Lamaze breathing does come in handy in such circumstances. Were I a sailor, I would have let out a few choice words as the incident unfolded, but not being one fit for the sea, I resorted to heavy breathing and animal noises. Growling, mostly.
So here I am, waiting for this dumb wound to heal and getting fatter by the minute.
I did open a new bag of truffles the other day....just didn't taste as wonderful as I remember. But don't worry, I ate the whole bag. Waste not, want not.
Kali just came in and said that the "neighbors with the noisey car" wanted to what religion we were; if we were mennonites." How funny. Obviously they have no clue as to what Mennonites are. (Ya know, those who don't wear jewelry or any clothing with personality, and the married women wear their little 'caps' to show, as they interpret from Corinthians, that their heads should be covered in submission to their husbands.)
Are those MY feet that smell? Can't be, I never have smelly feet (a sign of toxin's in the system, y'all!). Nope, not me. The plant right next to me...Mr. Retard has gone and used it for a litter box again. What a waste of a cat! Furry, kinda cute, not very snuggly, and can't even catch a bug, let alone anything nocturnal. Pathetic!
Anyway, what was I saying? Nothing, probably. As I don't really have anyone that I'm talking to, but myself. How are you doing, self? Oh, me? I'm doing well, thank you, how about you? Oh, well, I'm doing well as well; how's your mother?...
Stuffed shells in a spicy marinara sauce, that's what's in the oven. Maybe I'll be hungry by then. Body is despressed, mind is trying to get over the hill to the greener grass, but the body hasn't caught up...yet. It sleeps way too much, has no appetite and burts into tears for no reason. What a miserable body to have. I pity men that have never had the fun-house ride of being held hostage by one's own hormones, especially when they're readjusting: "Hey guys, let's build a baby. Get busy!...OK, bad idea, let's run rampant and unchecked and, hey, why not a little schizophrenia, that'd be fun....yipee, hang on guys, it's gonna be a wild ride!" Yes, if hormones could talk, that's probably what they'd be saying...is it wrong to hear voices?....
I can see, now, why people drink. What an easy escape from whatever problem one might have. I cook with the stuff but never drink it--can you say: nasty? Wine's good in so many dishes, but to drink a glass, I'd rather have a staple gun dropped on my foot. And rum, well that's good in caramels, but that's all, and bourbon, you just want my secret bourbon chicken recipe, don't you? Well, take a number. But hey, as long as I'm talking to myself, let's not tell anyone that I don't have a recipe for it, I just kinda throw it all together. Brown sugar and a hint of soy sauce, be generous with the garlic!-- that's the key people, figure it out yourself and leave me in peace!!!!!!
There goes the oven, calling me like I'm some servant to its chime. Better go and pesto up my cibatta, if ya know what I mean.
Chow.
So here I am, waiting for this dumb wound to heal and getting fatter by the minute.
I did open a new bag of truffles the other day....just didn't taste as wonderful as I remember. But don't worry, I ate the whole bag. Waste not, want not.
Kali just came in and said that the "neighbors with the noisey car" wanted to what religion we were; if we were mennonites." How funny. Obviously they have no clue as to what Mennonites are. (Ya know, those who don't wear jewelry or any clothing with personality, and the married women wear their little 'caps' to show, as they interpret from Corinthians, that their heads should be covered in submission to their husbands.)
Are those MY feet that smell? Can't be, I never have smelly feet (a sign of toxin's in the system, y'all!). Nope, not me. The plant right next to me...Mr. Retard has gone and used it for a litter box again. What a waste of a cat! Furry, kinda cute, not very snuggly, and can't even catch a bug, let alone anything nocturnal. Pathetic!
Anyway, what was I saying? Nothing, probably. As I don't really have anyone that I'm talking to, but myself. How are you doing, self? Oh, me? I'm doing well, thank you, how about you? Oh, well, I'm doing well as well; how's your mother?...
Stuffed shells in a spicy marinara sauce, that's what's in the oven. Maybe I'll be hungry by then. Body is despressed, mind is trying to get over the hill to the greener grass, but the body hasn't caught up...yet. It sleeps way too much, has no appetite and burts into tears for no reason. What a miserable body to have. I pity men that have never had the fun-house ride of being held hostage by one's own hormones, especially when they're readjusting: "Hey guys, let's build a baby. Get busy!...OK, bad idea, let's run rampant and unchecked and, hey, why not a little schizophrenia, that'd be fun....yipee, hang on guys, it's gonna be a wild ride!" Yes, if hormones could talk, that's probably what they'd be saying...is it wrong to hear voices?....
I can see, now, why people drink. What an easy escape from whatever problem one might have. I cook with the stuff but never drink it--can you say: nasty? Wine's good in so many dishes, but to drink a glass, I'd rather have a staple gun dropped on my foot. And rum, well that's good in caramels, but that's all, and bourbon, you just want my secret bourbon chicken recipe, don't you? Well, take a number. But hey, as long as I'm talking to myself, let's not tell anyone that I don't have a recipe for it, I just kinda throw it all together. Brown sugar and a hint of soy sauce, be generous with the garlic!-- that's the key people, figure it out yourself and leave me in peace!!!!!!
There goes the oven, calling me like I'm some servant to its chime. Better go and pesto up my cibatta, if ya know what I mean.
Chow.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Another One Bites the Dust
Okay, so it's been a rough day...but it's got me to thinking:
How can you comfort someone who's suffering if you havne't first experienced their pain?
How can you have compassion in it's depths if you haven't first known the depths yourself?
And how can you appreciate life if you haven't first greived the loss of it?
We live day to day, in and out, same ol' same ol' and the mundaneness of it all slowly tarnishes the passion that we once had, the dust comes ever so slowly that we don't notice we're all but covered in apathy. And the clock keeps ticking. Taking it for granted, we live at a level of piamisso granduer, all the while just assuming that tomorrow will always come. But, for some, it doesn't. For some, it takes a diagnosis of cancer before the living really gets started. It takes the loss of a loved one before we slow down and really appreciate the little things. It takes a hurricane to make us appreciate the glorified shack we once lived in, and ill-health to make us relish the aches and pains of a normal life.
We're all so fickle.
Especially me.
The more I get to know myself, the less I like me. Is such the way of always being refined? At least I'm not in love with myself, prehaps there is hope for me yet!
I broke my fast on the 8th day. And boy, did I do it in grand fashion: a burger, sweet and juicy, fresh off the grill, dripping with cheese, smothered in trimmings on a whole wheat bun. It was wonderful. I was slightly regretful that I had broken my fast; I didn't know at the time that I was pregnant. Incase you've never been pregnant: pregnant women must eat. So, then I didn't feel so bad for breaking my fast, infact (which is technically two words and not one), I slightly mourned the fact that I couldn't fast again, and wouldn't be able to for quite some time...10 months plus another year of nursing...that's nearly 2 years worth!...or so I thought.
Well, another one bites the dust. Eight pregnancies, four miscarriages. Four little peices of my heart torn from me, four little children in Heaven with their Creator. Four precious little souls left on earth for me to guide, direct, teach, discipline and love. All the more precious are they, indeed....people told me not to get married at 18. Yes, a mere 18!!! But I did anyway. How's the rhyme go? "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage." And indeed, life played out the riddle and along came the baby; I was but a mere 19. And the last line played again; baby number two at age 20. Then the rhyme almost broke, the love got lost, the marrige almost crumbled, and no more babies were wanted, so that was taken care of premanently...or so we thought. But then, a peculiar thing happened and the ryhme played itself backywards...I got pregnant (shock!), the love creeped back in and the marriage mended. I was but a mere 23. And along came little Kirsten at a mere 25.
People always say, "You're too young to have four children!" And I suppose that in today's world, I am. The Mormon's think I'm one of their own, the Catholics accept me based on my status of mother of four, and the "unsaved" wonder why on earth anyone would want to have four pesky, suck-the-life-outta-ya and drain-your-wallet kids. ... Now I am wondering if every year will bring me the greif that comes with wanting, and not having a child. At 28 I'm too young to not be able to have children. Perhaps that it why I had children when I was but, in many a person's eye, just a child myself. Odd, isn't it, how life plays out. Yet, I do know, from experience, that all things will work together for good "for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose."
Tomorrow is a new day. I look forward to it. The wounds will heal, the pain will subside, and sometime, somewhere, I will be able to comfort someone, perhaps my own child, when they lose one of their own. My heart will brim over with love that knows, and I will comfort them, as the precious few that have comforted me. And I will cry, my eyes spilling with tears, in rememberance, tears of present and past loss, and I will smile, being glad that I had suffered, that I may extend comfort. My soul will mourn and my hert will break, and all the while I will be thankful that I will be able to share the burden, having known it so personally.
And in the meantime, I will let things settle, as ash falls after a volcano explodes, so will I wait for the ash to settle, then dust myself off, and be on my way. Or so I tell myself. In the meantime, I will run. And run and run and run. And let my body release the stress and the pain that it feels so deeply, so inexpressibly inside. And I will enjoy the air in my lungs, the blood pumping in my veins, and the beating of my heart. I will enjoy being alive. I will not take this gift for granted.
How can you comfort someone who's suffering if you havne't first experienced their pain?
How can you have compassion in it's depths if you haven't first known the depths yourself?
And how can you appreciate life if you haven't first greived the loss of it?
We live day to day, in and out, same ol' same ol' and the mundaneness of it all slowly tarnishes the passion that we once had, the dust comes ever so slowly that we don't notice we're all but covered in apathy. And the clock keeps ticking. Taking it for granted, we live at a level of piamisso granduer, all the while just assuming that tomorrow will always come. But, for some, it doesn't. For some, it takes a diagnosis of cancer before the living really gets started. It takes the loss of a loved one before we slow down and really appreciate the little things. It takes a hurricane to make us appreciate the glorified shack we once lived in, and ill-health to make us relish the aches and pains of a normal life.
We're all so fickle.
Especially me.
The more I get to know myself, the less I like me. Is such the way of always being refined? At least I'm not in love with myself, prehaps there is hope for me yet!
I broke my fast on the 8th day. And boy, did I do it in grand fashion: a burger, sweet and juicy, fresh off the grill, dripping with cheese, smothered in trimmings on a whole wheat bun. It was wonderful. I was slightly regretful that I had broken my fast; I didn't know at the time that I was pregnant. Incase you've never been pregnant: pregnant women must eat. So, then I didn't feel so bad for breaking my fast, infact (which is technically two words and not one), I slightly mourned the fact that I couldn't fast again, and wouldn't be able to for quite some time...10 months plus another year of nursing...that's nearly 2 years worth!...or so I thought.
Well, another one bites the dust. Eight pregnancies, four miscarriages. Four little peices of my heart torn from me, four little children in Heaven with their Creator. Four precious little souls left on earth for me to guide, direct, teach, discipline and love. All the more precious are they, indeed....people told me not to get married at 18. Yes, a mere 18!!! But I did anyway. How's the rhyme go? "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage." And indeed, life played out the riddle and along came the baby; I was but a mere 19. And the last line played again; baby number two at age 20. Then the rhyme almost broke, the love got lost, the marrige almost crumbled, and no more babies were wanted, so that was taken care of premanently...or so we thought. But then, a peculiar thing happened and the ryhme played itself backywards...I got pregnant (shock!), the love creeped back in and the marriage mended. I was but a mere 23. And along came little Kirsten at a mere 25.
People always say, "You're too young to have four children!" And I suppose that in today's world, I am. The Mormon's think I'm one of their own, the Catholics accept me based on my status of mother of four, and the "unsaved" wonder why on earth anyone would want to have four pesky, suck-the-life-outta-ya and drain-your-wallet kids. ... Now I am wondering if every year will bring me the greif that comes with wanting, and not having a child. At 28 I'm too young to not be able to have children. Perhaps that it why I had children when I was but, in many a person's eye, just a child myself. Odd, isn't it, how life plays out. Yet, I do know, from experience, that all things will work together for good "for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose."
Tomorrow is a new day. I look forward to it. The wounds will heal, the pain will subside, and sometime, somewhere, I will be able to comfort someone, perhaps my own child, when they lose one of their own. My heart will brim over with love that knows, and I will comfort them, as the precious few that have comforted me. And I will cry, my eyes spilling with tears, in rememberance, tears of present and past loss, and I will smile, being glad that I had suffered, that I may extend comfort. My soul will mourn and my hert will break, and all the while I will be thankful that I will be able to share the burden, having known it so personally.
And in the meantime, I will let things settle, as ash falls after a volcano explodes, so will I wait for the ash to settle, then dust myself off, and be on my way. Or so I tell myself. In the meantime, I will run. And run and run and run. And let my body release the stress and the pain that it feels so deeply, so inexpressibly inside. And I will enjoy the air in my lungs, the blood pumping in my veins, and the beating of my heart. I will enjoy being alive. I will not take this gift for granted.
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