The other night, I had a small bowl of strawberries, bananas and blueberries for a snack. When I was finished, I had heartburn and a stomach ache. I had to take Tums before going to bed. Chocolate never does that to me. Clearly, chocolate is better for my body.

______________

Last night, frustrated with PCOS and weight gain, I ate some chips at a Canada Day barbeque. Salty snacks are not my indulgence of choice. I just did it because they were there, and because it doesn’t seem to matter what I eat. This morning after a shower, I weighed myself. I am down 3 pounds. My conclusion? Eating chips = weight loss.

______________

If fruit gives me heartburn and chips make me lose weight, then I’m obviously doing something wrong in this whole “get healthy” endeavour. Maybe I’ll start my own chips-n-chocolate diet. Food for thought!

Filed under: Me, PCOS, Ponderings, Random | 1 Comment →

My mother has never passed gas. Not in my, or anyone else’s presence, that is. Maybe you’re thinking that it’s an odd observation for one to make. Well, it takes an odd person to make an odd observation and my auntie (my dad’s aunt, to be more specific) never let an opportunity pass (no pun intended!) to bring it up. When I was younger, she would bring it up every single time we saw her. Later, when she had lost her husband and moved in with her sister (my gramma), we saw her much more frequently and, blessedly, she stopped bringing it up at every meeting. Once or twice a week seemed to suffice. Maybe she was just getting bored with the whole idea – try as she might, she could never convince my poor mother that it would be funny to just let one go.

My auntie used to treat my mom like she was the star sideshow freak at the circus, always trying to get her to perform some crazy antic or other. Over time, my mom had amassed quite an arsenal of regular bits. She had also mastered the art of silent frustration, subtle sarcasm and infinite patience with her husband’s crazy aunt.

Auntie:  Do that puppy ear scratch thing! (wherein my mom bats at her hair like a dog would scratch it’s ear solely because my aunt thought it was funny and not because my mother actually wanted to do such a thing).

(Have I mentioned that my auntie was a wee bit insane?)

Mom:  No.

Auntie:  Come on! Do it for me.

Mom:  No, I would really rather not.

Auntie:  Just once. One little scratch!

Mom: Sigh. Fine.

Auntie: Gales of laughter. Oh my, you are too funny.

Mom:  Right.

Auntie:  Now do the chicken impression.

Mom:  No!

Auntie:  Don’t make me beg.

Mom: (under her breath)  Oh for the love of … Fine.

Auntie: More gales of laughter.  You are SO funny!

Mom:  Yeah. Thanks.

Meanwhile, my brother and I would hide off to one side, rolling on the floor with laughter over the lengths my poor mother had to go to in order to keep my auntie pacified. She never complained to my auntie over her bizarre requests. She did have her limits, though.

Auntie:  I believe I have never heard you break wind, dear!

Mom: …………. (At this point, my mother was always near the end of her rope. The exasperation was showing on her face and it was hysterically obvious to my brother and me that she was hanging on by a thread.)

Auntie:  Kids! Have you ever heard your mother fart?

My brother and me: Uhhhh… Uncomfortable giggle. (We absolutely knew better than to encourage my auntie or the wrath of mom would come down upon us with a furious vengeance.)

(Ok, not really. We just felt sorry for our mom, who was too kind to tell my aunt to kindly shut it.)

Auntie:  Tell us! Have you ever passed gas? Why don’t you fart in public? You must have remarkable control.

Mom: …………………

(At this point, my mom was usually a veritable mass of uncontrolled ticks and shimmies. She usually had the sigh, the eye roll, the crossed and uncrossed arms and the tight-mouthed grimace going on by now. She was just waiting for it.)

Auntie:  Give us a little toot.

Mom: Exasperated giggle of barely repressed rage and embarrassment. NO!

Auntie:  Just a little one. You’re too proper.

Mom: (with a note of warning in her voice.)  No, I will not.

(At this point, any normal person would have realized that my mom’s patience had worn through and enough was enough. Not my auntie, though.)

Auntie:  I’ll never ask you again if you do it just this once!

Mom: ………………… Retreats to kitchen.

_____________________

Later, when I had been seeing my now-husband for a few months and had begun bringing him home, my auntie decided to lay some of her eccentricities on him. For reasons I still can’t understand, she had it in her head that his name was Lloyd.

She only ever had one question of burning importance for poor Lloyd, and she asked him every time she saw him. Usually at the dinner table.

Auntie:  Lloyd, do you have hair on your chest?

Lucky: (fork frozen halfway to his mouth).  Excuse me?

Auntie:  Hair. Do you have hair on your chest?

Lucky:  Um, I don’t think I want to answer that question.

Auntie:  Lift up your shirt. Let’s see if you have a hairy chest!

Lucky:  Uh, no thanks.

At this point, someone usually interjected on my husband’s behalf  (never me, you understand. I was too busy laughing my ass off) and he would be saved from having to perform a strip tease for my family.

Despite being known in our family as “Lloyd with the possibly hairy chest”, Lucky still married into the craziness.  I’m not entirely sure what that says about him, but I’m happy about it nonetheless!

____________________

Sometimes I really miss my crazy auntie! Life was never boring with her around.

I still haven’t heard my mother pass gas. Personally, I think she should have done it at my auntie’s funeral, just as an inside nod to her. You know, to let auntie know that she loved her enough to let out “just a little one” in a public place and all. Somehow, my mother just seemed to know that farting at a funeral would be somehow inappropriate though, so kudos to her.

As for the chest hair? Wouldn’t you like to know…

* I should probably mention here that this was originally posted by me in my old, now defunct blog. I don’t plan to upload all of my old posts to the archives here, but I will occasionally grab my favourites and post them. Would it be better if I mentioned that they were old, or just repost them without that mention, considering that they’re all new here? Discuss in the comments, if you please!

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Random | 2 Comments →

After my diagnosis of PCOS in April (and in hopes of beating the sucktastic odds of turning into a rounder, flabbier version of myself), I have made some pretty positive lifestyle changes. First off, I made the commitment to go walking with a good friend 5 nights a week. Generally, we go walking through our neighborhood Sunday-Thursday evenings for an hour. We keep a quick, steady pace. Not speed-walker fast, because even the promise of being svelte and toned isn’t enough to make me want to go out in public looking like this guy:

It’s quick enough to keep us breathing heavily, though.

(Hey, I just thought of a way to make extra cash. I’ll just bring a phone along and let horny, lonely losers listen to me gasping away into the receiver for an hour. Throw in a few, “Oh, my God’s” and I’ll be rich!)

Ahem.

On top of the walking, I’ve tried to be more active in general, spending time outside with the kids going for bike rides, playing catch and kicking the soccer ball around.

And. And! The biggie: I am on day 12 of no chocolate. That’s right. No chocolate. I decided to cut it completely out of my diet for one month because it’s my single biggest temptation. My diet is otherwise very good, so I figured I’d start noticing some big changes right away.

And, boy, let me tell you. I have noticed some changes. When I stepped on the scale yesterday to see how I’ve progressed, I was rewarded with a magnificent five pound weight GAIN. Because my body obviously hates me.

I forgot that I’m dealing with the fat disease. And let me tell you, this thing has jumped in and fucked with my hormones in a huge way. (Pun intended.) Also, extra weight in the midsection is really hard on a back that’s weak to begin with. I’m hobbling around like a 90 year old man. It’s not pretty, folks.

(If you want to read about my feminine woes, start here and continue on here, here, here, here, here, and here. (Or, you can click the fancy PCOS category title on the left sidebar. ) (I’m all about providing options here.)

I can barely look at myself in the mirror. I hate what I see. After I got off the scale yesterday, I was torn between screaming and throwing things and melting down into a flabby puddle of goo on the floor and crying. Because really, body, what the fuck?! I might as well lay on the couch eating cake for all the good my healthy lifestyle has been doing me.

You know it’s bad when you’ve considered bulimia as a possible weight-loss solution…

I’ve had a look at several PCOS websites and the general consensus seems to be, “have fun being fat from now on, chubby!”  I don’t want to accept that. I can’t. My self-esteem is taking a massive beat down. I have clothes in my closet that should still fit me, based on how I live, yet they don’t. At all. I have until October until my next appointment with the endocrinologist. I plan on talking to her about a different solution, since I highly doubt that my once-every-three-months dose of progesterone is going to do me any good. There are still two options (that I know of) left: birth control pills and Metformin. I think I’m going to ask to skip straight to the diabetic medication so I can force my body to bend to my will and obey me. (I have to keep the hope alive somehow!)

In the meantime, I am really struggling not to just give up on all of my efforts. I kind of just want to lay down and take one long, continuous nap. I’m just so very tired.

Filed under: Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS, Pity Party | 5 Comments →

A couple of weeks before Logan’s birthday, I ventured into the party store to see about finding a “theme” for him. He had mentioned Superman, so I kept that in mind as I searched through the available cake pans. The Superman pan? Looked like this:

I looked at Superman’s realistic facial features and had a flashback to the Cinderella cake incident of 2007. Superman-themed party? Out.

After searching through the remaining pans, I narrowed it down to two options: a baseball pan or a guitar pan. I reserved the guitar one and later confirmed with Logan that Guitar Hero was the way he wanted to go for his birthday this year.

(Logan is remarkably easy-going about this type of thing. I honestly don’t think he cared if he even had a theme. Clearly, I am the one with issues…)

The day before the party, I picked up the pan and (because I apparently work best under pressure) perused the internet for ideas on how to decorate it. At 3:00 that afternoon, after viewing several scarily awful Guitar Hero cakes made with “regular” icing, I made the snap decision to try using fondant for the first time ever.

(Because I’m all about trying new, unfamiliar things when under a strict time deadline.)

I dragged the extremely unwilling birthday boy (”but I don’t caaaare what the cake looks like, Mama!“) and his shopaholic sister with me to Michaels after school so I could pick up some ready-made fondant.

Once the kids were in bed for the night, I iced the guitar cake in good, old-fashioned Betty Crocker icing (because anyone who has ever actually tasted fondant definitely does not want to have to do so ever, ever again) before getting the fondant ready to lay over top.

Tip: When attempting to take a picture of a white cake late into the evening, turn the flash off.

My crumb coat was extra crummy crumby.

Next, I read the instructions on the fondant expertly got to work on my masterpiece. By some miracle of God, I realized that fondant is amazingly easy to work with. I rolled it to a thin, smooth layer and placed it on top of the cake.

Then, I realized I had no black food colouring sent my husband on a mission to get black food colouring added black food colouring to some of the fondant and worked it together to create, ta da!, black fondant, which I then placed on the cake.

A strip of black fondant around the perimeter of the cake, to match the Wii Guitar I was copying, and I was ready to start on the details.

I fashioned all the little knobs and buttons out of fondant and got them to stick to the top of the guitar with just a little dab of water on each.

I know, it looks tedious. Well, I’m not going to lie – it was. But, it was a fun kind of tedious. (Hello, oxymoron!) This cake is living proof that even 32 year olds can have fun with playdoughesque materials…

I then wrote out a birthday greeting to Logan (on an extra piece of fondant, in case I screwed up the lettering…) and stuck that to the cake.

Not including the time it took to bake the cake (or the time it took Lucky to locate some black food colouring for me), the decorating process took about 90 minutes or so. (And, if you think that’s long, I won’t even tell you how long it took me to decorate the Satan Cinderella cake…)

When the time of the party rolled around, I had several very impressed little boys crowding around the cake. Logan proudly exclaimed that he loved his cake and that I was the best cake baker in the world.

Looking back on the whole Guitar Hero cake making business, I have to say that my cake is to the actual Guitar Hero guitar what the Spider-Man and Friends Spidey is to the actual Spidey. Check it:

Logan’s guitar…

Actual guitar…

Spider-Man and Friends Spidey…

Real Spidey…

If I had it to do over again, I would have shaped the guitar myself to make it look more realistic. Because some of the cakes I found on the internet were really something. Wow.

Upon seeing the pictures of my cake, a friend said to me, “All that work for what… a picture?” to which I immediately responded, “pretty much, yeah!“. Seeing the excitement on Logan’s face when he saw the cake make it all worthwhile.

It definitely beat the look I got when he saw his present:

Somebody tell me he’ll learn to ride (and enjoy) this thing by the time he turns 40. Please?

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Me, Offspring, Out of the Mouths of Babes | 2 Comments →

Please to be forgiving the craptacular quality of this post. I’m trying to shake out of a post-progesterone fog of epic proportions…

Logan is turning seven. Seven!

Excuse me while I go sob uncontrollably into one of his baby quilts…

Just talk amongst yourselves…

Sorry about that. I’m back.

So, along with the birthday comes the birthday party.

(You can just call me Captain Obvious. I won’t mind.)

I don’t like planning birthday parties. At all. They stress me right the eff out. It’s ridiculous, I know. But, well, I’ve always been a little “off”, so this type of reaction is actually quite normal for me.

Logan has decided on a Guitar Hero themed party. It’s set for next weekend. So far, I’ve managed to:

1. Make up the invitations (which my dad graciously printed out and laminated for me.) (Thanks, Dad!)

2. Reserve a guitar-shaped cake pan.

So, as you can see, this party is shaping up to be all kinds of awesome.

(I’m too frozen with anxiety to actually plan anything.)

(Although, with Guitar Hero being the theme, I think it stands to reason that playing the Guitar Hero game for awhile might be a good activity…)

(Captain Obvious saves the day again!)

Next week, the party planning begins in earnest! Anyone know a cheap place to buy rockstar-related paraphenalia for cheap? Did I mention cheap? And, preferrably cheap…

_______________

And, in completely unrelated news, ever wonder what a sleep-deprived four year old looks like after waking up at 3:20 in the morning for a middle-of-the-night party?

Behold:

She’s been an absolute joy today. I know you wish you were me. You can admit it. The first step to beating the green-eyed monster is admitting your jealousy…

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Me, Offspring, Phoning it in | 4 Comments →

On Sunday, Lucky and I packed the kids off to their grandparents’ house for a sleepover so we could party it up paint their rooms. Logan picked what is quite possibly the nicest, most relaxing blue I have ever encountered and Lily picked bubblegum pink. Not so relaxing, but most definitely girly.

With me doing all of the edging and Lucky doing the rolling, we had both kids rooms done in no time.

And then I made him watch Twilight with me.

*snicker*

Here are the befores:

Logan’s boring beige room.

Lily’s equally boring beige room.

Fact: Their rooms were exactly the same shade of beige even though they look different in pictures. (Aren’t you glad that I’m detail-oriented enough to let you in on that one?)

Random cuteness warning: Below is a picture of Lily taken at the same time the “before” pictures were taken.

I’d gladly keep the rooms boring beige if it means that I get to keep my baby girl a baby just a bit longer…

Here are the afters:

I’m sure I don’t need to explain whose room this is…

Holy PINK room, Batman!

Lucky and I decided to reveal the rooms one at a time. And, because I can’t let my children experience a single thing without my camera in their face, I took pictures of their reactions.

Mostly, I think Logan just felt relief that the room wasn’t the terrible, horrible abomination that he feared it would be. “I thought it was going to be a really dark blue and that would make me sad.”

(Never mind that he helped to pick the colour…).

What can I say? Logan is his mother’s son, which means that he is terrible with change. Thankfully, he truly seems to love his new “boy” room. It’ll be even better when we put his Superman and Spidey stickers back up again.

Lily’s colour is a rosy pink. I actually went a shade lighter than what she picked and, if I’m being honest, I still think it’s a bit too much. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s not about me, it’s about Lily and let me tell you, Lily loves it. She loves it so much, in fact, that she changed outfits three times and had me take a picture of her in each one, in front of her new and fabulous pink walls.

Outfit one: her favourite fall dress and my childhood teddy.

Outfit two: her Dorothy costume from Halloween and Logan’s Webkins dog.

Can’t forget Toto’s basket!

Outfit three was a princess dress and fairy wings, but by that point, Lily was spinning in delirious circles around her room and I couldn’t manage to get a clear shot.

I’m a little tired after my whirlwind painting extravaganza. While I may not be a huge fan of pink, I am a huge fan of laying down. I figured it was the best way to properly enjoy my handiwork.

Even in a completely prone position, this room is pink. Day-um.

Want to know one other reason why laying down is so awesome? Gravity. It makes my face look younger and thinner. Also crazy. But if that’s the price I have to pay to see my cheekbones again, bring on the straitjacket!

I like to emphasize the crazy by not wearing makeup. Effective, no?

So what did you do this weekend?

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Me, Offspring | 6 Comments →

This was one of the best parts of my Mother’s Day this year.

Even better? This picture is completely unposed and unrehearsed. We were all outside on my parents’ porch and the kids were busy having a moment of their own. All together, now. “AWWWWW…..“

Filed under: Happy Happy, Me, Offspring | 4 Comments →

A couple of weeks ago, I had the much-anticipated, long-awaited appointment with my endocrinologist. Based on my blood work, she determined that the evil root of all of my problems was Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS. Considering that my good pal Google and I had already pre-diagnosed me with that very syndrome months before, I wasn’t surprised. And, in the grand scheme of things, PCOS is not a big deal. Mostly it’s just a pain in the ever-expanding ass. Things could definitely be worse.

My doctor informed me that in order to keep my indoor plumbing healthy and cancer-free, it was a good idea to invite that nasty old bitch, otherwise known as Aunt Flo, over for a visit every three months or so. In order to do this, I need a bit of hormone therapy in the form of progesterone. The plan is to use the progesterone every three months in the hopes that it nudges my body in the right direction and all the things that have gone so very wrong in the past couple of years (like the size of my butt) will start to right themselves. I’m to go back in six months to see how things are coming along, and if needed, I can be put on different hormones or a medication called Metformin, which was actually made initially for diabetics. At this point, though, I’m crossing each bridge as I come to it.

On May first, I faithfully started my first round of progesterone. At first, I didn’t feel any difference. By day three, I could swear that I had more energy. On day five, I felt more alert and awake. By day eight, my idiot husband told me that I was acting just a touch argumentative. On day 10, I came thisclose to ripping my husband’s obnoxious face off. As of right now, day 11, my stupid, haggy old aunt has taken over my body, kicking me repeatedly in the ovaries and causing me to plot ways to off my husband, who for some odd reason, has become almost unbearably irritating. But maybe it’s just me.

Considering that I haven’t had to roll out the welcome mat to dear old crazy Flo in fourteen months, and before that only had to endure sporadic visits, I didn’t think to adequately prepare myself for such a guest. It’s probably been over two years since I’ve had to peruse the feminine hygiene aisle and I’m hoping that I can still navigate my way through. And, since I pretty much never have to stop and take stock of the supplies I have on hand, I didn’t even think about it when I was at the grocery store this morning. This means that not only do I have to go buy tampons for the first time this century, I have to make a specific trip just for that.

I’m thinking it will be a bit awkward, like the guy who really just wants to buy a box of condoms but ends up with a carton of milk, a TV Guide, some coffee filters and a pack of cigarettes, just to make it seem less obvious. I don’t think I can go to the store and just buy a box of feminine hygiene products.

(And yes, I’m well aware of the fact that I’m 32 years old and should really be able to buy condoms, lube and a lone banana, should I so desire, without turning a single shade of pink.)

(If you count my age strictly by the number of periods I’ve had, though, I’d have to say that I top out at about 19 which is clearly still an awkward age to be out buying tampons and nothing else).

(Otherwise, though, being 19 pretty much rules. From now on, I’m only going to refer to myself in menstrual age. I knew there had to be a silver lining to this whole PCOS thing!)

Okay, so what was I saying again?

So, yeah. It’s obvious that I can’t possibly go shopping for a single box of tampons. Because, knowing my luck, I’ll end up with some young guy at the checkout, looking at me with barely disguised horror as he realizes the reason why I’m standing before him. Because, obviously, when a woman needs only that one thing, she must be a menstrual Mount Vesuvius, ready to blow at any moment. Lord help you if you’re in my path of destruction, checkout boy. Hand over the tampons and duck, if you know what’s good for you.

So I’m thinking that, along with my lovely female item, it may be a good time to purchase that family-sized Caramilk bar I’ve had my eye on. And the latest copy of Star magazine. Maybe a gun, too, just to keep the husband in line. If I were a cat person, I’d totally throw a can or two of Fancy Feast into the pile, just for kicks.

All I can say is, I’d better start losing significant amounts of weight, like, yesterday, because this whole being a woman thing is far too much work otherwise.

Filed under: Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS | 4 Comments →

On Saturday, Lucky barbequed us a delicious meal. I’m not sure what I liked best – the food itself or the fact that I didn’t have to make it. (Clean up is a whole other story, but I won’t get into that one right now…)

I took a few pictures of Logan enjoying the meal. I thought I’d post them here and see if anyone is able to guess what we had.

Any guesses as to what it is?

Go ahead and guess.

Really. Give it your best shot.

Any ideas?

It’s a tough one, I know.

Need a hint?

Mmmm. Ribs.

Okay, I’ll admit it. The whole process of eating ribs is a bit gross. (Somehow, they really don’t look very appealing in pictures either…) Plus, it’s not an easy feat when you have no teeth. But boy, oh boy, are they good.

And, in honour of Mother’s Day, my husband bought me some tulips. Isn’t he thoughtful?

Filed under: Happy Happy, Keepin' it Real, Me, Offspring, Random | 2 Comments →

Last week, I broke down and bought the Hannah Montana movie soundtrack for Lily. We listen to it pretty much every time we get in the car and, as a result, The Hoedown Throwdown has been on a permanent loop in my head. It’s almost like Miley herself has taken residence in my brain. It’s like we’re jamming together or something. Sometimes I swear I can hear her talking to me.

Miley: Pop it, lock it, polka dot it, countryfy it, hip hop it

Me: Put your honk in the sky, move side to si…

Miley: Wait. What did you just say?

Me: Move side to side?

Miley: No. Before that.

Me: Put your honk in the air?

Miley: Right. That. What the hell is a honk?

Me: Pffft. I don’t know. It’s your song!

Miley: It’s not HONK. It’s hawk. H-A-W-K. Hawk.

Me: Honk. Hawk. Does it really matter? Neither one makes any sense at all.

Miley: …

Me: I mean, honestly. Why would you sing about putting your hawk in the sky when the song is supposed to be about a hoedown? Is there some kind of crazy Tennessean hawk dance that I don’t know about?

Miley: Are you being serious right now?

Me: No, really. Is doing “the hawk” some new dance move like “the twist”?

Miley: The twist? What are you, my grandma?

Me: I’m just sayin’. I don’t get it. The hawk isn’t even your state bird. It’s the mockingbird.

Miley: Really? That’s kind of cool, actually…

Me: So, we can agree that “hawk” makes no more sense than “honk”, right?

Miley: Uh, no. Sorry.

Me: I’d bet you dollars to doughnuts that half the kids dancing around to that song are singing “honk.”

Miley: Dollars to doughnuts? Who even says that?

Me: Wow. Apparently I do now. Hmmm.

Miley: It makes sense, I guess. I mean, you’re old enough to be my mother.

Me: I am not! I’m only 32!

Miley: …

Me: Oh. Okay, I guess technically I’m old enough to be your mother. But I’m not. So it’s moot.

Miley: But you could be. Not my mother, of course, since any child given birth to by you would have to be completely tone deaf. And lyrically challenged. That kind of thing has to be passed along in the genes. But some other sixteen year old’s mother. Definitely.

Me: Lyrically challenged? I am not lyrically challenged! You just happen to be enuncially challenged.

Miley: That’s not even a word!

Me: Unless you can explain to me right now why your hoedown song has hawk-throwing in it, this conversation is over.

Miley: All right. You caught me. I don’t know. Okay? I don’t know why. Quit harping on it, Grandma.

Me: Well, it was nice talking to you, Miley. Oh, and if I were you? I’d quit throwing my honk in the sky. You could get pregnant. It can happen at your age, you know.

_____________________

I’ll update everyone on my specialist’s appointment soon, I promise. First I have to wash out my brain and rid it of all things Hannah Montana…

Filed under: Uncategorized | 4 Comments →