(sniff sniff) I Smell Pants on Fire

You are a liar.  You.  You reading this right now.  You are a liar.  If you say you aren't, that's a lie.  I have never lied.  See, it is that easy.  I will admit that I am a liar. We all are.  I do not care who you are, at one or more times in your life (or today), you have told a lie.  I see lies the same way I see hand guns:  some people are responsible with them, and some people are careless and dangerous with them.

There are as many types of lies as there are lies themselves.  There are, "little white lies," "lies of omission," "exaggerations," and, "blatant, out-and-out lies."  Moses told us that lying is something thou shalt not do.  But, I bet even Moses had a time or two that he told his wife, "No, Zipporah, this desert air does not make your skin look ashy.  You look fine."  The hardest thing when it comes to lying is knowing when it is o.k. to do.  I know...a lot of you are thinking that it is never o.k. to lie.  Sure it is.  Sometimes we have no other choice than to tell a fib.  Do you want an example?  How about, "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus."  There is one that we all have lied about, so now you can all officially say, "Yes, (technically) I am a liar."

There are definitely lies that I feel are harmless.  There are also lies that can be devastating.  In all honesty, I have told both kinds of these lies at some point in my life.  Am I proud to say that?  No, but I am being honest.  What may seem like a harmless lie to one person can be a devastating lie to another.  This is what makes lying tricky.  If you definitely want to hurt another person, if you want to destroy your own character, or if you want to alienate yourself from friends and family, a big ole lie will do all of these.  If you want to lift a friend's self esteem, tell a dying relative that they will get better, or make a child believe in something magical, a different kind of lie can accomplish these.  I cannot tell anyone how they need to determine when and how to lie.  It is even difficult to explain my own method to this lying madness.  Is it o.k. if the lie is protecting someone?  Is it alright to lie until the person can better understand the real truth?  For me, if the lie makes me feel guilty, I know it is not a lie that should be told.  If the guilt is there, that tells me that it is time for the truth.  Lies have their place in our lives, but they should never be told more often than the truth.  Sometimes the truth hurts more than a lie, so we all need to be aware of how to best treat a situation.

I had to have the, "Santa," talk with my 9 year-old daughter this past holiday season.  She had questioned the Easter bunny's existence last spring, but we kind of ignored those inquiries.  After three times of asking about the guy in the red suit, we decided to tell her the truth.  My husband and I sat her down and told her the truth.  She looked us both in the eye, started to cry and said, "You mean for 9 years you've been lying to me?!?!"  I sympathetically looked at her and calmly said, "Yes, we have."  After a while of talking and hugs, she understood that this is a lie that parents tell their kids.  I also told her she is now in on one of the biggest secrets in the world.  Since we also have a 7 year-old daughter, I said, "Now, can you not say anything to your little sister about this?"  She smiled and nodded, then she proudly say, "I'll make sure she doesn't know.  I'll act like there really is a Santa."  Awww, look.  My daughter is growing up to be a little liar.

This meeting of the Boys' Club is now in session...your president, Amy Tucker, presiding.

I have always liked boys.  I'm not talking just the, "I like you," kind of like.  Since kindergarten, I have always had friends that are guys.  My best friends in the world are the group I call, "The Big 5," that includes me and my four closest female friends.  But, for most of my life, I have had guys who are sometimes my closest confidants.  Some girls are girlie-girls and they bond with just other girls.  Some men are described as being a, "man's man," because of their manly activities and manly characteristics.  With those very official definitions to refer to, I guess I am a, "man's girl."  I am one of those girls that likes to hang with the boys.  It's not that I like sports all that much, but I know enough to be able to sit and watch a football game.  I'll buy a bucket of beers and pass them around to hear my name praised around the table.  Recently, when negotiating the buying of a new car, I leaned across the desk and told the salesman, "Look, I know how this works.  You show me some vehicles.  I write my price on a piece of paper.  You take that paper to your supervisor and come back with a different price.  This goes on and on when it really  just comes down to one thing:  who's got a bigger dick?  And, let me tell you something, Jay...my dick is huge."

For 10 years, I worked in a very female-dominated field.  For the last few years of that decade of my life, I was the manager of an office that consisted of about 30 employees, only two of which were male.  There were days I would go to my office, close the door, and think, "These bitches are driving me crazy!"  The estrogen and the drama and the PMS and the cattiness could get to a level where even I was sick of being around women.  I am not saying men are perfect, but there are evenings that I do not want to talk about my feelings.  I don't want to know if my butt looks fat in my jeans.  Let me sit for two hours and talk about Quentin Tarantino and Kevin Smith movies.  Feel free to include me in the discussion about how hot the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models are this year.  I do not know how else to put it, but there is nothing that makes you feel more like a woman than being surrounded by men you will never sleep with:  I know it, they know it, my husband knows it, their wives know it.  These are my friends, not potential dates or boyfriends or future husbands.  It doesn't matter what we all talk about, if the language gets raunchy, or if it appears we are flirting with each other.  I remember getting together for dinner one night with a bunch of guys I have known for over 20 years (at Hooters, no less).  There was one other woman at the table who I did not know.  Over the course of the evening, I played musical chairs around the table visiting with all the guys.  There were lots of laughs and hugs.  I heard the other woman at the table (a friend of one of the guys) ask one of the men, "Who is she (meaning me) married to?"  My friend answered something to the effect of, "None of us."

With all the friends I have that are men, it is probably surprising to many that I have not had a "conflict" with me and a wife about me, "talking to their man."  What is my theory on this?  Usually, in most of these situations, I was here first.  I know that sounds silly, but I met these guys before their wives did.  I watched these guys grow up and get their hearts broken by other girls.  I never hesitated to tell them when they were being assholes.  I told them when I thought they were dating the wrong women.  They would tell me that I deserved better when I made poor dating choices.  My guy friends watched out for me just as closely as my girl friends, and sometimes even a little closer.

I get along with the wives of my close guy friends.  I think my boys made some great choices, and the wives seem to like me, too.  It is not like I have never gotten the dirty look from across a room from a significant other of one of my guy friends.  Part of me just wants to walk up to the woman and say, "Don't worry.  I'm not a threat.  I've known your man for 20+ years.  If I wanted him, I would have had him by now."

O.k., maybe there were a few I had, but that doesn't mean we aren't still friends.

Motherhood - the other "F" word (this post is rated "R" for Adult Language)

I come from a family of six:  mom, dad, four kids (three girls and one boy).  I have a family of four:  me, my husband, two daughters.  The relationship I have with my siblings is amazing.  We love each other, support each other, and want to see each other succeed and prosper.  All four of us have children of our own, and when all the cousins get together, it is nothing short of a party.  Everyday, especially the days when my daughters seem to hate each other, I tell them that one day they will not only be sisters but also best friends. 

I always knew I wanted children, at least two.  I had my first daughter when I was 32 years old.  Daughter #2 was born when I was 34 years old.  There have been times where I have thought to myself, "If I had started having kids when I was younger, maybe I would have had more than two."  Then, there are other days when I think I should have just raised dogs.  Or horses.  Or wild boars.  Maybe Africanized bees.  Because there are days that these other options sound easier than raising kids.  I know this next sentence is going to sound taboo, but I am going to say what nearly EVERY mother has thought/felt at least once:  "Why the fuck did I have kids?"  I know, I know....a number of you reading this now think I'm a total bitch.  However, there are some of you who have secretly thought the exact same thing.  I have spent most of my life saying what others may only be thinking.  I will say what is on my mind, and when I do this, I usually find that others share these thoughts.  I love my daughters.  I love them so much.  I love them soooo much that sometimes it is painful.  They are beautiful, smart, funny, affectionate girls who are kind to other children and love animals.  With all that said, I still feel there are days that the only goal they have is to drive me insane.

When women become moms, there is a change that occurs.  I am not talking just the big belly, swollen boobs, varicose veins, and hemorrhoids.  There is a different transformation that happens.  A change defining who that woman has now become.  Her life has changed. Nothing is the same from that moment on.  For some women, it may be the last thing in life that they wanted to accomplish, so they are set for the rest of their lives.  These women are content to strive for perfect motherhood, raising their children with a passion, and I totally admire these women.  These moms usually are so relaxed and know how to, "go with the flow."  They seem to have a magic wand that produces fruit snacks and juice boxes from one pocket and a puke bag, children's Tylenol, and baby wipes from another. 

Some moms have a different challenge. Some of us realize there were things we didn't get to do, yet.  Some of us realize that we will never do some of the things we used to do.  Some of us feel like we are no longer the person we started out as.  These thoughts can be harder than labor itself.  What I have done is to realize that there is a balance that my life has had to learn to control.  Keeping the scales level is so difficult.  It's like my daughters, my husband, and my home are on one side of the scale.  I am on the other side.  I know that sounds quite lopsided, but this is what works for me.  I need to be able to balance my side of the scale with everything else on the other side.  The way I have learned to do this is to know that it is not selfish to meet my needs.  Whether they are ways to work my brain, my body, my health, or my creativity, if I do not take the time to balance me, I cannot balance anything.  Nothing works in our lives if the scales are completely tipped to one side or the other.  For a long time, I tried to distribute things equally, but I discovered that my peace equalled a calmness that was shared by all.  Women need to know that it is hard to be a mom.  It is hard to love your kids when they are having a meltdown on the sidewalk.  No one likes cleaning up vomit at 2:00 a.m.  These are all going to come along with motherhood, but who you are inside does not have to disappear.  Does it need to change?  Yes.  Disappear?  No.  You can be a good mom, love your kids, and still have goals for yourself.  The goals may be different than when you were 22 years old (own a Harley-Davidson, get another tattoo, travel through Italy), but it is necessary to balance your side of the scale.

I started knitting a few years ago.  Several people who know me thought this was very out of character for me.  My years of big 1980's hair, rock concerts, tight jeans and attitude, it would have sounded more normal for me to say I was learning how to give tattoos than to say I was teaching myself to knit.  I love to knit.  Not my goal at 22 years old, but it is a happy part of who I am now.  How do I fit that in the balance to still reflect who I am?  I will not just knit you a scarf. I'll knit you a fucking awesome scarf that will kick other scarves asses.

I'm still me, just a different version of me.

Tonight is spaghetti night....again

I have blogged before about how I love food.  Italian food is so comforting, soulful, rustic, and delicious.  The fresh pasta with just the right amount of a garlicky marinara, that little bite from some basil, and the salty Parmesan cheese sprinkled on top of it all.  Sometimes there are meatballs, chunks of sausage, and sweet stewed tomatoes in the sauce.  Garlic bread, salad, bruschetta, wine.....but I'm not going that far.  I do not want to disrespect the Italians ("You talkin' to me?"), and I have done the, "all-day," sauce simmering and homemade meatballs.  However, most of the time in my house, "spaghetti night," is browned ground beef, a jar of prepared sauce, and a box of dried vermicelli.  One of my daughters does not like marinara sauce, so she eats her pasta with just butter.  I can literally make this entire meal, with side salads, in 20 minutes.  The best part of spaghetti night?  Everyone loves it. My kids will cheer.  My husband will say it is delicious.  Even the dog has fun as strands of pasta are lowered into his big doggy mouth.

It's not what I cook, how long it takes to prepare it, or even if it comes out of Chinese take-home containers, my family eats dinner together every evening.  We set the table, place the silverware by each plate, pass out the napkins, and make sure all the needed condiments are within reach.  The food is served and drinks are poured.  Then, we hold hands, take a deep breath, and pray.  I learned this routine from my parents.  We all sat down, prayed, and ate dinner together.  We usually laughed and talked about our days.  Sometimes we argued and dad would call a, "family meeting."  I thought all families did it this way.  I thought everyone sat down and enjoyed a meal with their parents and siblings.  I knew this was an important thing to continue when I had my children.  It is usually the one time of day that we are all focused on one thing...not the food, but each other.  I know that as the years go by the girls will get older.  The older your children get, they also get involved with more activities and part-time jobs that will occasionally leave an empty chair at the table.  Eventually, college and lives of their own will have me setting less plates on the table on a nightly basis.  The best you can hope for is that always know they can come home and have a place to sit.

So, tonight is Spaghetti Night at the Tucker home.  If you find yourself in the neighborhood, come on in.  We will make sure you have a good meal and a great time.  If you want fancy service, a bottle of Chianti, and tiramisu for desert, I can give you directions to Vito's.

Sometimes I Can't Read

Sometimes, I cannot read.  I do not have dyslexia.  I am not illiterate. My vision is 20/20.  It is a much more superficial problem than those.  I have had countless times in my life where I have picked up a book, read the synopsis, then soon discover the back cover was the most intriguing part of the printing.  There is quite a collection of books in my home that I have only read the first 25-50 pages.  If it cannot keep my interest after that, I usually close the cover and put it on a shelf.  My sister (Sis #1) is a maniacal, reading machine.  She lent me her copy of Stephen King's 11/22/63.  Amazing book.  I loved it.  I read all 849 pages in about three weeks.  She read it in three days.

I have a confession about high school:  out of all the books I had to read for my English classes, I only read two from beginning to end.  Those two books were To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut.  Technically, I did not read all of To Kill a Mockingbird in high school.  I actually read it in my eighth grade English class, so I reread it my freshman year.  Two complete books on my required reading list in four years.  Two books.  Four years.  I read parts of other literary classics like The Good Earth, The Great Gatsby, The Grapes of Wrath, Great Expectations (maybe I just do not like books that have the letter "G" in the title...quite an alliteration of unread literary works).  I would start the book then lose interest.  I started depending on Cliff's Notes and my friend Cee (who was in the same classes) to give me the details I needed to pass my tests.  I do remember many essay questions where a circular pattern of bullshit that kind of sounded like the plot of the story convinced my teachers to at least give me partial points towards a passing score.  It is not that I did not read any books during high school.  But, I had discovered Stephen King, and none of his books were on the list.  Pet Semetery, Cujo, Carrie...those were the books I could sink my teeth into. 

I have books I have bought and books I have borrowed.  Books people have told me, "I loved it!  I couldn't put it down!"  If I cannot get in the book, I do not feel bad about letting it go.  Just to show that I am not a heartless, unforgiving bitch, there are books that I have given a second chance.  Books that I gave up, put down, but tried again and finished them.  It by Stephen King and A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving are two stories that were better the second time around, and they became two of my favorite books.

I have been on the other side of this equation, too.  Books I have really loved and have shoved into the hands of others.  "I loved it!  I couldn't put it down."  I told Sis #1 this about The Passage by Josh Cronin.  She was hesitant at first, but after reading it, she said it is probably one of the best books he has read.  The other one I loved is Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter by Seth Grahame-Smith.  I had to convince my husband and my mother to read this book.  They both resisted, but once they started the book, they also enjoyed it very much.  I do not think Sis #1 has tried to read it.  I understand the title makes it a bit hard to swallow the story, but maybe if she tries it she might like it.

So, when it comes to what to read, choose what you like.  The books that are getting all the buzz may not be what interest you, so find something that does.  Give everything a try, maybe two tries.  The wonderful thing is that there is no shortage of things to read.  For Christ's sake, you sat here are read this, didn't you?  And, I appreciate it.

Some people just don't care....

I am having guests stay at my house this weekend.  My friend Pea and her two daughters are coming into town for a few days.  After offering to have her stay at my home, I looked around at it and thought, "I've got three days to do two weeks of house cleaning."  So, I started with some of the main areas that should be cleaned:  bathrooms, living room, my daughters' bedrooms.  Then, I looked around some more.  My kitchen is about 2/3 of the way done from our recent self-remodel.  My Christmas tree is still up and decorated in the family room.  A pillow on my couch has a hole in it.  I realized I can't get all this fixed and done by 2:00 p.m. this afternoon.  I spoke to my friend this morning to ask when they were heading to town.  She said she was not exactly sure, but she would text me when they hit the road (it is about a 3 hour drive).  When I told her, "You know, my house just is what it is..."  Her response was, "I don't care."  Then, it hit me that she really doesn't care.  She does not care at all.  She does not care about the kitchen or the Christmas tree.  That pillow with the hole can just be flipped over for the weekend.  Pea is one of those people that although she has the cleanest house I have ever seen, all she wants is to spend time with friends and watch our girls laugh and play.  She is always the most gracious host when we come to visit her home.  At our last visit, she even stocked her freezer with my favorite brand of ice cream that is not available where I live. 

We all need people in our lives who care about us.  People who are genuinely concerned with our happiness, health, and well-being.  Sometimes the best way to care is to not care about things.  With as many sick days as I have had over the last six months, I got used to people coming into my house without running around and straightening it before I opened the door.  People would come to my house and straighten it up for me (thanks, Mom).  I do not have to be Martha Stewart for others to feel comfortable and cozy in my home.  I do not have to be Julia Child for someone to love my cooking. 

Perfection is not my thing.  Thank God I have people in my life that just don't care.

Juicing...it's not just for breakfast anymore

Roids, juice, sauce, slop, blood doping, stacking, even Red Power Ranger Go-Go Juice...whatever they call them, steroids and performance enhancing methods are an issue in sports today.  It's not like they are new, but Lance Armstrong's recent investigation, admission, and dethroning has made us all think about it and voice our opinions.  Growing up, I remember my dad and my brother watching professional football on Sundays.  I did not really care about sports, but there were certain players' names I remember hearing over and over:  Terry Bradshaw, Roger Staubach, and Lyle Alzado.  For me, they were the face of their entire franchise.  Bradshaw was a Steeler, Staubach was a Cowboy, and Alzado was a Raider.  Lyle Alzado was my favorite.  He was wild, tough, and I thought he was cute.  Years went by, and I will never forget seeing him again on television in 1992.  I nearly cried.  His gorgeous, dark, bushy hair was gone.  He looked like he weighted about 125 pounds, and he was either using a walker or someone was assisting him to walk.  He was battling brain cancer.  I do not know if it was proven that his illness was caused by past steroid use, but Alzado did think that was the cause.  I found a quote on Wikipedia from an interview he did with Sports Illustrated before he died:

I started taking anabolic steroids in 1969 and never stopped. It was addicting, mentally addicting. Now I'm sick, and I'm scared. Ninety percent of the athletes I know are on the stuff. We're not born to be 300 lb (140 kg) or jump 30 ft (9.1 m). But all the time I was taking steroids, I knew they were making me play better. I became very violent on the field and off it. I did things only crazy people do. Once a guy sideswiped my car and I beat the hell out of him. Now look at me. My hair's gone, I wobble when I walk and have to hold on to someone for support, and I have trouble remembering things. My last wish? That no one else ever dies this way. ~Lyle Alzado

We watch the giants rise, and then sometimes they fall.

People are trying to decide if it was fair to strip Lance Armstrong of his Tour de France titles.  People are mad about donating their time and money to cancer research on behalf of a "liar," and a "cheat."  What bothers me the most is the skewed perspective of society and perfection.  The people want perfection.  The people want a hero. The people want an underdog to win.  The people want to see the unattainable goals reached.  The people got what they wanted from Lance Armstrong.  Unfortunately, Armstrong is not perfect, was never perfect, and will never be perfect.  All we can expect now is that (hopefully) he will be perfectly honest.  Honest to himself so he can find a way to be satisfied with who and what he is.  I am not saying it was acceptable for him to do what he did.  Most people would be fired from their jobs if they failed a drug screen or lied about their job performance.  There are rules.  Rules were broken.  Consequences are distributed.  Armstrong is being treated like your average citizen...for the first time in his career.  I do hope he comes out of this with a new purpose and focus and peace because deception can be exausting.

So, what do we do about the steroids and blood doping and suppliments and whatever else is put into a body to make a body do things that body would not be able to do on its own?  (Wow, I think I was on the juice when I typed that sentence.)  Are all athletes tested?  Are all professional sports dealing with this problem?  I don't know.  Maybe there should be two leagues for every sport:  a clean team, and a team that can do whatever they want.  The Juice League teams can do steroids, blood dope, snort coke off the cheerleaders, run down the field with a crack pipe in their mouth, and the Gatorade cooler is filled with Red Bull and vodka.  They can each score 500 points a game, run so fast they are just a blur across our television screens, jump over buildings in a single bound.  Every game, every match, every heat, every race will be like watching superheros compete against each other.  It would be amazing to watch...for a while.  There would be no surprises.  There would be no "Cinderella stories," like Milan High School or Daniel "Rudy" Ruettiger.  All superheros have a weakness, and that is the thing that makes us want to cheer for them.  It reminds us that other than their phenominal talent they are just as fragile as we are.

I bet the Juice League would be really popular for a while.  Just like "American Gladiators" was a really popular show at one time. 

Nostalgia

There are countless emotions we experience in our lives.  Even a single day can consist of dozens of feelings that can stretch from one end of the spectrum to the other.  Some feelings we love, some we hate, some we crave...some are all three.  For myself, that feeling is nostalgia.  Nostalgia, to me, is like a quilt that is soft, comforting, and familiar.  I wrap it around myself, and its magical qualities are like a time machine that propel me to anywhere I've been before.  Old pictures, old songs, old movies, old friends, old t-shirts are all quilts in disguise.  Whether it be in the cinema or the laboratory, time travel is an idea that most people would use to prevent a past event or witness a famous historic event.  If my nostalgia quilt could transport me back in time, I would be content to just revisit moments in my own past.

I would zoom back in time to March 1988.  At first glance, most people would wonder why I would send myself back to standing outside in an ice storm.  But the people who were there with me would recall that was the night we stood on top of Market Square Arena waiting for them to open the doors to the Whitesnake concert.  We had festival seating tickets, so my friends and I headed downtown right after school.  The temperature started to drop, and the slow drizzle of rain turned into freezing sleet.  Even our 14 layers of hairspray could not compete with the weather.  By the time they let in the crowd, we were all on the verge of hypothermia AND had flat hair.  The concert was amazing, there was at least half an inch of ice on everything when we left to go home, and I am still surprised we made it back safely. 

Zoom to the summer of 1992 to the bachelorette party of one of my best friends.  We had the hot-stripper-guy-dressed-like-a-cop show up at the door.  After 20 minutes of his flinging his banana hammock in people's faces, he put his costume back on.  He had some time to kill until his next gig, so he sat around and had a beer.  We were asking what other costumes he wears.  He tells us that one of his stripper friends had a pizza delivery costume that really caught the ladies by surprise.  Well, our entertainer leaves, actual pizza was ordered, and our bachelorette is getting really intoxicated.  The real pizza delivery guy shows up, and our drunk bride-to-be thinks it is a second stripper.  She is yelling, grabbing this guy, and telling him to take off his clothes.  We are trying to convince her he is just here to bring pizza, but she proceeded to steal his hat and chase him around the table.  The guy looked a bit like a Hobbit, but her beer goggles did not mind.  We paid the man (got his hat back for him) and got him out unharmed.  I bet he wrote a letter to Playboy about that night, "Dear Playboy Forum, while working as a pizza delivery man, one night a room full of women wanted me to deliver more than just the 16" they had ordered over the phone..."

The problem with the nostalgia quilt is that you cannot live your life wrapped up in a blanket.  People will stare and wonder why you are hiding.  The quilt has to be folded up and put away every once in a while.  Unless they were there, others do not understand why your nostalgic moments are so precious.  The other day, I found myself trying to convince my daughters to listen to the song, "Is This Love," by Survivor (love my "Hair Nation" station on XM Radio).  They looked at me and giggled, grabbed their backpacks, and got out of the car.  They walked inside the house while I sat in the driveway and cranked up the volume.  When the song was over, I folded up the quilt and tucked it in the glove box. 

I dare you to watch this.  Some of you won't get it, but others will get out their own quilts.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Eats

I have always been a food junkie.  I love to cook, bake, eat, graze, watch cooking channels, and try new cuisine.  Give me a recipe, and I can make it...I might even make it better.  Another one of my food talents is that I am very good at accessorizing my food. EVERYTHING can taste even better if you add one or more of the following: butter, sour cream, bacon, or chocolate.  The size of my ass has always been an indicator of these facts.  One of my previous blogs talks about how I have lost weight in the past year.  I am very happy to be thinner than I was this time last year (thinner than I have been in several years).  However, I know that all that weight will find its way home if I do not change my ways. 

Food is a necessity for life.  You don't eat, and you will die.  It is so easy to overindulge on something you need to survive.  You do not say, "O.k., I need oxygen to live, but I breathed a lot yesterday when I was out with my friends, so I need to breathe less for the next couple days."  Food is not only necessary for life, but it has a life of its own.  Food gives comfort.  Food is instant gratification.  Food is social.  Food can bring nostalgia.  Food can inspire creativity.  Food has good taste (pun intended).  There is trendy food, foreign food, peasant food, native food, healthy food, sloppy food, baby food, and dog food.  What I am trying to learn is that, like oxygen, you have to take in the right amount or you pass out.  Whether you are fainting while trying on swimsuits because you have not eaten in a week, or passed out on your couch surrounded by empty Girl Scout cookie boxes, the balance is off.  Be it food suffocation or caloric hyperventilation, I am trying to see food like I see oxygen.  I need it, but it should be seen primarily as a need of necessity and not a need for compensation.

I will never be a size 6.  I may never be, "high school skinny," again (which was a size 10).  I may gain more weight back than I have lost.  There are a lot of different scenarios.  What I have to remember is that it is my choice.  It is my responsibility to enjoy my food but learn how to enjoy it in moderation.  We all know how to lose weight.  It isn't just a pill or surgery or fads or fasting.  It is looking at food in a different way.  It is giving food a different place in your priority list.

Why does the caged bird eat?  Maybe it is having a rough day.  Maybe it wanted to try out a new recipe. Maybe it is just freaking hungry.

At Least You've Got Your Health....kind of.

2012 was the worst year I have ever had in regards to my health.  Other than being over weight (BMI charts had me officially in the, "obese," category) and a history of Crohn's disease (controlled with a one-medication treatment plan), I was doing alright.  The changes that happen to our bodies with age were becoming more obvious.  The pounds don't come off as easily as they used to, and they seem to collect in different places.  You wake up and there are little pops and pains that usually go away by that first cup of coffee.  Although I realized I was not as young as I used to be, not as thin as I wanted to be, and not as health conscious as I should have been, I just kept living my life the way it was convenient for me.  Then, by the end of April, I knew there was something not quite right.  Right upper quadrant pain, nausea, bloated/full feeling after meals, decreased appetite, no fever: I had diagnosed myself with gall stones.  I spent 10 years working in OB/GYN offices.  I know the gall bladder has nothing to do with gynecology, but after explaining to patients where all of their body parts actually are in their bodies, I learned a lot.  The frustrating part was when I was told my diagnosis was incorrect.  My diagnosis was confirmed incorrect by a CT scan, an abdominal ultrasound, an MRI, and a PET scan.  They do not do all these test to see what is wrong with your gall bladder.  They do all these tests when they cannot identify the masses on your liver.  The symptoms that brought me to the doc in the first place now took a back seat to the mystery liver tumors that showed up on every scan.  Focal nodular hyperplasia (benign condition)?  Sarcoid tumors (not a good thing)?  Hepatic cancer (worst option)?  One liver biopsy and one HIDA scan later (I was amazed there was a scan I still had not had), they determined the gall bladder was not working the way it should and the biopsied areas were not malignant.  I was thinking, "Whew!  Thank you, God.  Let's get the gall bladder out, and I will be back to normal."  My lazy gall bladder came out, but I would soon discover that, "normal," was still far away.

A biopsy of the biggest mass (about 8 cm) was done during the laparascopic gall bladder removal.  My surgeon said it was a hepatic adenoma.  Benign tumor, but it should come out.  Sent back to my gastroenterologist who said it was a hepatic adenoma.  Benign tumor, but it should come out.  Referred to one of the best hepatic surgeons at IU Hospital.  Hepatic adenomas, benign tumors, they should come out, and it just involves an open surgery (I have a 9" vertical incision), two days in ICU, another 3-5 days in the hospital, and 50% of your liver removed.  Recovery at home would be about 4-6 weeks.  I was fucking speechless.  I also had no idea that it was going to take this much work to get rid of benign tumors.  Tumors that were not effecting my liver function.  Weird clumps of abnormal tissue tucked into normal, healthy liver tissue.  The recommendation for their removal comes from the facts that a small percentage of adenomas do make a malignant change, and a larger percentage of them spontaneously rupture the larger they get.  So, surgery was scheduled for the first part of September.  I spent my four hours in surgery, two days in ICU, four days on the postoperative floor, and another six weeks at home in pain, depressed, frustrated, fatigued, constipated, narcotically medicated, and questioning if we should have just ignored those adenomas in the first place.  Healthy liver tissue grows back, so I was told my new "baby liver" would regrow and take the place of the part removed.  Then, I actually started feeling better. 

Within two weeks of thinking I was nearing normal again, I knew there was something wrong.  Another CT scan showed a canteloupe size collection of fluid in my abdomen.  It was diagnosed as a bileloma when they drained 800 mls of bile out of it.  Within a week, I was filling back up.  Another CT scan (yes, I am nearly as radioactive as The Firm) showed fluid collecting again.  My first postsurgical drain was inserted.  It is as fun and sexy as it sounds:  a flexible tube is coming out from my skin to allow bodily fluids to drain.  That drain stayed in for three weeks.  The fluid amount was decreasing, so they removed it.  I felt good for about five days, and then I could tell the fluid was collecting again by my shortness of breath and upper abdominal pressre.  Drain number two was placed.  They pulled that one after two weeks because I started having muscle spasms at the insertion site.  Ever throw out your back?  Just the slightest movement makes you grit you teeth and want to cry?  That's what it felt like while a tube was shoved through that muscle.  Drain number two was removed; not because it was done with its job but because of the pain.

I have been drain-free for six days now.  I have to say the last five days are the best I have felt in months.  I keep waiting to get that feeling...the one that tells me that I have not finished healing.  The one that makes me know it is time to call the doctor and let them know I don't feel right again.  The one that makes me frustrated and weak and disappointed because I do not know how I will feel from day to day.  God willing that feeling will not come back again.  When you are going through a really shitty time in your life, if you can say, "At least I have my health," know that definitely is a gift.  I am going to get through this shitty time and get back to my normal.

My Sister Hates Me Because I'm the, "Funny One"

I have two sisters; one is older than me, and one is younger than me.  I've told my older sister (Sis #1) that she shouldn't hate me because I am the, "funny one."  She should hate me because I am the pretty one with big boobs.  Everyone who knows my family knows that Sis #2 (the younger sister) is the sweet one.  She gets that from our mom who is one of the most loved people I will ever meet.  Sis #2 is kind and nurturing.  She is a great mom, supportive wife, loving friend, and rarely gets stressed or frazzled with life's bullshit.  Sis #1 and myself are some strange hybrid of our mom and dad.  With all the saintly sweetness that comes from our mom, the other half of our chromosomes is pure hell raiser, stubborn, smart ass DNA from our father.  My dad (who passed away nearly 23 years ago) was also one of the most loved people I will ever meet, but that is a fact I will never be able to explain.  Dad was born in West Virginia, raised by a single mom after his own father walked out on them.  He left home as soon as he graduated high school, got a degree and taught electronics, but decided that his true calling was law enforcement.  He was a cop for 20 years until cancer took him.  He was a strict, non-compromising, iron-fisted dictator most days who actually scared our boyfriends by cleaning his gun when they came to pick up his daughters for dates.  I do not think Sis #1 would even try to deny that out of all the siblings, she is the most like our father.

Most people feared and respected my father, and there were very few who got to see the crazy, funny side that he possessed.  Here is an example:  Dad worked night shift.  Mom was hosting her card club one evening and dad said good night to the ladies as he was leaving for work.  Before he goes, he turns on the lights and sirens of his squad car while still parked in the driveway.  Over the PA system he says, "We have the house surrounded.  Come out with your hands up and your pants down."  Of course, the hysterical laughter from my mother's friends (most of whom we would see in church every Sunday) lasted well after he had driven away to go to roll call. 

What I love the most about Sis #2, is that we all know exactly what she is going to be like when she gets old.  All we have to do is look at our mom, because Sis #2 is just like her.  What I love most about Sis #1, is that she is my only glimpse of what my dad might have been like if he would have had the chance to grow old.  I wonder if she will get her gun out to be cleaned when her daughter has her first date.  I want to see how she acts when her kids get married.  I want to see her face when her first grandchild is born.  I want to see her dance with her husband at their 25th, 30th, and 50th wedding anniversaries because I never got to see my dad experience those things.  I get to see him through her, and I hope she knows how amazing it is for all of us to get to watch.

Love you, Sis #1.

These are a Few of My Secret Favorite Things...

Today I feel better than I have in weeks.  (I'll go into my recent health problems at a later blog.  Sometimes it makes me cranky to talk about it.)  I have felt a few degrees below crappy for weeks now, so I forgot how it was to want to get things done.  I didn't say I did a lot of fun things, but I did laundry, errands, picked up kids from school, ran by the post office, and even went through dresser drawers getting rid of clothes that do not fit anyone anymore.  After making tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, I put the hot skillet in the sink and turned on the water.  Pppsssshhhhh.......(I think that is how you spell that sound).  So, that made me think of those weird, unique things we all, "like," for one reason or another.  I am NOT talking about freaky fetishes, so please do not tell me things that my brain will pray to be lobotomized out with an ice cream scooper.  Here are some of my things:

1. The sound of that hot pan in water
2. The smell of plain Chapstick (reminds me of my dad)
3. The smell of Play Do (Fuzzy Pumper Barbershop was soooooo cool)
4. The feel of my dog's ears (o.k., all dog ears)
5. The word, "coquillage," in French which means, "sea shell"
6. The way my kids smell when they are wearing sunscreen
7. The way fog makes everything familiar look mysterious
8. The taste of plain brown sugar (I will put an entire spoonful in my mouth when no one is looking)
9. Tom Selleck - doesn't matter how old he gets
10. The sound of the entire, "Bat out of Hell," album by Meat Loaf

Some of these are a bit different; I am completely fine with it.  They are my things, and I know we all have a list of them.  Everyone has personal preferences about most aspects of life (except for people who I refer to as, "chameleons," who change what they like to match what everyone around them likes).  Look around, and see if you can search out one of your secret favorite things today.

Meanwhile, I am going to try to figure out how to roll Tom Selleck in brown sugar on a foggy day while Meat Loaf sings, "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad."

Bigfoot Hunters and Ghost Adventures...what the hell?

Being a stay-at-home mom has lots of advantages.  The pay is not one of them.  I get an allowance that I use for gas, groceries, and a few extras.  When I made an actual paycheck, I didn't think twice about getting pedicures in the summer and acrylic nails all year long.  I had the hair dresser color those gray hairs of mine.  If I asked my husband for money for nails, he would say, "Of course, sweetheart."  I just don't feel right doing it.  So, I color my own hair at home and ignore my bitten fingernails. 

I think a lot of stay-at-homers like myself think, "Is there something I could do from home that could make me some extra money?"  I am not talking about posting a prostitution ad through Craig's List (they always get caught, anyway).  I don't want to have an in-home daycare (I don't like my own kids some days).  Growing marijuana is illegal, and I have much nicer teeth than the people who make and sell moonshine.  So, maybe a part-time job outside the house?  I start flipping channels on the television and see what kind of things are out there.  Then I realize that people are getting paid good money for some of the stupidest things.  There are shows that pay people to run around in a forest wearing night vision goggles while making grunting noises to see if a Sasquatch is near by.  How about the guy with his weird, douche bag hair-do and his camera crew who go into haunted buildings.  How bizarre that all the ghostly action takes place off-camera (and they can get the words, "I was killed," out of a recording that sounds like, "iee ksilkg ermm.").  There is more than one show where people eat weird food from around the world like buffalo spleens, bugs, and testicles from every animal that has ever had testicles.  Or, the shows that see if it is physically possible to eat eighteen pounds of pancakes in four minutes. 

I'm not really in to eating testicles, so maybe I'll see if Starbucks is hiring.

Christmas break is almost over...thanks be to God!

I am a stay-at-home mom.  I have been for nearly two years, and I still don't know if I am good at it.  This past year, with the health problems I have experienced, I probably would have had to quit a job anyway.  But, I will be completely honest when I say I miss two things about work:  the money and the social interaction.  My stay-at-home status was a choice made by my husband and myself to reduce our stress levels.  We did not need my salary to pay the bills, but we do not have as much "mad money" as before when we were a two income household.  It has been an adjustment for me to ask before spending, but I do appreciate the fact that our daughters get more time with both of us. 

All that aside, I am SOOOOOOO ready for Christmas break to be over and for school to be back in session.  The family togetherness is ready to drive me crazy.  I would love to say that we sit around hugging, paying each other compliments, and singing, "Kumbaya," by the fireplace.  Instead, there is a lot of little girl whining and drama about bedtime (Them:  "Why do we have to have a bedtime during Christmas break?"  Me:  "Because I need you to have a bedtime during Christmas break.").  We do have lots of laughs and hugs and fun, but we all are ready for the little time apart that our normal schedules allow us.  My friends and I joke around about boarding schools and sending our girls off to the convent (How do you solve a problem like Maria?  You ship her ass off to Mother Superior in Austria).  Polite, orderly, uniform and beret wearing girls that answer your questions, do not roll their eyes or stomp their foot.....these are the visions that dance in our heads.  The two weeks of Christmas vacation seem longer than summer break.  Maybe the cabin fever from the cold temperatures and snow cause us to feel like we are smothering each other.  Maybe the slight holiday chaos of dinners, gifts, baking, visiting friends and relatives, and more late nights than usual are a lot to cram into two week's time.  Maybe God is trying to tell me that the convent is the right choice for my two daughters.  What I do know is that schools starts again in three days.  I can finally go back to eating my bon-bons without interruption.

I know why there is no, "The Real Housewives of Indianapolis."

Last night, I went to dinner with my best friends.  There is one area of my life where I almost feel guilty because I have been given way more than most other people:  friendships.  I'm not talking about the, "I have 500 friends on Facebook," type of friends.  Not the, "frenemy," "fair weather," or, "we haven't seen each other since grade school," types, but I mean the, "I'll give you my kidney," type of friends.  We all have these concentric circles that surround us.  The people who are part of our lives get put in these orbits and rotate around us like satellites.  You have the family circle, the friends circle, co-workers get an orbit, people I knew in high school have a circle (there is even a, "douche bags and assholes circle," that thankfully is kept at a far distance).  One of my favorite inner circles is the planetary formation I call, "The Big 5."  To protect their reputations, I will not use their actual names, but the Big 5 refers to myself, "Kay, Cee, Eee, and Aye."  The five of us have been friends for 27 years.  I love these women with every fiber of my being, and I know they love me. 

So, last night was our Christmas gift exchange dinner (I know the New Year has already started, but there were gifts in Christmas wrappings, so it's still a Christmas dinner).  We greatly appreciate the restaurant employees for letting us sit in a slightly secluded area so our inappropriate volume and topics of discussion did not annoy too many other patrons.  Our waiter also continued to check in and bring us drink refills during our three-and-a-half hour stay (yes, 3.5 hours at one restaurant - completely normal for us).  We talked, laughed, cried (thankfully these were just tears from the hysterical laughter), and got caught up on all our children, husbands, jobs, health, and even our pets.  As I looked around the table, I thought to myself, "THIS is why Bravo will never make a, 'Real Housewives of Indianapolis, branch of their popular show."  Who would want to watch five women in their 40's (o.k., Eee is the baby of our group and is still in her 30's), who have had no plastic surgery, all need to lose weight, not worried about walking out of the house with no make-up on their faces, laughing their asses off, who do not back stab and actually love each other? 

I cannot tell you how happy I am that I do NOT have to watch that show.  I am blessed to be one of the starring roles.

2012 Shitty Moments Countdown

2013 is not going to have to work too hard to be better than 2012.  2012 was a year full of death, surgeries, stress, and tears.  I still have trouble believing all the shit that was packed into one year.  Enough shit that a manure spreader could have distributed it over at least 3 to 4 years.  The one positive I can share is that I kept my New Year's resolution for 2012!  I am starting 2013 at 25 pounds lighter than I was last year.  Yeah for me!  However, even that has to be credited to the shitstorm of 2012.  Here were the shitty highlights for 2012 (these are pretty much in a chronological order, not a degree of shittiness level):

2012's Top Shit Moments

1. Knee surgery in February
2. Friend's husband dies at 43 years of age
3. Gallbladder symptoms and surgery to remove it
4. Diagnosis of benign (but still needed to be removed) tumors on liver
5. 55% of liver removed (not recommended, but very effective weight loss program)
6. Two post-surgical drains being placed due to fluid collection in abdomen (I still have one)
7. A friend's grandmother died
8. Three neighbors from my childhood passed away
9. Watching my best friend start her life over again with two children due to moment #2

So, 2013, I have really low standards for you (according to the Mayans, we weren't supposed to be here anyway).  All I'm asking for is that I stay out of the hospital, out of the funeral homes, and another 25 pound weight loss.