Morbidly Sexy

After debating yesterday whether to just jump in the lake behind my house, today is looking up.

Joey had already scheduled the day off to take me to the hopsital, but I told him to just go to work.

Around 11am, I packed up the kids and took them to the YMCA down the street. They have a small 'Sprayground' where I can just sit in a foot of cool water and see the kids as they play.

For some reason, even though it was 184 degrees and sunny, there were very few people there. As I was sitting, I heard a male voice behind me. I turned and saw a DROP Dead gorgeous lifeguard standing there, smiling. We started talking about how stupid some parents are, letting their kids run around unsupervised. Before long, we were talking about music, movies and football. He was easily one of the best looking men I have seen in a LONG time. Tall, tan, gorgeous bulging muscles and the perfect face behind old school rainbow Oakley's.

Even though I was sitting,in a bathing suit, an angle that allows my fat rolls to cascade generously around my waistline, I felt sexy. A few times after our coversation stopped, he would start it again with a silly joke or opening line. I had quick daydreams of taking him into the locker room and teaching him a thing or two about loving a morbidly obese woman. But, I restrained.

As we were getting dried off and ready to leave, he yelled out" Have a great day! I'll be here all next week, hope to see you!" I waved and smiled.

I may be fat, but I am sexy. And he has NO idea what just talking to me did for my self-esteem today.

As I was walking to my car, I noticed a board with pictures of all the lifeguards, and short bios on them. Turns out my sexy suitor is named Jay, loves golf, 80's music and is really looking forward to starting his Senior year in August.




In High School.

Suddenly, I felt sexy AND creepy. He is 17! 17!!! I could be his MOM! God damn, they didn't make them like that when *I* was 17. And if they had, I certainly would have been the town whore.

Well, no matter. I quietly thanked myself for NOT trying to live out my locker room fantasy. I am quite certain Jay would have obliged, since I am MILF and all. But had I done it, I would be sitting in County lock-up right now, instead of writing this for your pleasure.

Fat is only part of who I am. Thanks, Jay. You made me feel like a woman again.

Joey will be home soon, and we have no plans. I think we will bring in chinese, even though for some reason, I am not hungry today at all. I have 4 loads of laundry to do before I go to sleep. Tomorrow we plan on getting up early and heading to Orlando for the day. The kids have been begging to go to Universal, we haven't been in a few months.
It's a big mountain to climb. I may need some help.

I guess that's why they call it the blue's

What a totally shitty day.

My Gyn called me at 10:15 and told me he decided NOT to do my surgery tomorrow. After re-reading my history and re-looking at the sonogram pics- he feels it's too risky to do. He is afraid of perforating my bowel, and or uterus. Can't say I BLAME him, considering my Uncle is one of the top med mal attorney's in the state. Of course, I have NO desire to be an OOPS in the operating room, but, I am disappointed.

I had myself all psyched up for the surgery and was REALLY excited at the prospect of throwing my tampons in the ocean next month on vacation.

The worst part of the conversation was when I asked him about just taking the damn thing out, a hysterectomy. He not so eloquently told me I was too fat to have elective surgery. Yep. Morbidly obese. Morbid means DEATH obese means fat. I am DEATHLY FAT. Talk about a kick in the ass.

Being fat is no fun, and I am well aware that I am. I wake up every morning knowing I am fat, stare at my rolls in mirrors, worry about fitting on amusement park rides and airplane seats. But, I guess it never hit me, until today that OTHER people can see I am fat too. I always thought that since I dress nice, have great hair and am funny and personable, that those traits blinded people. I guess not. My fat is there for the world to see.

Well, I am here to report to the world wide web, that I am not going to be fat for much longer. I haven't yet made up my mind if I am going to have Lap-Band, try Weight Watchers again, or just take my favorite Santoku knife to my own thighs. Whatever I choose, it has to be soon and it has to be forever.

I am scared. Scared of failure. Maybe even slightly scared to succeed. ( Jesus, I am a psychologist's wet dream!) I think mostly I am scared that my son, when he gets to be 9 or so, will be playing shortstop for his little league team, look up into the bleachers, see me sitting there waving and blowing kisses, and will wish he could dig a hole in the ground and crawl in, since his mom is the fat one.

I am sure most 9 year old boys are embarrassed by their mom's anyway, but I want Anthony to be embarrassed because I fart in public and call him Huggykissyloveyface, not because my ass is acting as SPF for the other mom's.

Fat no more.

I think.

Hump day

I remember when I was working in the real world, Wednesday was my favorite day. It was the downward spiral to the weekend and the office was a better place. Every Wednesday, my boss would order a platter from the local Jewish deli- corned beef, pastrami, rye bread, knish, and black and white cookies.

It's sad that I can relate almost everything in my life to food.

Thursday was always Sweet Tomatoes for lunch with the girls. And Friday, I would always meet Joey for lunch near his office.

Now being a stay at home mom, Wednesday means nothing special. Just another day. I don't GET a day off. Ever. Unless you count the annual 3 day trip I take with Ginger every year, I work everyday. Even on the weekends, when Joey is home, I am still working. Laundry, cleaning and wiping small asses never stops.

Joey is working a 1/2 day today and will be home in about 30 minutes. He is staying with our two and the twins while I go for my pre-op appointment. Oh yeah, I am having surgery on Friday. Nothing too major- just having my uterine lining burned off. I am SO done having children and my uterus is serving no purpose other than to annoy me for 7-9 days every month.
So, Friday morning at 7am, I check into the St. Joes Women's hospital to have my uterus rendered uninhabitable by embryos.

Of course, I am scared to death. I HATE surgery, especially the elective kind. Those are the one's that always make the middle pages of People magazine. ' She went in to have an elective nose job and woke up dead. But, at least she died with a beautiful nose.'

Once I get home from the pre-op, I am hoping to clean the house a bit and maybe head to Home Depot and buy some paint. I am officially fed up with looking at the sterile white walls in this house. It's time for color. I am going brave. I am painting the living room CHOCOLATE! I have always wanted walls that looked like they could be licked. I remember as a kid BEGGING my mom to get me the wallpaper from Willy Wonka- you know, the lickable stuff that tasted like Schnauzberry? I guess it was only in Hollywood, because I have never found it.

So, that's my day. Boring. And for that, I am thankful.

My internet friend, Holly, is laying in a hospital bed in North Carolina, recovering from surgery yesterday where they removed SOME of her cancer and put a drainage bag in her abdomen. She's 37 year old and her prognosis is unknown.

I'll take boring any ole time.

Summer Days...

So, I am going to TRY and blog daily. Instead of my usual- trying to be entertaining and witty- I am just going to tell you all about my days. Most days involve NOTHING- so be prepared to read about sitting on the couch.

Today... Took Simba to the vet. He was sneezing and had the runs last week. $218 of antibiotics later and he is right as rain. One life down, 8 to go!

I babysit for 12 month old twins now. Full time. 8-6 Monday-Friday. It's basically like I have 2 more of my own, except I get paid- CASH to watch these two. I cart them around with me like they are my own and actually ENJOY the attention. People are very nice and helpful when you have twins.

The twins got picked up at 2 today and I am going to work at 4:30. Oh yeah, I also got a VERY part-time job at the YMCA across the street. I work about 15 hours a MONTH. I am not in it for the money, because it pays a WHOPPING $7 an hour, I am in it for the FREE family membership. The membership is good at any YMCA, and considering the YMCA 10 miles from here has a WATERPARK- It's worth it to me. I can take my kids with me, so it's the perfect job for me.

Other than that, I did a load of laundry, vacuumed the kitchen AGAIN and cleaned the kitty litter.

What a life!

Anthony is 95% potty trained. The missing 5% is poop. He refuses to do it in the toilet! He wears a pull-up until about 11am- when he poops. Then, he puts on underwear. If he happens to have underwear on when nature calls- he yells for me to put a pull-up ON him, so he can shit in it. I don't get it?

Working until 8- then coming home to finish a load of laundry and watch BB10!

I put the FUN back in Funeral

I spent the morning at a memorial service for my neighbor/friend, Jim.

Jim was 47 years old, relatively healthy, very happy and a genuinely nice guy.

He dropped dead- literally- Sunday morning.

Jim left behind his equally nice wife, Stacy and twin 5 year old girls. One of the girls is in Lauren's class. I knew him from the neighborhood, and from our daily chats in the pick-up line in school. Would I say I knew his favorite flavor ice cream? No. But, I did know he just bought a new house, loved to play guitar and had a close relationship with his God.

Jim tried on many occasions to talk to me about God, and my beliefs. I usually laughed him off and reminded him that I was a JEW. We didn't necessarily believe in the SAME God. He didn't care. He liked me anyway.

The service was very tasteful, no "remains" were present ( for which I am grateful) and there were nice words said about the departed. Someone put together a very nice montage of music and pictures or Jim's life. It was set to Eric Clapton's 'Tears In Heaven.' I couldn't contain my tears when I saw a five year old girl crying her beautiful brown eyes out over the loss of her father.

I couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like if it was LAUREN crying over the loss of Joey. I can't imagine what Stacy feels and how she will go on.

All I do know is that now is the time to treasure those I love. I am going to try and spend each day getting to know something about someone.

Jim once told me he never asked closed-ended questions- they allowed for conversations to end too quickly. He would never say " How are you?" He would say "What did you do today?"

So, my favorite flavor of ice cream is Banana- what about you?

Aww push it...push it REAL good

*WARNING* GRAPHIC MATERIAL FOLLOWS*



** YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED***



You are either a popper or not.

I am a popper. I LOVE zits, boils, abscesses and scabs.

I love to pick my own and even more disgustingly, other people's. Few things are as satisfying as squeezing a fat, juicy blackhead until a hard, greasy plug comes oozing out.

I get my hands on my husband as much as I can, but, he is relatively acne free. Even his back is clear of blackheads. It is a true disappointment. I should have married someone greasier.

I have, on more than one occasion, had to physically restrain my hands while standing behind someone at a theme park, or on line at WalMart. It always seems there is a luscious zit or gorgeous scab staring at me, begging me to pop, pull and pick it.

Considering I would likely be arrested for popping a zit on a stranger's back, I have abstained so far.

I do not know where this strange obsession came from. I am grossed out my most things. I gag at the sight of a hair in my food. I vomited every time I changed my newborn daughter's poop for the first two months of her life. Show me an ant hill with thousands of ants crawling around, and I will barf for days at the thought.

But, give me a crop of fat blackheads and I am in my own personal heaven.

Imagine my delight when I happened upon http://www.popthatzit.com/. I am not alone. The internet is FILLED with people just like me. People that get hot over an oozing scab or boil. The site is littered with pictures of acne, bacne, boils, cuts and scabs. I have seen a few pictures of faces that I would PAY money to get my hands on.

Looking at the site is my own version of surfing for porn. I am ashamed of my addiction. So ashamed that I look at it at night, when all the world is sleeping. If someone enters the room while I am enjoying the eye candy, I immediately close the page.

Go if you dare, but you have been warned, it is NOT for those who are grossed out easily.

Joey Bag Of Donuts

Ok, I will admit it to the world at large- I am hard to get along with. I do not make friends easily. I am loud, over-bearing, nosy and obnoxious. There is no “She’s ok” with me. You either ADORE me and think I am awesome or you hate me and think I am THE single most annoying person on earth.

So, living in PERFECT is not easy for someone like me. You see, PERFECT is a master planned community. This means we are “self-contained.” We have schools, churches, grocery stores, banks, restaurants, and all the amenities an upper-middle class person could ever need. All of these niceties are secured behind the gates of our manicured lawns.

The downside to being self contained is that everyone knows everyone. If you are lucky enough to be a DINK ( Double income, no kids) you MAY escape SOME of the nosiness, but if you have a child in the school, all bets are off. Once the PTA gets their hands on you, your business is everyone’s business.

So, imagine my horror when Lauren started school and my every move was watched. They all wanted to know: What did I wear? Where did I work out? Where did I go to college?

Well, the last few weeks, I was starting to finally feel like I was fitting in. Moms were being nicer to me at the Starbucks. Neighbors were stopping to chat. My empty garbage cans were at the top of my driveway every Monday and Friday, placed there by a caring neighbor.

I figured my annoying over the top personality FINALLY caught up with them, and they were liking me.

I was wrong.

I was at the local pizza shop today having lunch with Anthony when a mom I had never seen before came over to me. “Aren’t you Joey’s wife?” She asked. “Yes, I am.” I said as I wiped pepperoni grease from my face.

“I’m Martina, a friend of Andrea’s, nice to meet you! Lunch is on me!” She said as she picked up my check and sprinted to the counter, visa card in hand.

ANDREA. That bitch.

Ok. Back story.

Andrea is an UBER MILF. She looks like a Barbie and acts like one too. Plastic.
She has a reputation as being THE nosy bitch in the neighborhood. She is also a notorious one-upper. Anything you have done, she has done better and it cost her more.

I first met Andrea at the park last year. We said hello and that was that. We ran into her at the park a few times, and always said hello. By the third time I saw her, I had been warned by the others of her ways.

Well, last month, I was at the park, sitting on a bench minding my business when Andrea came over. After exchanging pleasantries, she decided to get her hooks in me. She casually mentioned how she missed her husband, as he was presenting a speech to the world's most famous plastic surgens in Greece. " David is always away on a PLASTICS thing." She droned. " I don't think I ever asked you, what does YOUR husband do?" She squeaked.

I had two choices here. I could take the high road and be honest. There is no shame in my husband being a lowly Assistant District Attorney or a landscaper for that matter. Or, I could be Cici. I could spin a web of delicious lies so delicate and precise that even *I* would be impressed with myself.

I opted for the latter.

Taking a cue from the fact that I had just come off a two day bender of watching The Soprano's DVD's- I fashioned myself the next Carmela.

"I'm not really sure what he does." I said coyly.

"You're not sure?!" She giggled.

"Nope. He never told me, and it's not really my place to ask." I stated.

"What?? That's ridiculous! Where does he go when he goes to work?" She asked, starting to get annoyed.

"I'm not really sure, he travels the state, and he goes out of town a few times a week."

Ok. You could smell the bullshit from space at this point. I felt sick to my stomach by now, as I knew I was caught in my lie. NO one could believe this dreck.

Except Andrea. She smelled juice and she was hot. I think I even saw her botton lip quiver.

"Ok then, who signs his paychecks?" She asked like a CSI who had just found the bloody shoe.

"I don't know. I think he gets paid under the table."

"How much does he make at this mystery job?" She snotted.

"I have no idea, we don't have a bank account. He gives me cash to buy groceries and stuff."

By now, I sounded like a stupid moron with no brains. Surely she was going to call my bluff at any second.

Nope. She was hooked.

"What's his boss' name?" She prodded.

"Vincent something?" I said in a question like answer.

That was it. She was SOLD. We chatted briefly about house prices, (Where I GROSSLY overstated the value of mine) and the elementary school fundraiser(Where again, I grossly overstated my contribution.) And she gathered her daughter to leave.

"Your son his name is Anthony?" She asked as she was leaving.

"Yes, Anthony Giovanni" I said. "And my husband is Joey, but most people call him 'Two shoes'" I yelled after her.

I went home and told Joey the tale. We had a good laugh at the story and I have been calling him Two Shoes ever since.

Fast forward to lunch today. It all became crystal clear. I am CONNECTED. I am married to a made man. According to Andrea and her henchbitches, my husband is seconds away from making concrete shoes for the local Bunco group.

That explains all the smiles, and nice gestures. No longer am I wondering why I get asked to head every school function and attend every Pampered Chef party in the 'hood.

I AM MARRIED TO THE MOB!!

I am heading over to QVC.com to buy myself some new bling. If I am gonna BE rich, I have to look rich.

SWF: 33 Florida

So there I was yelling at Lauren a few weeks ago to get off of Webkinz World.

Webkinz, for those of you who have been living under a rock, are stuffed animals whose main attraction is a secret code on their tag. Once the recipient opens the tag, the secret code is revealed. The secret code is then used to create a VIRTUAL pet on Webkinzworld.com. This pet needs to be "fed" "exercised" and taken care of daily.

The pet is fed by the user buying virtual food at the virtual store and exercised by the user taking the virtual pet to virtual charm school. It's all a big conspiracy.

Lauren started with two Webkinz. She fed them daily, always put them to sleep at night, and kicked their virtual butts in weight training. Then she found the arcade. The arcade is an area where she can play games to earn Kinzcash- which is virtual money needed to buy virtual food.

Once she found the arcade, and received 10 more webkinz for her birthday, she all but forgot about her virtual pets. She now logs on to play games, send notes to other virtual pets, and beat high scores of her kindergarten friends.

So...these virtual pets get virtually sick. Their virtual noses turn green and they have ice packs on their virtual heads. Why are they sick? Because my daughter is too busy buying virtual furniture for their virtual rooms.

The other day Lauren told me that Sunshine (her chocolate lab) was very sick, because he was starving to death. I told her to feed him. She said she didn't have enough Kinzcash to buy him food.

My daughter's pets are living on virtual welfare!

I, being the mom that I am, logged on to her account after she went to sleep. I played all the games, putting my 5 and 6 year old opponents to shame. I earned a butt load of Kinzcash, then proceeded to the virtual store to buy virtual food to feed her starving menagerie.

When all was said and done, everyone was fed, exercised and happy. I put them all to sleep and logged off.

The next morning, while Lauren was at school, I logged on. Just to check on the gang.

I found myself in the arcade, winning more Kinzcash.

I am now addicted. Instead of playing blackjack and craps on GoldenPalace.com, I am playing Cash Cow and Space Ranger Roundup on Webkinz. I am constantly trying to beat my high score and proud of myself when I do.

What I FAILED to realize is that some of the games have limits. They can only be played a set number of times per day.

When Lauren got home from school yesterday, she logged on to play her favorite game. "Mom! It says I already PLAYED wishing well today, but I didn't!!" She whined.

BUSTED.

She asked if I had gone on and played, to which I admitted guilt. I explained that I was just doing it to earn HER Kinzcash.

She changed her password last night, with the help of Joey. He agreed with her, that a mom of two has better things to do all day than play on a children's website. It's not like I was virtually setting the animals on fire, or chatting up pre-pubescent boys in the chat room! I was just trying to get to level 10 on cash cow.

Guess I will be heading to buy my OWN webkinz tomorrow. Then I'll head over to the local McDonald's to let Anthony play on the playground while I take advantage of free WIFI and play Webkinz.

It's virtually insane!!

Black Anus Burger

Tampa, Florida - Tampa Police say a 13-year-old girl who just got out of Juvenile Detention robbed a Burger King Restaurant at knife point. But all she demanded was a cheeseburger.

This happened around 9:30 Friday morning at the Burger King at 2601 E. Hillsborough Ave.

Police say the 13-year-old girl was just released from the Juvenile Assessment Center at 8:00 a.m. They say shortly after arriving home, she picked up a kitchen knife and walked to a nearby Burger King while wearing pajamas, socks and no shoes.

Officers say she confronted an employee, Ian Bowers, at the rear entrance to the business.

She allegedly showed him her kitchen knife and yelled "Give me a burger!"

Bowers tried to run away, but the suspect pushed through the rear door and chased after him with her knife in the air.

A witness heard the suspect yelling, "Give me a (expletive) cheeseburger now!"

The suspect chased Bowers through the kitchen before she was subdued by other employees and held for police. No one was injured.

The suspect told investigators she committed this offense simply because she was hungry and wanted a burger.

She was taken back to the JAC and charged with armed burglary, armed robbery, and violation of home detention.

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I feel for her. I really truly do. She was hungry and wanted a damn cheeseburger! I have been known to put aside all reason and morality in the name of cheese and ground beef.

Of course, I would have just paid for it and eaten it like a rabid dog. I wonder if she got the burger? I hear Monday night in Tampa lockup is spaghetti night. Boy, is she gonna be pissed.

Guess she couldn't have it her way after all.

Someone should Whop HER! HAHAHAHAH...GET IT??? Damn, I am funny.

They were the best of times, they were the worst of times

Here are some of MY favorite blogs from the past. These were all originally written for MyCoupons.com, a site I used to blog for. I no longer work for them, or even visit the site, but I hear things have improved since they let go of the "writer" that took my place and a new President is in office. Many of you know the VH1 True Hollywood Story behind those days. Those who don't- just be glad you are ignorant and enjoy!!

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If you were being sent to deserted island and could only take one item and one person- I suggest you take 1000 eggs and me.

My skin is so greasy, that you could literally fry an egg on it. GROSS!!

I saw my dermatologist last week. I again complained about my oily skin.

I have tried no less than fifteen soaps, lotions, and creams.

No matter what I did, my skin always looked like I had slathered on olive oil.

After hearing my rant, my dermatologist asked which I wanted first, the good news or the bad news.

I never know how to answer this question! I mean, if I take the good news first, no matter how elated I am, I will still be feeling queasy, because I know the bad news is just around the corner.

On the other hand, if I take the bad news first, I’ll be so pre-occupied with the horror I just heard that I will not get to relish in the good news to follow.

I opted for the bad news first.

“There is really not much more you can do.”

Ok. So I have been sentenced to life as a grease face. There are worse things, I suppose.

And the good news?

“You won’t have wrinkles when you get old!”

Well slap my butt and call me Sally! You mean when I am ninety-six peeing in my pants and calling out to my cat that died three decades earlier, I’ll still have the face of a thirty year old? Albeit a greasy one?? Sign me up!

Not exactly good news to me.

I care what my skin looks like now. Will I care what my skin looks like 60 years from now? I doubt it. 60 years from now, the only thing I plan on caring about is whether I wake up every day.

“There is one last thing you can try.” Dr. Death told me. “St. Ives apricot scrub.”

I started wondering how to book a flight to St. Ives, wherever that was, and how I was going to get their scrubby apricots back through customs.

“You can get it at Wal-Mart.” He offered.

Wal-Mart?!?!

I have had prescriptions filled for creams that have removed the top layer of my skin, prescriptions for soap that contained more alcohol than my dorm room refrigerator, and a $200 non-insurance covered prescription for a lotion that I had to wear GLOVES to apply. And he is telling me the holy grail of face cleansers is sold at Wal-Mart???

Off I went. To Wal-Mart (Not St. Ives) I picked up a bottle for less than $5.

I took it home, and was impressed that I didn’t have to don protective hazmat gear to apply it. I wet my face with warm water and started scrubbing. The scrub is made from apricot pits, and is very dry and rough. Once I rinsed it off, I did not look greasy.

I went about my next task, and when I checked the mirror ten minutes later, I was still NOT greasy.

An hour later, no oil. For the rest of the day, I remained oil free!

That was last Monday. It has now been a week, and I can honestly say that I am NOT oily. I use the scrub twice a day- morning and night and I look SO much better.

I emailed my dermatologist this morning: (He is a life-long friend of my parents, so I can talk to him like this!)

Dear Dr. Death,
I wanted to thank you and let you know that the St.Ives apricot scrub is working! My face is not oily, and I am so happy to have found this wonder wash! My skin is as dry as a desert, and I love it. Seeing as how I am a ‘have my cake and eat it too’ kinda girl, I was wondering if I could still retain the right to have no wrinkles when I am old.

P.S. I think it only fair that you take me on the next drug company paid vacation you are treated to. Since I have been your guinea pig for the last ten years, while you used my face to sell expensive prescriptions, I think you owe me this.
Sincerely,
Cici

He replied this evening:

Dear Cici,
How does Barbados in the spring sound? And, sorry to burst your bubble, but you were going to get wrinkles anyway. I was just trying to make you feel better.
Love,
Dr. Death.

I’m going to wash my face!

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A world class jet-setter, I am not. I fly, on average three times a year. I never go to exotic destinations like London or Cape Town.
Nope. I go to Philadelphia, Denver, and Las Vegas.
On planes, like all other aspects of my life, I always get the shaft. I inevitably sit next to the smelliest, gassiest, largest person on the plane.

So, when I read of Rachel Collier being kicked off of a Continental Airline flight for COUGHING, I was a bit ticked.

What I wouldn’t give to sit next to someone that was coughing.

A cough, even a dry, hacking, put a pillow over her face cough has to be better than what I have experienced while suspended thirty-five thousand feet over our great country.

In 2000, my husband and I took a red-eye to Los Angeles. Of course, I was not seated next to my husband. I was 9 rows behind him. He fell asleep before take off.

I, on the other hand was seated next to Don Juan himself. He started with small talk, I explained I was on my honeymoon. He then told me his life story. By the time we were somewhere over Arizona, he had had too much drink and was crying like a baby. He then asked if I was a member of the ‘club.’ (The mile high one) When I told him no, he inquired if I wanted to become one.

Believe it or not, that was mild considering what I have experienced while in the friendly skies. I have been vomited on, cried upon, and once spent six grueling hours sitting at the gate in Philadelphia while the plane was de-iced. They wouldn’t let us get off the plane, heck, they wouldn’t even let us stand up.

That is truly the closest I have ever come to going completely and totally shitzo. And to add insult to injury, I was sitting next to a woman who was experiencing minor gastrointestinal distress. She made no excuses, or even attempts to mask her malady. She did, however, apologize.

At least I had that going for me.

But of all flying stories I have, by far the one that goes down in history is the time I was en route to Las Vegas. The weather was horrible, the turbulence was abundant, and I was sitting next to a man who was convinced we were going down.

To ease his fear, he drank himself into a comfortably numb state. I was relieved when he fell asleep, even though his head was on my shoulder. I was reading my book when he woke up, turned to me and said “Are we in Denver yet?”

Confused, I explained we were not going to Denver, we were going to Las Vegas.
He laughed at me and said “Funny.”

It hit me that he was not only extremely drunk, but very confused.

He fell back asleep and when we touched down, I stood up to get my bag from the overhead bin. He was still fast asleep and snoring. As I exited the plane, I told the flight attendant that the guy in row 12, seat B was still sleeping.
She glanced back at him, then said “Oh, that’s one of our Captains. He just got off an international flight and we are giving him a ride back home.”

Nice.

Needless to say, every single time I board a plane now, I look at the Captain.

If I ever see Captain Morgan sitting at the controls, I am going to stage the biggest coughing fit I can muster.

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I'm sick.

Again.

My daughter is a walking magnet for germs. She is in pre-school and picks up every sniffle, sneeze and cough that comes into the school. Being my daughter, she is a giver. So, she shares with me. We have been sick about 14 times since September.

Yesterday, I felt the twinge in my throat. That dry feeling when I swallowed. You know the feeling. Don't you? Your throat goes dry and your inner voice says "Uh oh- I'm getting sick." Try all you want, it's coming at you like a train, and you are helpless. You cannot stop it, and you just KNOW you are going to wake up tomorrow feeling worse. Mentally, you think about the next week, and fret about the plans you have, and how the timing of this couldn't be worse.

I was talking to my friend Sara (Of car shopping fame) last night, and told her our weekend plans of fun and sun may be put on hold due to my untimely illness.

"Go get some Zicam!" She insisted. "It really works."

Now, as much as I love Sara, she is what some might refer to as..um.. different. At any given time, you can find herbal remedies in her purse, and she always smells like incense.

"Sara, I really don't believe in that alternative medicine stuff." I told her.

"Cici! Just try it. It really works, and it's safe. I mean, I'm not a doctor, but I know it works." She droned.

"Really?!?! You're NOT a doctor??? All along, I thought for sure you were performing cardiothoracic surgery when you said you were at yoga class! What a shocker!" I said.

"FINE! Be that way. And be sick! See if I care!" She said as she hung up on me abruptly. I assume she was paged to a GSW/MVA, complete with a chem 7, type and cross and a lavage. (I watch ER too much)

I spent the night coughing and sneezing, and feeling like I got run over by a truck. When the morning light came in my windows, I got out of bed, pulled back the curtains, and prayed that I would see fourteen feet of snow on the ground; so I'd have an excuse to stay in bed all day. There was no snow. I live in Florida. Darn global warming.

So I pulled myself out of bed, and went to CVS, to find some medicine to make me feel better. As I was reaching for a bottle of 'green death' (Nyquil) I saw Zicam.

Studying the wide array of choices, I felt sicker than before. Zicam comes in many forms. I could choose to spray it up my nose, or stick a cotton swab in my shnauz. As I guffawed at the thought, a woman next to me said "I use that! It really works!"

Do you know Dr. Sara Morgan, the world renowned cardiodthoracic surgeon? I wanted to ask.

Fine. I bought it. After much careful thought, I decided that sticking cotton swabs up my nose was not the route I wanted to go. I settled on the nasal mist.

Once I got home, I read the directions. Twice. The directions instructed me to place the bottle in my nose, and gently spray the fine mist into my nostril. DO NOT BLOW YOUR NOSE FOR 30 SECONDS! It warned me.

Ok. Here we go. I put the nozzle in my nose, and after 5 minutes of nerves, I accidentally squeezed too hard and sprayed it. OH. MY. GOD. What a horrible feeling that was! I had never used a nasal spray before. I swear I felt in my brain. Immediately, my eyes began to water, and my mouth tasted like I just ate a handful of pennies.

My nose started to run like a track star, and my first instinct was to grab a nearby paper towel and blow it. Then I quickly remembered the warning to NOT blow my nose. What would happen? Would my eyes pop out? Would my brain leak? Panic set in as I began to get lightheaded. I thought I was going to faint.

Instead of blowing my nose, I breathed out hard, with my mouth closed- like a raging bull. That only made it worse. After 30 seconds passed, I blew my nose for about three minutes. I also brushed my teeth and washed my face. There was NO WAY I was about to attempt that stunt with nostril number two. The Zicam went into the garbage.

Does it work? I don't know. Obviously the manufacturer intended for it to be used on BOTH nasal passages, every four hours. One nasal passage was enough for me, thank you very much.

Do I feel better? No. I feel worse. As I write this, my 'normal adult dosage', (plus a little extra for mommy) of Nyquil is kicking in. I should be asleep within the next ten minutes.

Sara can have her homeopathic spray of death. I'll stick to my green coma inducing juice. Talk to you next week when I wake up.

*************************************************************************************

I am still sick. In fact, I am worse than I was last night. I think that in addition to my cold, the Zicam burned off my nasal hairs and taste buds. I cannot smell or taste anything! I had an apple earlier, and it tasted like a potato. Of course, I am hungrier today than a bear waking up from hibernation. But what's the point in eating if you can't taste? It's like jumping into a hot pool on an August day.

As if the cough, chest congestion, runny nose and fever were not enough, I also have an eye infection. It's quite attractive. I took a nap earlier this evening, and when I woke up, I had the special treat of having to wash my eye with a wet washcloth just to open it. So, I did what every sane person does when they realize they are afflicted with a new malady.

I googled my symptoms.

It would appear by all accounts that I have the third strain of a Lebanese virus. There is no known cure. I am doomed.

Of course, considering that I have self-diagnosed myself with every disease and affliction out there, this new diagnosis is no surprise. My primary care physician may have graduated suma-cum-something from Harvard; but her medical knowledge and access to my personal history is no match for the resources on the web.

Last year, I had a headache for four days in a row. What started out as a tension headache, suddenly turned into spinal meningitis. I stopped short of performing a self spinal tap, but I was tempted. According to the email I get daily, I COULD earn my medical degree in my spare time. Hey! Sara and I can be co-workers!!

When I told my friend, Ginger about my new disease- she laughed me off. Until she called two days later to inquire if spinal meningitis was contagious. She had a headache, and it wouldn't go away. Miraculously, we both were cured.

According to my calculations, in addition to the meningitis, I have had cancer of every possible organ. I have also had pre-menopause, post partum depression, hangnail infections, and roaches living in my ears. My teeth itch, my hair hurts, and my leg throbs when it's going to rain.

Last week, my husband, updating our computers firewall, and no doubt googling his own symptoms, incredulously demanded to know "Why are you looking up EYELID cancer?!?"

I had a bump on my eyelid. There was no way it was anything BUT eyelid cancer.

Basically, I am an internet made hypochondriac.

If not for the internet, I would assume a headache was just a headache. Because of the internet, I now assume a headache is a pre-cursor to imminent brain explosion.

My doctor has stopped telling me things. I saw her a few weeks ago for my annual physical. She ordered some blood work, but instead of giving me the lab form, she said she would fax it to the lab for me. I offered to take it with me, but she refused.

"Oh No! You'll go home and look up every test I ordered. Then you'll wonder why I ordered the test, and assume it's because I see something in your eyes that tells me you have some strange disease. I know you too well, Cici."

Touche.

I have an appointment tomorrow night to go over the results of my labs. I am breaking out in a cold sweat at the thought of what she will tell me. In reality, I am a young woman, in moderately good health. My family history is pretty clean, and my lifestyle, while not perfect, is not horrible either. I should have no reason to worry- but according to Web MD- I have every disease known to man.

I am thinking of putting a net nanny type of software on my computer- to keep me from searching for medical information. Of course, this would hinder my progress in tracking my bird flu symptoms.

My friend, Stacey, a nurse, brushes me off when I tell her all of my problems. She said "You know, Cici, one day, many years from now, I'll be sitting at your funeral. I'm going to turn to the person next to me and say 'She was FINALLY right'."

The Nyquil is kicking into overdrive, and I think my fingertips are numb.

Susan Smith

Remember Midas? Everything he touched turned to gold.

I have the reverse Midas touch. Every kitten I touch turns to shit.

Simba has been sneezing his little two pound head off for three days. I took him to the vet this morning at 8am. He has an upper respiratory infection- which is basically a kitten cold, an eye infection in BOTH eyes and he still smells like a barnyard.

The vet said that kittens that come from shelters are commonly afflicted with these maladies and not to worry. He put him on an antibiotic, eye drops and some powder to add to his food which acts as an immune-booster. He was nice enough not to charge me an office visit fee, so my bills was ONLY $63 for the medications.

He goes back next Saturday for a re-check and hopefully at that time, I can let him out of solitary confinement. Poor kitten is living in a 10x12 bathroom. Poor me, because he smells like a dump truck thanks to his parasite. Do you have any idea what a small room filled with kitten poop smells like after 5 days? Not so pleasant, believe you me.

The bills to this vet are mounting by the day, and as I write check after check, I take comfort in knowing that the vet's children will be at Harvard in a few years, thanks to generous donations by my family.

Of course, It would be cheaper to just not have pets, and drown the two I have now in the lake- But, could YOU not take care of this face??


Cute isn't he??

Know what's NOT cute? That God forsaken wallpaper in my bathroom. I SHOULD spend this Saturday ripping it down, but, I am lazy. I think I will take my kids to the park and McDonald's. Joey is away for the weekend,and I am a single mom until tomorrow, what better way to celebrate than with a Big Mac?

Enjoy your weekend!

Cici

Flight 637, you are clear for landing

Unless you count Jordan Potsic ripping the head off my cabbage patch kid in 4th grade as a crime, I have lived 32 years without being the victim of a crime.

I have never been mugged, raped, robbed, or even had someone hit me unprovoked. I thank GOD for this fact, as the truth is, I am a sissy ninny. I am scared of my own shadow. I put on a tough front, but the sad fact is, if the going ever got tough, this toughie would get going.

I was born and raised in an upper-middle class neighborhood, went to school with the grandchildren of former Presidents and graduated from the DARE program with honors. To say that I lived a sheltered, white bread life would be accurate.

So why am I so afraid of the dark and all things that go bump in the night? I have no idea. But, I am petrified of being victimized.

I hate being home alone at night and when Joey goes away on business, I am a mess. I make Lauren sleep with me, on the side of the bed closest to the door. My reasoning? If someone came in, I could throw her at them as a distraction while I run. Aren't I a great mom?

So, since I have had my own place, I have always had an alarm system. I am one of the suckers who plunks down $34.99 a month to have some pimple faced call center clerk in Boise watch over me while I sleep. When we go to sleep at night, this house is locked down like a virgin's knees. We have sensors on every door and window, glass break sensors, motion detectors and a Louisville Slugger under the bed.

We also like to light up our backyard like an airport. If YOU were a thug, would you break into the dark house down the street or the one that looks like a runway?

As you know, we moved. I had the alarm company installing a system before I placed a single object in the house. On my inspection of the outdoor lighting, I noticed the backyard had exactly ZERO lights. Not even a light off the porch. Realizing this was not acceptable, I called my handyman and commissioned him to install motion flood lights out back. He did the job in less than 3 hours, and I was on my way to landing 747's.

Once motion is detected, the lights kick on and stay on for 2 minutes. Although the sensor is wind and rain proof, it will pick up animals and such. Living on the lake, we have plenty of birds, raccoons and assorted members of the animal kingdom.

So, night four in the house and it's 11:15. Our doorbell rang and Joey answered it. It was our new next door neighbor. She told Joey that our light came on TWICE since 6P.M., and it was shining into her bedroom. Joey explained that it was motion sensitive and that it only stays on for two minutes. He apologized for the TERRIBLE breech of her comfort and closed the door.

The next morning as I was getting Lauren in the car for school, the neighbor walked over. She bluntly told me that the light came on THREE more times in the middle of the night and was very annoying. I asked her if it was staying on for a long time, and she said " Well, anything is TOO long. This is a very safe neighborhood, you don't NEED a light out back!"

Although my inner voice was telling me to choke her with my bare hands, skin her and wear her as a coat, I decided to be calm.

I explained that we felt safer having a light, and that I would check the timer and switch it to 45 seconds. I also offered to replace the bulbs with a lower wattage.

When Joey got home, he made the adjustments, replaced the 60 watt bulbs with 40's and turned the light downward, so it would shine on the ground and not on her house.

Fast forward -------->

10:15, our doorbell rings AGAIN. It's her, in her pajamas. The light came on again earlier and although it was better, it was still shining light in her room. I asked her if I could go to her house and see for myself, and Joey could make needed adjustments from the other side of the fence. She agreed and we went.

Joey went outside and turned on the light. As I was standing in her bedroom, I saw the blinding light she was talking about. There was a very faint yellow hue in ONE corner of her window! No brighter than a night light down the hall and around the corner.

I yelled out the window for Joey to bend the light down a smidge and voila! The light was gone. As I was leaving, she said " You know, this really is a safe neighborhood, no one ever gets broken into, you could save money on your electric bill by not having the light."

I thanked her for her advice, and said "Yeah, we will probably start turning it off next weekend, we are adopting Rottweiler TRIPLETS!!!"

I think she swallowed her tounge.

All I know is that the next morning, she was sweet as pie and said NOTHING about the light.

I hate people.

Resolutions

I can't believe it's been 5 months since I blogged. I am so ashamed. No wonder I feel like a bottle of seltzer dropped on the floor- ready to explode.

This blog is free therapy for me. Nothing feels as good as having a good case of digital diarrhea- it's second only to ripping a store manager a new hole from which to void.

So, here I am. Back at you in full, living color.

So much has happened since we last spoke, yet scarily enough so much has remained the same.

Joey is still an idiot. I have resolved this year to come to terms with this. Either I take him as he is, loving, bumbling moron who can't walk and chew gum at the same time, who just happens to be the most loving husband and father a girl could want- OR, I divorce him.

Truth be told, I have no desire to be single again. Certainly an overweight, controlling clean freak with two poorly behaved children is not a hot commodity on the singles scene. I have plenty of girlfriends who are far thinner, prettier and less annoying than I. And THEY are single. So, my chances of landing a man who knows how to find his way out of hole are about as good as Britney Spears' chance of being named Mother Of The Year.

I love my husband, I really truly do. He just drives me completely and utterly insane. He still makes me laugh though, most days with him, not at him. So, I think I'll keep him. Besides, he affords me a nice life. As Joe Walsh once said, I can't complain, but sometimes I still do.


We moved! Not to any place exotic like Las Vegas, Roatan or Trenton. We moved ALL the way across the street. An elderly couple on the street extended us the courtesy of dying within six months of each other. They also willed the house to their adult children who had no interest in the house. These grown children just wanted their money, and wanted it now. So, they listed the house at an embarrassingly low price. I saw the sign go up, was on the phone with the realtor in minutes, and two weeks later was signing on the dotted line. It was so quick that we didn't even pack- we just moved room by room. I LOVE this house, I am on the water side of the street now, so I truly feel like I have arrived. Living on the water and having a fridge with ice in the door- truly signs of a person of means.

Lauren is kicking ass and taking names in Kindergarten. She is reading on a second grade level and has is so smart. She was invited to attend a charter school in the area which is a GTDA.(Gifted and Talented Development Academy) It was an honor to get this invite, but we passed for now. We think it is important for her to remain at the neighborhood school for now. Maybe we will rethink the choice once she hits middle school, but for now, we feel she will benefit more from going to school with the neighbor kids. She is a total nerd, who reads for pleasure, so we figure if she's going to get her ass kicked, it may as well be from kids who live near us.

Anthony is Anthony. Cute as a button and as round as one too. We definitely have a first round draft pick in the making- the kid is built like a brick house. As long as he isn't gay, he should be quite the lady killer- think Casanova- not Ted Bundy.

Tigger. Our cat of nine years. He died. Suddenly, in the middle of the night. Lauren had the pleasure of finding him stiff as a board one morning right before Halloween. She was not so happy to say the least. I needed to double my medication for three weeks after it happened. I loved that striped loud mouth so much and will miss him forever. To Joey's dismay, I paid the vet almost $500 to do a necropsy to determine cause of death- it seems Tigger had a blood clot that traveled to his heart and killed him instantly. I had him cremated privately, and his ashes now rest in a wooden box on my mantle. Of course, I did not watch the cremation, so for all I know, I could be crying over the ashes of Fluffy Bubblestein the poodle from Boca Raton. When the day comes that my body gives up one me, directions are for Tigger and I to be scattered together at sea. I sure hope it IS tigger in that box, cause I really hate poodles.

Charlie. Most people say wait a few months to get a new animal, but Lauren was catatonic(pun intended) over the loss of Tigger. Our pediatrician recommended we get a new cat for Lauren to focus her attention on. Someone to take her mind off the pain she was feeling. So, we adopted Charlie. An adorable, purring nine week old kitten who was the perfect antidote to the Tigger Blues. Sweet as could be, and cute to boot.

He died. He had some horrible rare kitten disease. Lauren was devastated. I was mortified for my child, Joey was shocked that in the last month, we had spent close to $2000 on diagnosing and ultimately mourning two cats.

I was now convinced that we were going to be labeled cat murderers. I was certain the ASPCA would be on our door step shortly, ready to remove Bruno- our nine year old black cat from our possession.

I swore to all that was holy and true that we were done with cats. When Bruno dies, we will be animal free. A house with no more litter boxes, food bowls and vet trips. We can go away on the weekend without worrying that our cats are so thirsty that they are licking the toilets dry. NO MORE CATS!!!

Meet Simba. He is orange and white, 9 weeks old and currently taking up residence in my bathroom. He cannot be mainstreamed into the house yet because he has some horrible smelling diarrhea caused by a parasite he caught at the shelter. This parasite happens to be contagious to other cats, so Simba will live in my bathroom until next Friday- when his medication is finished.

He really is cute, and Lauren loves to cuddle and play with him. I just hope he doesn't die before Lauren leaves for college. If he does, I will be crafting a contraption of leads and pulleys to make it look like he is alive and kicking- think Weekend At Bernie's here- Lift paw, open mouth, play recorded sound of meow.

As for me, I am still me. Still foul mouthed, fat and poorly dressed. But, my stellar personality more than makes up for my flaws.

ER is new tonight, so I am somewhat happy today. My mom comes next week for a visit too!

Check back tomorrow for a story about a new neighbor, a light and a rottweiler.

Love,
Cici