Holy Crap, It's Been a Month!

Wow. After thousands of letters from disappointed fans (ha ha), I'm finally making time to wet y'alls literary appetite. Let the drama begin. Since I've last written a lot has gone down around the ol' homestead. I had finally made it my priority to recaulk the shower in our master bath. Out here on the coast the air is like damp toilet paper that clings to you and makes you feel nasty. My point is that the moisture is unbelievable, and very friendly to all sorts of crap like stuff that likes to infest your caulking and make lots of icky-colored micro-babies. I'm not sure what the difference is between mold and mildew, but I don't find either particularly appetizing, and I don't want to shower with it any more than I want to lick it. It was time to caulk. So after an hour of scraping the gunky old stuff out I noticed a spot where the water had seeped under the door track and down underneath the baseboard. I ripped the board off the wall and found that it had not only harbored mold against the wall there, but it had absorbed water to the point of soaking into the board all along the wall, around the corner, and to the back of the next wall. Seriously. So, we pulled off all the drywall and my step-dad came out here to rip out the existing shower and construct a bigger, more beautiful one in its place. (Thanks a zillion, Jim!) It turned out great. I still have some more grouting to finish, but I can't wait to use the dang thing. Mold-free and all. And by the way, it wasn't as simple as I made it sound. But why spread the headache aspect to my unsuspecting- (I won't say "innocent") readers?

Apart from the mold ordeal, a bunch of other crap happened, not the least of which being that I officially lost 15 pounds, but don't cheer for me yet. By some horrible phenomenon, my body was able to accomplish the weight loss without going down one size. Explain that, diet-scientist freaks. Suddenly the number on the scale is less significant, and the number on the tag becomes the issue. Who the heck cares if they weigh 300 pounds, as long as they look like Jessica Rabbit and can wear that one pair of pants they still have from high school. And I should note here that I did check multiple scales. Mine isn't the only one that thinks I lost weight. Now on with the show.

As some of y'all know, we went back to the Land of the Latter Day Weirdos- (lovely people, just peculiar, as they call us) for Thanksgiving and we had a grand time, thank you very much. The grandparents fussed over the kids, the aunts/ uncles kept us entertained, and the friends from high school reminded us (or remound us as Fifi would say) of times when we ourselves enjoyed the Lifestyles of the Rich and Skinny- (read: Lifestyles of the Childless). Everything was honkey dorey. Really swell. But the inevitable family stress set in right away and began to take its toll. For some reason, without fail when Matt and I go back home we do nothing but bicker with each other. Endlessly. And we have to have at least one good blow out fight. Three, if we're home a month, which we've done a few times. We can't seem to help but pick at each other incessantly, as if whoever likes the other less is the winner. Why is that? We are so freaking in love, and are extremely considerate of each other, generally speaking. But throw in a handful of in-laws from either side and we fight like rabid dogs. It really is nothing against the relatives themselves- not at all, but it seems to be the mere proximity of people we love that leaves us all irritated and angry at each other. We do it every time we're home and we really don't know why. When family visits us at our place, we experience the same phenomenon, but to a lesser degree. Is it resentment over having to share each other? Is it some strange, self-sabotage thing to make our families think our marriage is unhappy? Is it some crazy way of showing off? These are all shots in the dark here, people. I don't have any clue what I'm talking about. Someone suggested it might be the stress of everyone pulling at us, trying to get some time together. All I know is, may heaven help us if we ever move back there. And y'all wonder why I find Idaho and Wyoming so appealing. Close enough to babysit for a weekend, far enough to ignore. (Not that we don't enjoy y'all's company- we REALLY do, but we enjoy a happy marriage too. -When we're alone, that is.) We've really got to change the way that works. Moving on...

This is nice. Right before we left for our trip, we got our car back after more than two months (or 5 days, in mechanic time) in the shop. We were so happy to all be able to fit in a car and go out together that we left the house at every opportunity. Honey, I forgot butter at the store, I'll get the kids ready; Darling, the baby seems stuffy, better get some medicine; Dear, Jesse's shoes are untied. Faulty laces, for sure. I suppose we should replace them before our house gets sucked up in a hurricane and we're left with nothing but the clothes on our bodies and a cold front hits and we have to hike 16 miles in the snow to get help and Jesse's defective laces give out and his shoes come off and he gets frostbite and has to have his legs amputated and spends the rest of his life in therapy trying to learn to deal with the stares people give his shriveled stumps in the supermarket. It would be irresponsible to risk our child's well-being that way. It was an eventful couple of days, I tell ya what. (There's that redneck coming out of me again! I tell ya what?!!!)
Anyway, we came home from the trip and the dang car was screwed up again. And again, Matt was due to leave the following day, leaving me carless. But fortunately, he got things under control and I am happy to report a smooth ride. Even if it is scattered with Cheerio's and has foot prints on the windows... The thing purrs like a kitten. A very sick kitten. Oooh! Speaking of the car, I thought of another "You know you're (whatever) when..." Here goes. You know you're saggy when the upper strap of the seat belt goes above your boobs instead of in between them. Also, you know you're saggy when you have to undo the top four or five buttons to show a little cleavage. And if you have to do that, let me recommend that you just don't show your cleavage. It's past its prime, Baby. Happily, this is one symptom of female body degeneration I have not yet reached. But the girls are competing and it's a race to the bottom, so I'm sure my day will come.
Well I've sat here and neglected my children long enough. I can tell by their pathetic wailing, and also by the annoying children clinging to my legs. Ooooh, this will impress. While I've been writing, the boys have pulled all the cushions off the couch (which I knew about), and have been eating things they found underneath them (which I did not know about). Jesse's choice is now a mystery, but Gabe's delicacy is a very rough nail file, which he inserts between his top and bottom teeth, bites down on, and yanks out. Kinda makes you want to grab your teeth... ...and commit suicide... doesn't it? I couldn't make this stuff up if I had to.