Fiddledeedee

I’ve sunk to an all new low, ya’ll. First of all, if you’re here from Tales From The Scales wondering how I’m doing on my weight loss plan, avert your eyes. Then just turn and walk away slowly, shaking your head in mock sympathy.

I’ve not only fallen off the wagon, but I let it run me over. And then back up and run me over again.

I’ll be going along just fine, eating all my fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and all that cr stuff. When all of a sudden, I’m hit with an irresistible urge to consume cookies. Usually once a month. Odd, that timing.

I found myself in Publix over the weekend, innocently shopping for vegetables. This was after a quick stop at McDonald’s where we ordered grilled chicken snack wraps. Only they accidentally gave us fried chicken. I knew we’d hit pay dirt when Emme exclaimed, “OH.  My.  Goodness.  My favorite kind of chicken!”

Waste no, want not. So we scarfed it down in record time.

Okay, back to Publix. Quite by accident, I meandered down the cookie aisle. I spied a coupon thingy. You know the ones. They blink at you, thusly taunting you with “take me, take me.” This particular coupon was for $1.25 off of two bags of Sugar-Free Cookies. Okay. Sold. So I threw two bags into the cart. One was an Oreo type knockoff (which you know I can’t say “no” to) and the other was chocolate chip. My family was waiting in the van for me, so I magnanimously offered to share my cookies. I counted out 3 cookies per kid, and that left a good bag and a half for me and Fiddledaddy.

And then for dinner, I had the audacity to FRY the yellow squash I had just purchased. FRY people. With OIL. In my defense, I did use whole wheat flour. BUT STILL.

Then, after dinner I ate more cookies. Until there were only 3 left. Which I placed in a sealed baggy. And then I went in search of the Pepto Bismol, complaining bitterly about how bad I felt. Fiddledaddy wasn’t doing too well either, and I noticed that we all had a bit of gas.

Some more than others.

Fiddledaddy fished the cookie wrappers out of the trash and read the label on the back. Since they are sweetened with Maltitol, the warning read, “Excessive consumption may lead to a laxative effect.” The serving size was 3 cookies.

I ate 32.

The “laxative effect” that they spoke of was all wrong, by the way. I should be so lucky.  A laxative effect would have been a welcome relief.  The words really ought to be replaced with “painful gaseous explosiveness.”

So, it was an uncomfortable night for everyone concerned. I vowed NEVER to eat those again, or anything of a fried nature, amen. Last night, Fiddledaddy informed me that he had thrown the last 3 remaining baggied cookies in the kitchen trash the night before. And he waited for my reaction. He knows that I’m not above rummaging through the trash to retrieve something that I deem delicious, in my desperation.

I didn’t even blink. “Good riddance,” I said, and went about my business.

Then after lunch today (a very healthy lunch, btw) I started thinking about those cookies. In the bottom of the kitchen trash. Cookies that had now been in the bottom of the kitchen trash for a good day and a half. And what a waste it was just to throw perfectly good cookies away.

When Fiddledaddy was otherwise occupied, I dug through the trash. Oh yes I did. At least this time I didn’t have to go out to the curb. And I was fully prepared for an explanation, should I be caught. “Um, I was just taking out the trash.” Which was the truth. As I had to take out the majority of the contents and set them on the kitchen floor, which needed to be mopped anyway, to find the baggy of cookies. And there they were. At the very bottom of the kitchen trash. I pulled out the baggy, dusted it off, and carefully put the old trash back into the receptacle. In the right order. No one would be the wiser.

The baggy smelled a little, well, trashy, but it was sealed after all. The cookies were still crunchy. A good sign. I detected a slightly odd taste, but by the third cookie it no longer mattered.

Waste not, want not. And besides, a serving size is three cookies, right? That’s not excessive consumption at all.

Now, if I can just remember where I put that bottle of Pepto, everything will be all right.

Until next month.

Yesterday, the phone rings. It’s Trish.

“How do you feel?”

“Like death on bread. You?”

“Same.”

“Cramps. What, is it a full moon or something? They’re worse than usual. I just want to curl up in the fetal position and die.”

“Me too. We need to go to the library. But no way.”

“We do too. Maybe tomorrow we’ll hook up at the library. Give us something to live for.”

“Okay. Feel better.”

“Not likely.”

Click.

I hang up the phone and wash down two more Motrin with a glass of tea. And a spoonful of peanut butter.

About 30 minutes later I notice that my knuckles are no longer dragging on the linoleum and I’m beginning to walk erect. That usually means that the Motrin is kicking in. Good news.

The kids are driving each other insane since we’ve been trapped in the house. We’re sick of the rain, humidity, heat, and each other. Even Jensen had been mournfully repeating “carcar, carcar” while carrying his sneakers around.

“Allright everybody, listen up!” I announce. “Go to the bathroom, get your shoes on, and line up by the door. We’re heading to the library.”

You would have thought I’d just said “we’re going to Disney World.” Much excitement ensues. I suppose if you don’t set the bar too high, everything is an adventure.

The phone rings. It’s Trish.

”Well, I’m feeling better so we’re on our way to the library.”

“Okay, that’s freaky. So are we. See you there.”

After we arrived, and spent some time gathering up necessary reading material for the kids and our respective unit studies, we were able to sit down and watch our children explore the children’s section of our local library. Like little detectives, in search of a good mystery. I overheard a rousing game of “Let’s Avoid The Stranger.” A game I encourage. They are all very close to the same age, and have a great time together.

“You know,” I remark leaning back in the miniature chair, “this would be perfect if they only served coffee.”

“What a great idea. A coffee bar for the moms In the children’s section of the library. Brilliant.”

But then I spied a well placed sign that read:

“No eating or drinking in the library. That includes sippy cups and snacks.”

Now that’s harsh.

“Wait a minute, doesn’t the bookstore have coffee?”

“Yeah, but you gotta actually pay for the books.”

“True.”

After about an hour and a half, we corralled our offspring and went about the arduous task of unloading all of our booty from the strollers onto the desk to check out. I make a mental note to bring my handtruck next time.

As we head out the door, Emme stops by the free for the taking magazine table and picks out 2 magazines.

“Whadya get?” I ask.

She holds them up for all the library patrons to see. “RV Lifestyle” and a pregnancy magazine. “Emme, what do you need a copy of ‘Lamaze!’ for?”

“For when I’m older and want to have a baby.”

I guess it’s never too early to start planning.

But under my breath I say, “girlfriend, if you’re any child of mine, the magazine that you arm yourself with will be called ‘Epidural!’.”

After a quick detour to McDonalds for “take-out”, we called it a day.

And greatly anticipate our next noteworthy adventure.

I’ve been told that I sing like a bird. A loud, squawking, hawkish bird on the brink of death. I don’t understand. My dad’s mom was an opera singer. Why can’t I carry carry a tune in a bucket? Or sing in key? Or even find a key to sing in?

When I was little, I wanted to sing so badly. Mostly I wanted to sing in the guitar mass, while strumming my Yamaha 12 string guitar. While emulating Joan Baez. There was a little boy named Steve Meyer, who lived in the neighborhood and rode my bus. He sang on the bus all the time. His voice was magnificent. I would hold my breath on the bus, and pray to God to trade my voice with Steve’s. Which would have been such a bad deal for Steve. We got off at the same stop, and when I was out of earshot, and a little woozy, I would exhale, and belt out a couple of notes on my way home. The answer to that prayer, evidently, was “NO.” But, I gave it a go nearly weekly.

My brother became lightening fast getting off the bus and avoiding the walk home with me. My brother could sing well, by the way. But I’m not bitter.

Not being able to sing was a bit of a stumbling block when I became an actress. But still, undaunted, I would audition for musicals. My senior year of high school I was cast in “The Music Man” as Zaneeta Shin. I managed to procure the only role in the entire show that didn’t have to sing.

As luck would have it, I married Fiddledaddy, who has a beautiful singing voice. Still, not bitter. He loves to sing to the kids. Me too. But with different results. When I sang to Emme when she was little, she covered her ears. Cailey clasped her chubby hand over my mouth and would say, “no NO Mommy.” Jensen just falls asleep. I think it’s a ploy just to get me to stop.

I wrote last week that Emme has been involved in a church music camp that was in rehearsal for a weekend performance. The CD was played in our home ad nauseum. The CD played in our van ad nauseum. I know every note by heart. I could hear the entire musical in my sleep. My girls sing the songs ALL DAY LONG. And here’s the thing.

Praise God, they’ve inherited their father’s voice! I mean, they not only find the right key, but can stick with that key all the way through!

Emme was in the chorus and she was radiant and did a wonderful job. She longs for the day when she’ll have her own solo. So, she and her sister assigned themselves a number of solos while practicing at home. Fiddledaddy had a solo, and they even took pity on me and assigned me one as well.

And even though the actual show has finished, we’re continuing to keep the dream alive by reinacting the show at home. Each doing his or her part. But when it is time for my solo, I noticed everyone blinking a lot faster. But that just reminds me to PROJECT.

Now I’m eyeing the family room curtains in the hopes of fashioning some matching outfits for us. They are a lovely forrest green and the lining will make a terrific accent.

Then I’m going to paint the van a psychedelic array of colors, and we’re hittin’ the road, ya’ll.

Coming soon to a County Fair near you.

You could set a watch by me. About this time, every month, I complain about my cramps. Because I can. It’s my blog, and I like to tackle all sorts of woman’s issues. And personally, I have a serious issue with menstrual cramps.

Besides, no one else will listen to my whining around here. Fiddledaddy did say to me sympathetically, “Honey, what can I do for you?” “TO MAKE YOU STOP WITH ALL THE COMPLAINING!”

He’s a funny guy. I even laughed, through my pain.

Usually, he brings me a bag of Oreos to placate me during my menses, but since the cramping outlasts the bag, and I’ve taken to wearing stretchypants on a regular basis, he went a different route. And I believe he’s hit pay dirt.

A couple of months ago, he bought me a box of ThermaCare HeatWraps for menstrual cramp relief. It works the same way that the ThermaCare heat patches do on any sore area needing heat.

I’m still popping Motrin and Extra Strength Tylenol like they were Pez candies, but heat has always brought me much needed relief as well. And before the invention of this wonderful new product, my choices of heat application involved plugging my heating pad into whatever electrical socket I was closest to, and then only being able to go as far as the cord would allow.

Highly inefficient.

My other choice was a ginormous blue bulky bean type thing I would wear strapped around my waist once I microwaved it. Very unattractive. And trips to the mailbox were met with uncomfortable stares from the neighbors. “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT? THAT’S RIGHT, I’M ON MY PERIOD AND I HAVE CRAMPS!” I would yell.

In my head, of course.

But now, these heat wraps provide the heating relief I need, but no one knows I’m wearing one. They are both slim and ergonomically designed to provide the most comfort. And the heat can last up to 8 hours.

I love them.

But as usual, I must provide a disclaimer. The directions clearly state to remove the adhesive and place against your underdrawers. (Well, they don’t actually call them “underdrawers”, I’m paraphrasing.) As opposed to adhering it to, say, your skin. Read the directions, people. Advice I will follow myself from now on.

That’s all I’m sayin’. Period.

I saw this meme over at Aimee’s The Mother Load (a blogger I’ve recently discovered and she is very funny, btw) and I thought it was a hoot. And I’ve got a reunion coming up. So since I’ve been stumbling up and down Memory Lane as of late, I thought I should do it. A test to see what I remember.

I always was lousy at tests.

1. Who was your best friend? My senior year, is was Kimmy Crist. She was the only girl brave enough to go see “Carrie” with me. She could make me laugh like nobody else. I completely lost touch with her after graduation. I often wonder where she is in life.

2. Did you play any sports? Good grief, no. Most of the girl sports at our high school involved some type of running. Did you ever see the episode of “Friends” where Phoebe runs? Well, I’m certain that episode was based on my running abilitites. I resemble an off kilter windmill when getting from point A to point B in a hurry.

3. What kind of car did you drive? I drove a 61 Lincoln Continental 4 door convertible. Once. After that unfortunate incident, I mainly was entrusted with my dad’s old ugly puke green International Pickup truck.

4. It’s Friday night. Where were you? Sadly, babysitting. Saving up for a Doobie Brothers LP, I’m sure. I was one of those girls that everyone trusted to care for their kids. And I was an excellent babysitter. I wish I could find someone like me to watch my own children now. For a whopping $1.00 an hour.

5. Were you a party animal? No. However I did develop a fondness for mad dog 20/20 my senior year. During one of my many “really stoooopid” phases.  Reason #256 why I will homeschool my kids through high school.

6. Were you considered a flirt? I don’t think so. But I did have a different boyfriend nearly every season. I liked variety.

7. Were you in the band, orchestra or choir? None of the above. I was a drama geek.

8. Were you a nerd? Absolutely not. I was a drama geek. Big diff. I wore a lot of black, and spouted text from Sylvia Plath whenever possible.

9. Were you ever suspended or expelled? Goodness no. Never even sent to the Principal’s office.

10. Can you sing the fight song? No. And not just because I only sing at gunpoint. I simply don’t remember it.

11. Who was your favorite teacher? I had two. Mr. Marion Sweatmon, my senior drama teacher. And Mrs. Judy Burgess, my typing teacher.

12. What was your school mascot? The John Marshall Rams.

13. Did you go to the Prom? No. I broke up with my seasonal boyfriend just before prom. Or did he break up with me? Details.

14. If you could go back, would you? Not on your life.

15. What do you remember most about graduation? My parents bought me a 76’ Pontiac Astre on graduation day. They surprised me with it when they picked me up after graduation rehearsal.

16. Where were you on Senior Skip Day? I don’t remember having one. And I wouldn’t have done it.

17. Did you have a job your senior year? Yes. I worked as a “disco model” for Bealls Department Store. There were three of us that traveled from store to store each Saturday to model the clothes up on a platform, in front of the store, while dancing to the tunes of Donna Summer. On a 45 player. And then we would do the “robot” and freeze, while the next gal danced.

I cannot believe that I just publicly admitted that. Okay, the answer to #8 is now “yes.”

18. Where did you go most often for lunch? Fargos Pizza. With my buddy Don. I would get the small cheese pizza and a Dr. Pepper. It gave me the strength to get through English.

19. Have you gained weight since then? Let’s see. 30 years, three kids, and 289 bags of Oreos later, um, a little. I think I was a size 3, maybe less. Now I’m an 8. If I don’t breathe.

20. What did you do after graduation? Attended the University of Texas at San Antonio. Got a degree in Psychology. Became an actress. Then a painter. Then a mom. Now I blog. All a natural progression.

21. What year did you graduate? I graduated from high school in 1978, the year of polyester and the Farrah flip.

22. Who was your Senior Prom Date? Nobody. And I didn’t miss it at all.

23. Are you going/did you go to your 10 year reunion? I went to my 10 year and my 20 year reunion. My 30 year reunion is next summer. And yes, I’m going. And I’m going to look good, even if it kills me.

While some of my classmates are now empty nesters, or even grandparents (gulp), I may still be sporting a diaper bag.

But clear the floor if anyone starts playing a Donna Summer song. I’m just sayin’.

Please feel free to play along!