Long, long ago, somewhere in a galaxy far, far away (like Montgomery, AL) twentysomething Wally and Heather lived in a parallel universe where we unofficially renounced our American citizenship and moved to England.

I don’t know why England other than we can be lazy asses and didn’t want to learn a new language. The English are known to be a bit stuffy and proper, and I do despise me some pomp and circumstance, but hey, they can’t be too uptight and stuffy since they kicked the Puritans out, who, by the way, came and started our country, giving the terms “sexually repressed” and “uptight” a whole new meaning.

But risque commercials and words like “bloody hell” aren’t the only reasons we wanted to move to England. Oh no, we had realistic and legit reasons, such as…

England has old castles, like Hogwarts! I love me some old castles, especially Hogwarts. There are no old castles in the U.S, and if we did have something like Hogwarts, we’d set it on fire because magic is the devil’s work and our founders were Puritans who could find a needle in a haystack and believed the devil put it there.

And the British accents! Oh, I love me some British accents. The best accent the U.S. has is the Southern accent (not redneck, but Southern) and damned if I can hear it because I speak it.

And the royalty! Ok, so I don’t care that much about the royalty and really want to take the whole ‘queen’ thing out of my blog name because le sigh and le yawn. I’m an Aquarian and we get bored without change. But I’m not sure how to go about that while suffering from technical ADHD, and I’m somewhat in the middle of an identity crisis, so what would I even call myself?

But back to England!

James Bond lives in England and that’s hot. Like, bloody hell hawt. (That’s British with a Southern drawl, which is hotter than hot.)

Don’t we look bloody hawt together? And James likes his martinis the exact same way I do. Clearly we are soul mates.

Here in the U.S., the closest we come to James Bond is Jason Bourne, but, oh my god, we totally fucked him in the head by making him a scientific experiment gone bad. It’s obvious through secret agent spies that England is superior to America and we wanted to move there.

So you see, it’s just like I said. Wally and I had very realistic and legit reasons for wanting to move to England.

But, as lazy asses are wont to be, we wussed out of living out that parallel universe we created. We imagined all sorts of insurmountable problems involved in moving to England, such as different electrical outlets and driving on the wrong side of the road. Plus, ten years ago, I couldn’t imagine being that far away from my family. Only see my family maybe once a year, tops? You are out of your mind!

Fast forwarded ten years and shit, people, when I’m preparing for a visit from my family, THE most important items I must buy are two bottles of wine, if not a fifth of bourbon too. Forget fancy guest towels, throw me a bottle of red wine, preferably Red Truck (because they lurve me!) and a bottle of Crown Royal. These items are medicinally necessary to make it through even one hour with my mom if her HRT doses are fucked up, which is often.

Note to self and husband and my lover, James Bond: Keep my uterus where it belongs unless it’s going to kill me.

I don’t know what has happened to my family dynamics in ten years, but something has gone very wrong and now Butt Fucking Egypt doesn’t sound too far away.

If only I knew how to get to Butt Fucking Egypt. I’ve never stepped foot in Egypt. Or England. Or anywhere outside of the South, not even on vacation. You want to talk about dull? That is dull.

My paternal grandmother died at 68. My life could be half over, people! And here I sit, having experienced much of nothing because I was afraid to be too far from my family.

I get angry at myself for holding me back and want to light a fire under my ass to DO SOMETHING about the boringness that is my life. Put the house up for sale! Pin a map on the wall, put on a blindfold, spin three times and wherever my finger lands is where we’re going! As long as they speak English. We will see something new, experience a new place and bask in the newness of adventure! Rah!

But then my sister comes for a visit and it so happens our alma mater, which is also my parent’s, Wally’s, all of my aunts’ and uncles’, half of my cousins’, and will be my nieces’ alma mater (though for my 16 year old niece, she will not have a high school), is playing a football game against one of the local schools here in Mobile that same Friday night.

We all go to the game and I remember what home feels like.

To look three stadium rows over and see an ex-boyfriend with his wife and know you look hotter than she does. Now that is home.

To have your son stick his head between the legs of the guy sitting just up from you, trying to catch a bug, but it’s ok your son completely invaded his personal space because he’s the guy who sold your sister’s engagement ring to your brother-in-law almost 20 years ago. In a small town, that makes you practically related.

Due to marriages and births, you’re probably are related to half the town. Like Wally’s best friend of 23 years, who was also the best man at our wedding. We’re now officially related because he ended up marrying my 2nd cousin.

It’s moments like the football game where I run into people who are linked to my past that make me long to go home. But then I hear someone brag of how they ran the queers out of the neighborhood and there is no way I can go back to the back asswardness of small town living.

So here we are in Mobile with no plans to move home, regardless of the nostalgia found at a football game. But I’m beginning to feel that seven-year itch, except not really. We’ve lived in Mobile just 3.5 years, so it must be some other kind of itch. I’m not sure exactly what kind of itch it is, but I do know it isn’t an itch involving the crotch. Because James Bond takes care of that for me.

I think maybe I’m coming out of my delusional idea that we’re living the coastal life. We may be physically close to the coastal life, but it too is like a galaxy far, far away.

Saturdays spent out in the Gulf on your pretty boat? Only if you can afford the boat, along with the truck to tow it, the trailer to haul it, the insurance and registration on all three, and the marina to dock it in since our neighborhood has a covenant against boats in your yard.

I used to drive over the Bayway bridge, see all of the boats out in the bay, and get a warm, fuzzy, aaah, this is gulf coast living feeling. Now I drive over the bridge and feel a combination of disappointment and resentment. It seems as if partaking in the gulf coast lifestyle only gets farther and farther away. Instead of taking advantage of the lifestyle this area has to offer, I only get the fringe benefits, such as homeowners insurance that doubles every two years and a 2% of value hurricane deductible.

Living along the gulf coast has become like living anywhere else. I’m beginning to ask myself why we stay. Is easy access to fresh seafood really enough to hold me here?

Maybe it’s time to move on….

to be continued

I have come to realize something horrid and unspeakable about myself.

Yet here I am speaking of it…

I am dull.

Yes, it’s true. I am a dull. Please. Pick your chin up off of the keyboard and don’t bother denying this fact in the comments. It is so true and I don’t know how I have deluded myself for 34 years thinking otherwise.

This dull and dim light bulb moment came to me a couple of weeks before school started. In a last ditch attempt at summer hoorahs, the boys and I spent the morning at the local park. It was completely deserted until a boy around Payton’s age came in, immediately followed by his family. Funny enough, the boy’s name was Payton also.

My Payton, being the type who never paid the least bit of attention to me when I said DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS!, struck up a conversation with the parents and BAM! before I knew it, we were invited to the boy’s birthday party the next week.

Me, being the type who struggles to let go of the past and gobbles up every sign of Payton’s social normalcy (while denying my lack thereof), accepted the invitation, even though I knew nothing about these people. Well, I did know the mom cloth diapered their new baby, instantly recognizing the Fuzzi Bunz diaper on the baby. (because I am so dull I check out baby butts to see if they have that cloth bubble butt. Anyone who cloth diapers a baby is a winner in my book. We cloth diaper tree-huggers are THE coolest.) And so we went to the pool party at their house.

While I may struggle to let go of the past, I have the gumption to expose strangers to my body in a swimsuit. Thank god I wasn’t bloated from a pending Aunt Flo visit.

After the party, Wally asked me how it went and whether I thought I’d made a new friend.

What, like I’m in kindergarten?

But hey, I’m all for acting like a kindergartener sometimes so I thought about how it went and whether I had made a new friend. Were these people so impressed with my awesomeness that they would call and invite to another social function?

That’s when I realized how very dull I was at the party and how very dull I usually am when I first meet someone. Not once at that party did I make a funny or witty comment. In fact, in new social situations, I’m generally a wallflower.

How can it be that I am not overwhelming people with my awesome stand-up routine and my phone isn’t ringing off the hook with dozens upon dozens of people clamoring to be my friend? Well, I dunno but that’s how it is.

Is it snobbery or insecurity that makes me so slow to warm up to people? Does it make sense to keep my funny personality to myself, as if people are looking for dull and boring friends? What a dumb ass way to approach it, but hey, add dumb ass to my resume of dull because that’s what I do.

I remember back during my playgroup days and one member was shocked when she heard me cut some jokes about farting around my husband. She couldn’t believe I would fart around my husband, much less make fun of it.

Me? Not fart around Wally? How else am I suppose to let him know exactly where he ranks if I don’t fart around him?

But no, this particular playgroupie couldn’t believe it. She thought I was some refined, uptight Gapmom who did everything all proper like, such as leaving the room to fart in private.

I know, I can’t stop laughing either that someone could possibly think I’m refined when in my book, women who leave the room so that they won’t fart in front of their husband are fucked in the head.

But that playgroupie isn’t alone. A lot of people tell me their first impression of me is the same – uptight, conservative Gapmom who would never cut the cheese in front of her husband.

In other words, I’m not only a snob, but I’m dull too.

I’ve tried to correct this initial first impression I give off by acting more myself, but then I simply come across as a slightly retarded drunk who tells inappropriate jokes about farting around her husband.

Am I not an adult?

Ok, don’t answer that, but do answer the following:

Why is it so hard to meet new people and make a connection that goes beyond that initial meeting?

It’s because I live in Alabama, isn’t it? It isn’t that it’s hard to make new friends, it’s that most people in Alabama are duller and more uptight than I am, right?

I spent a couple of hours sorting through my iPhoto, preparing to import the ginormous file into my new Precious. There are three years worth of photos in my old computer, and as I was sorting through them, I began to notice a pattern.

We’ll call this pattern pre-blogging Heather vs. blogging Heather.

Pre-blogging Heather? She was skinny.

October 2005 with the cutest Obi Wan Kenobi ever.

She stayed skinny with little effort. (bitch) Her face was slim and oval with only PMS puffiness once a month. There was little to no muffin top. (what a bitch) In fact, she had to buy 3 pairs of the same jeans because after they had been worn once, they were too stretched to be re-worn until they were washed and dried again. (god, such a bitch)

Blogging Heather? Her face has rounded out in perpetual PMS puffiness.

January 2008 toasting invisible Megan

While this may help plump out a few laugh lines, it doesn’t help anything else, including her sex appeal. This blogging Heather has also experienced a first in her life and that would be her inner thighs rubbing together when she wears a swimsuit.

Pre-blogging Heather never ever had rubbing thighs. Never. Ever. Hairy thighs maybe, but they didn’t rub together, dammit.

And those jeans I had to buy 3 pairs of? There is only one pair I can squeeze into without an offensively large muffin top, and that’s on a good day after I’ve had either a laxative or intestinal virus.

I swear, I hate jeans now, even with the 2% lycra. I groan when I realize that one pair is fresh out of the dryer and hasn’t been previously worn to stretch it out because I know. I know I’ll be forced to repeatedly squat in my dressing room to stretch those fuckers out. It will be sometime around 11 am before they feel comfortable and a hour later, I’ll eat lunch the and fuckers are tight all over again.

I’ve gained 10 lbs since I started blogging. Ten pounds doesn’t sound like a whole lot (and it isn’t in the grand scheme of things), but it’s enough to take my face from oval to round, and cause me to teeter around double digit clothing for the first time in my life. I don’t like this perpetual PMS puff and I damn sure don’t like buying size 10 clothes. I refuse to go there.

I also refuse to have rubbing thighs and pilate the hell out of those Jiggly McJigglejunks every other day. Soon I will put Wally in a leg lock he can’t get out of, just like when we dated.

When I see pictures of myself now, I tell myself all sorts of irrational justifications for the change in my face….

It’s the hair, not the weight. Didn’t you know long, curly hair adds 10 lbs to your face? Duh!

…and why my jeans don’t fit…

And all those pilate exercises for your ass? It’s rounding your ass out in a good way. Didn’t you know a rounder ass makes you increase a pants size? It’s so true.

Those scales you hide in the closet because the number never goes down? They are possessed by the devil and if you pretend the scales aren’t there, the number will magically go down!

Nothing has really changed in my life. I thought for a moment it’s my new found baking skills, but no. I’ve always had awesome confection skills. Lately I’ve increased my repertoire, but not the frequency, so that’s not it.

(The first person who mentions some kind of bullshit about getting older and slower metabolisms, thus insinuating I am getting older? I will trap you in a leg lock where you will die a slow, nonsexual, painful death from loss of circulation.)

I’m exercising more. Lots more. I exercise an hour a day. Don’t movie stars exercise that much? So why the hell doesn’t my body look like theirs?

I’m drinking less. Way less.

(Did the world just fall off its axis because of that last statement? Can I actually admit that on my blog and still call myself the Queen of Shake Shake?)

That leaves blogging – a hobby that will have you sitting on your ass for hours at a time. If you’re not writing and editing a post, your reading other blogs and twittering. Your reading blogs on how to improve your blog/writing, participating in carnivals and giveaways, and building your community, and blah bloggity blah – you’ve gained 10 pounds.

Exactly how am I suppose to build a community and stay slim at the same time?

(cue Mission Impossible music)

Maybe I’m going about this whole community building thing the wrong way because, damn, that’s a lot of time sitting on le derriére . (In Southern French, that sounds like ‘dairy air’ with a strong emphasis on the ‘air’.)

How do you say “blogging makes you fat” in French?

Anyone?

(I’ll give you bonus cool points if you can give the Southern French translation.)

I think God has been talking to me again. Wait. It’s more NOT talking to me. Wait again. It’s possibly not God not talking to me because I think I may be agnostic. I’m pretty sure there’s something there, but I don’t know what it is.

For all I know, I’m a character in a book someone on another universal plane is writing and everything that happens in my life is just the twists and turns of the plot. (If so, I’d like to ask the author if he/she could write something in for me like a cellulite-free body and a never empty wine cabinet – one that magically stays full all of the time. Thanks.)

Or it’s possible I’m simply a figment of my own imagination.

What? That’s not crazy. It’s totally possible! Try to prove it isn’t.

So anyway. God is not talking to me. Or the Author. Or the Universe. Whichever. They/He/She/It may be telling me something without telling me anything.

For at least six months now, and mostly in the last two months, I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m going to do with myself. I’ve been scanning the classifieds religiously (ha) every Sunday, looking for what I don’t know. Just something that sounds like me. Something that makes me think I’d like to do that.

The want ad for a person capable of baking fantastic cakes and cookies with a flexible schedule? Still waiting for you to appear.

Every couple of weeks, a company runs an ad for an entry level job with the only requirement being a B.A. in psychology. This job is in Fairhope and we would love to have a reason to move across the bay to Fairhope. A new job for me would definitely be a reason because #1) new job = more money #2) Fairhope is very expensive to live. Not only is Fairhope a gorgeous city to live in and very artsy, but they have a cool private school over there we would love to send Payton to.

So this company will run the ad, then won’t. (Darn. They filled it.) Then, on a random Sunday, they’ll run it again. Then it will be gone.

Have they filled? No! There it is again. They haven’t filled it. Wait, yes they did. No, they didn’t. Back and forth it goes.

I’ve sent my resume to them four times already, thinking I’ll keep sending it in until they get sick of seeing it and call me already. Hello? B.A. in psychology! Honors graduate! I. Am. Qualified.

They haven’t called.

372 S. Greeno Road, do you run ads just for shits and giggles?

This past Sunday there was a unique ad in the paper. It’s a part-time position, which I *think* I’d prefer for a couple of more years, but what do I really know I’d prefer since I can’t even figure out what kind of work I want to do. They are looking for part-time office help with flexible hours (oh, goodie!), but part of the work would also be play-therapy for their mildly autistic 4-year old. They left a number to call.

I called and left a message because (hello again?) highly qualified for that one. Like qualified beyond qualified. In fact, I’m sure I’d be able to train them in some of my own techniques I’m so freakin’ qualified. (Do you know about my “protein therapy”? Let me tell you about the wonders of protein! Let’s do some reflective listening here, my people.) There’s no formal training on the face of this planet that can replace my life experience.

No one called me back.

What the hell?

I’m wondering if the Author of my life is trying to tell me to stay where I am for now.

Thirteen days from today, I’m scheduled to start finding myself.

My baby starts kindergarten in less than two weeks. (My baby…gone from me almost all day. How did this happen?) It’s time to start getting on with myself!

On one hand, I’m marking off the days with glee. Freedom! Sweet, lip-smacking freedom! I can do whatever I want from 8-3! I can be me again! Wheee!

But on the other hand, I’m marking off the days with fear. Freedom? Holy shit, freedom?!? Whatever will I do with myself from 8-3??!! Be me again? Who the hell am I anyway?

Back when I was pregnant, The Plan was for me to return to work as soon as the last child started kindergarten, possibly preschool. That was The Plan.

Then the boys came, and it changed so much of who I am.

I’m not one of those bloggers who gave up a great career to be a mother. I hated my job in corporate America, mostly because it and the company sucked. I worked at the corporate headquarters of a medium-size construction supply company. I handled credit for a while, and then moved into inventory control for their 14 different branches. Nothing about the job was fulfilling (including getting paid half the salary of the male who did the job before me), and the people who ran the company were assholes too.

Needless to say, I had no reservations about leaving my job to stay home with my baby. Besides, we had The Plan. Being a full-time mom was a temporary arrangement.

(As if becoming a mom is ever temporary?)

Here I sit, now at the end of The Plan, and, holy shit, another Plan has not presented itself!

(Shouldn’t one just fall into my lap?)

I never imagined I’d be this type of mom – the one who stays home with her kids, but doesn’t know what to do with herself once they start school. I’m smart. I have a degree. Surely I have something of myself to go back to?

It isn’t like I didn’t have goals pre-children. I did.

While in college, I fully intended to get my Ph.D. in psychology. I was going to be Dr. Heather So-and-So and I would be super fucking awesome at fixing other people. Because at 22, I had it all figured out. Also, people would be really impressed with my Ph.D-ness!

(What can I say? I was 22 and very full of myself, as 22-year-olds are apt to be.)

But I became unbelievably burned out with college after 3 years straight through (no summers off for me) and working at the same time. I couldn’t imagine 7 more years of school. Could. Not. Imagine. I decided to take some time off before starting grad school.

So I took a couple of years off and then I started on my Masters in counseling, again while working, this time 40+ hours a week. At 25, I still thought I would be super fucking awesome at fixing other people because (hello?) I had it all figured out.

To shorten the story (and not divulge private information on other people), within the first year of grad school, I realized I didn’t want to listen to grown people’s shit, so I quit.

Then I got pregnant and deciding what to do with my life was something that could be done, you know, one day. In the future. At some point. But not today.

This entire year I’ve known the end of The Plan was coming. Yet each time I’ve tried to contemplate the end of The Plan, my brain said not today! Here lately though, I’ve tried to force myself to ignore the “not today!” sentiment and think about myself.

(*gasp* Such a novelty thing for a mom!)

I’m not going to lie. I feel like I’m 19 again, trying to choose a college major. And I feel no wiser or more capable to make this decision than I did at 19. If anything, I’m less sure of things than that 22-year-old full-of-myself Heather. Thanks to motherhood (and Payton especially), I now know that I really don’t know shit.

There are so many doors to my future I could open, but I feel paralyzed by the sheer number of choices. Oh, I’ve had ideas – loads of ideas in the past 8 years with a huge spurt of ideas in the past two months. But I still don’t know.

How did I get here? To a place where I don’t even know what I want for myself.

How did I lose my ambition and become someone who hops from job idea to job idea, unable to say yes, that is what I want to be.

I’ve become a person with no direction.

I do have *some* direction, though. I have things lined up for when the boys start school. I still have my part-time job, and I’ll be busy heading up a new volunteer program at the school that I hope will be successful.

I can simply extend The Plan, right? My boys are still young. There’s nothing wrong with being that mom who kinda works but doesn’t really because it appears she’s actually a stay-at-home mom. Keep being that mom who bakes delicious homemade cupcakes for class parties, knits cool scarves for teacher gifts, and volunteers her ass off at the school and Sea Lab!

This stage in my life shall pass too, and I will have the rest of my life to be all about me, right? Right?

I tell myself yes, of course it will pass and I have the rest of my life to do whatever I want! You know, one day. In the future. At some point. But not today.

Somehow a small part of me thinks I’m copping out.

I am proud to announce that I survived my 36 hours alone and didn’t fall into a puddle of anxiety attacks at the thought of car crashes, choking, and axe murders. There was a moment where I got a little freaked out by the utter silence my ears were experiencing, but I got the fuck over it real quick.

So what did I do while they were gone?

For starters, I pilated my ass and thighs. This may not sound noteworthy to you but I thoroughly enjoyed my twenty minutes of exercise without a) explaining to little guys why mommy is on her back with her legs spread open and stuck up in the air and b) the big guy ogling me while I lay on my back lifting my ass up and down over and over.

After the perverted pilate poses were finished, I did have another moment of confusion. As I was about to shower, I realized there was no one to issue the Mommy Is Taking A Shower Commandment to. You know the one….Do NOT open the door for anyone while I am in the shower!

Wow, so this is what it is like to take a shower and not worry your neighbor will be in your den when you get out.

Then I went out and tried on expensive clothing, just for shits and giggles. I could have stayed there for hours, rubbing the high quality fabric on my body. Mmmmmm, just thinking of it now makes my skin long for a higher tax bracket. I swear to you expensive clothing makes you look skinnier and prettier. I pinkie swear it’s true.

How do they do that?

I then played with department store make up samples until it was time to go home.

I got home and, my god, the house was STILL straight. That was an out of body experience. So I opened a bottle of wine in celebration.

An hour later I was feeling very happy, so I turned on some music and sang along with Norah Jones. I suck imitating Norah now. Yep, I said ‘now’ as if I could somewhat decently imitate her in the past. Because I totally could. And Jewel too. I was no American Idol prospect, but dogs didn’t howl either. I was even better at singing after a couple of drinks.

But that’s all gone now. Use it or lose it. I lost it. Then I realized there is nothing to stop me from taking up voice lessons again. Nothing at all. Except I haven’t done it.

Why do I do that?

Why is it so hard for me to take that step to do something for myself just because I want to. To actually have something outside of my family I’m doing just because it feels good to do it, because it’s something I’ve always wanted to do.

Why do I hold myself back like that?

Who the hell knows. I’m going to work on it.

Then I watched a chick flick and bawled my fucking eyes out because there was no one here to see me do it. That’s another thing I don’t understand. I will not cry during a good chick flick like I really want to. I *pretend* I’m not crying, as if Wally doesn’t know.

Come on, this man has seen children come out of my vagina. He has heard me scream from the pain of a dysfunctional epidural while delivering a 13.5″ head, cuss a doctor out, and held onto me even though I bruised the hell out his arms from the force of my death grip.

But I won’t cry in front of him over a chick flick. I am so rational.

By lunchtime the next day, the guys came home. And it was a little too early. Ugh, I feel guilty for whispering that, but it’s true. I could have used another day to myself.

BUT there’s a silver lining!

Wally brought home the most awesomest thing from his mother.

The biggest mother fucking box full of hangers you have ever seen in your life.

I threw out two perfectly good slices of leftover pizza from Picklefish.

I. Threw. Away. Pizza.

That is so un-American that I don’t know if I can call myself an American any longer. And the Italians would pretend I don’t exist too.

Not only did I throw it away, but I took it out of the ziploc bag and mushed it really good into the trash can so I wouldn’t be tempted to take it back out. Because if it’s in a ziploc bag then it isn’t really touching the kitchen trash, which makes it is possible to quickly yank it back out and eat it anyway during an insane (and I do mean insane) carboholic moment of weakness.

(Not that I would ever do that, but I can imagine it and whatever I imagine is possible. And for odd infantile reasons, it felt really good to mush some food. Like I was making a statement or something. This may explain the spaghetti o’s in my sons’ hair during those toddler years.)

On top of the unpatriotic act of throwing away good pizza, the slices were from a spinach alfredo pizza, NOT just a plain pepperoni pizza. What exactly does that mean, you may ask? Spinach alfredo pizza over pepperoni?

It means not only does the whole tossing of perfectly edible pizza into the trash negate my American-ness AND make me public enemy #1 in Africa, but this act also strikes me from The Great Big Book of Yuppie.

I am a lost soul.

Wherever will I go?

I dunno, people, I’m thinking of going French again.

See, many, many moons ago I got all into French Women Don’t Get Fat. I fell in love with Mireille Guiliano. I wanted to be Mireille Guiliano, even if I can’t pronounce her name. In my Southern French dialect, it must sound like a double first name. Mary Ella, maybe?

According to Mary Ella, food is something close to what I interpret a spiritual experience and, by god, I wanted to find me some spiritualness in good wine and expensive cheese.

God is in the gouda. God is in the New York champagne white cheddar. God is in Red Truck wine. Which if that is the case, I’m gettin’ busy with God as I type.

I became entranced by Mireille’s magical leek soup trick. Why, you eat leek soup over the course of a weekend and, whala! (which is Southern French for voilà), lose five pounds.

Considering I only need to lose 10 pounds, that would put me half way there.

So I made the soup.

Do you know why French women don’t get fat? Because they take dirty dishwater, put it in a bowl and call it Magical Leek Soup, that’s why. They don’t get fat because who the hell wants to gorge on dirty dishwater?

Though disappointed and disillusioned with French cooking after my one and only try, I couldn’t let Mireille’s philosophy go entirely. It has worked for an entire country of women…there must be some wisdom in it! I decided I would embrace the French mentality of not eating bad food. If I’m gonna eat it, it better taste good.

I’ve followed the philosophy this year so far and have watched my muffin top grow and grow until I really should be honest with myself and go buy a damn size 10 pair of jeans.

I won’t! I won’t! I won’t! This muffin top will go away, damn it.

To complicate matters, I also discovered this year I am THE best baker of cakes, cookies and brownies within a 100 mile radius. Ok, maybe 50 miles radius. Alright, alright, a 10 miles radius, but still. I’m good.

Obviously my plan to eat only good food is flawed. Somehow, someway, my American-ness is getting in the way. And by American-ness, I mean eating like a fucking asshole. Because that’s what we do; Americans eat like fucking assholes all the time.

This past Saturday, I got out of the house and had a wild time at (are you ready for this?) the library. Is it sad that the regular spout of weekend fun around these parts is going to the library without yelling at kids in hushed tones? To be able to peruse sections outside of the kids library at my leisure sends tingles down my spine. This is what motherhood has done to me. But I digress.

While on my way to check out, my eyes were caught by the spine of a book as I passed row after row of library books. I was a nanosecond away from heading on down to the checkout counter when I decided, what the hell, I’ll go look at that book.

Right beside that book was Mireille Guiliano’s latest book. I didn’t even know she’d written a new book. I grabbed her book and added it to my stack.

Le sigh!

I want to be Mireille again.

I have food on the brain, people. Prepare to be inundated with my deep as a marshmallow insights on food, muffin tops and dishwater soup.

I had the weirdest dream last night. We all know dreams are nothing but repressed and unrecognized issues attempting to rise up and be known, right?

So I ask you my dear readers, take a gander at this dream and tell me what you think I am repressing and not recognizing. Go ahead, have a hay day on my behalf.

I was back in high school and we were dismissed early due to an approaching severe storm. The storm was so terrible that it went from daytime to nighttime just like *that*. A friend of mine was going to give me a lift home but she up and decided to leave me in the parking lot in the pouring rain.

I was shocked someone would do that to a friend and I stood in the rain for a few minutes, then walked back up to the building while feeling quite sorry for myself.

The lightning was getting closer and closer and I was really afraid of getting struck. So I did was any intelligent person would do when out in a severe lightning storm and standing right beside a secure building.

I crawled under some car, held onto a huge metal something of the undercarriage and waited for the storm to pass, hoping the lightning wouldn’t strike the car.

It did.

It struck the same car twice. While I was holding onto the largest metal part of the car I could find.

Thank god for those rubber ties, huh?

I became angry that the lightning kept striking the car over and over. What kind of protection is that? Why be up under a car during a lightning storm? It isn’t suppose to strike twice in the same place. I’m getting out of here!

And so a better idea came to me.

I went to the science wing of the school where I was working on my latest science project and pulled it out into the parking. THIS was going to be my way home in a horrendous lightning storm.

Wanna know what this science project was?

A hot air balloon.

That’s right! I was going to escape a LIGHTNING storm by floating around in the sky in a hot air balloon until I got home.

Then I woke up.

What the hell was that all about?

Hello one and all. Thanks for dropping by! I’m coming at you today as the Queen of Shake-Shake and not The Incredible Sulk*. Think of me as Bruce Banner, only with better hair and more gas.

*I offer no guarantees that like Bruce Banner, I won’t morph into The Incredible Sulk at any point in time while writing this post. You will not receive any warning if this happens. It just will. Also like Bruce, I can’t help it and am at the mercy of my jealousy and insecurity issues.

Instead of sitting at home, having my head explode a gazillion times between now and late July, and turning various shades of green, I thought I would placate myself by coming up with other things I could do between now and late July.

This is only the beginning list of ideas and I hope to add other fun, exciting, ridiculous, humorous, and ego-soothing ideas in the next two weeks. But for now, here’s a start.

#1 A TRIP TO NEW ORLEANS

Wendy over at Southern Mom and I are putting out feelers for a weekend trip to New Orleans. If anyone is interested in meeting up in the French Quarter and having our own brand of adult fun that will also include drinking and great food, let me or Wendy know.

And don’t forget New Orleans has voodoo dolls.

Hmmmmm, voodoo dolls. People having tons of fun in SanFran. People getting swag bags with free stuff. Skin. turning. green. Must. stop. train. of. thought.

#2 Buy a Macbook

Both Wally and my boss have practically begged me to go to BlogHer and charge the damn trip. (Is that their way of telling me to shut up already?) Only I can’t bring myself to charge around $1500 for the trip. I just can’t.

But, if I have permission to charge $1500, then I could go buy a new MacBook.

Wait, did I say new? As if I had one?

I literally sit in the corner every time I’m on the computer since I’m one of the last people in the US to own a desktop. Except when Wally is home and I steal his big MacBook Pro and do wild and crazy things like blog from bed. Or blog from the couch. Or blog from the porch while the boys swim.

If we’re going to talk about going into debt for anything, I think I’d rather do it for something I will use each and every day for the next 5 years than a 3 day conference, wouldn’t you?

Come August when the boys are in school, I could do different wild and crazy things with it, like go blog at a coffee shop and pretend I’m a real writer or something equally funny.

#3 Go self-hosted

This serves two purposes. As Jenny from Absolutely Bananas told me recently, self-hosting makes you look like a serious blogger. You people know how I love seriousness. Then Jenny told me she lost 200 readers when she made the switch, but I’m sure she’ll gain them back and then some since she’s going to BlogHer.

Blogging friends I won’t get to meet. Everyone passing out their business cards. Gaining. new. readers. Skin. turning. green. Chest. is. swelling. Wait, that one is PMS.

But! I could completely absorb myself in learning to go self-hosted over the next 3-4 weeks and then I’d miss tons and tons of stories about the going-ons at BlogHer. Also, without Blogger, I could interact more with readers, which is a big advantage to me.

But are those reasons enough to go through the headache of CSS, HTML, FTP and blah blah? Blogger is so easy! Jennifer assures me if she can go self-hosted, so can I. However, I’m lazy and have technical ADHD, remember?

So I asked Wally if he would help me since he’s very tech-savvy and I can bribe him with blow jobs. For that reason, he said he’d help, of course. Then I had to tell him when I say “help”, I really mean him doing all of the work and me standing over his shoulder telling him what to do. Suddenly he wasn’t so interested in helping me.

I can’t imagine why.

Tell me my peeps, items 1-3, how would you prioritize them? New Orleans over self-hosting? MacBook over the other two?

Those of you not going to BlogHer like me…are you out there? anyone? Bueller? Don’t be shy!…do you have any plans to compensate for not going? Tell me what they are.

How about a Shoe ShopHer session?

Planning a Betty CrockHer session with the topic being comfort foods?

A simple SnockHer’d session?

Those all sound enticing. However will we choose from all of the cool sessions?

I am spending a lot of time at home this summer. A LOT of time. So much time I think I’m losing my mind. Driving the boys to their haircut has become an exciting outing for me simply because it means I get out of the house.

“Ohhh! Look boys! Other people! In the cars! Who knew we weren’t living a rendition of I Am Legend?”

I’m sure the boys’ hairdresser thought I was high or intoxicated. Or both. Because the way I talked non-stop, scratched my crotch, and burped very loudly would indicate that I was on something. OR! It could simply mean that I’ve forgotten what it means to socially interact with other human beings.

We can thank OPEC for the slippage of my mind and social behavior.

As if either had far to go before crossing the line anyway.

Our monthly gas bill has increased by 100% in two years. Seriously. Two years ago it took about $45 to fill up my van, now it’s about $90.

Meanwhile, our income has increased by 0% in two years. That’s a big fat zero. Not even a cost of living increase in two years.

And don’t even get me started on groceries. Oops, too late. I’m getting started on it.

There’s another 100% increase, though some of that isn’t just about price hikes. Some of it is due to having children who no longer eat off of my tits for free. My children have morphed into these odd and unheard of things called GROWING BOYS. Apparently this growing means they eat more food than 3+ years ago. The soaring prices aren’t helping by a long shot.

$4.50 for a gallon of store-brand milk? Fuck! Remember the good ol’ days, back in 2004, when you could get milk for $1.99? Why, sometimes the stores got all crazy and put milk on sale 2 for $3!

As a result, I have become a hermit in order to make ends meet. A hermit who wonders why she should take a bath when she isn’t going anywhere. I am venturing out of the house only twice a week, taking with me with a well-organized list of all errands, even plotting out the stops in the most gas-efficient route.

(My boss, who is also my minister, reads my blog daily. I know she’s going to be disappointed with my lack of prosperity consciousness. I’m trying to keep it! I really am, but I suck at this spiritual stuff sometimes, especially every other Friday. Please don’t make me wear a horsehair shirt.)

Since I am experiencing something akin to house arrest without the cool ankle bracelet, I’ve been trying to think of things I could do around the house to save my sanity. But this horsehair shirt is so itchy that it interferes with my thinking.

I got nothing.

Except for one thing. I became so desperate that I went and did something I swore I wouldn’t do.

I’ll tell you about that tomorrow. Otherwise, this would be a long-ass post. Ok, longer-ass post.

Until then, is anyone else having a summer stay-cation that is just as exciting as mine?