Princess Bride

I just finished watching the Royal Wedding (could I truly call myself a woman if I hadn't?). I didn't get up at 5am for it or anything, but it was just starting when I turned on the TV after breakfast, perfect timing.

I have to say, I LOVED Kate's dress and I truly hope this sets off a new trend to put sleeves back on wedding dresses. I watch the show Say Yes To the Dress religiously, and the one complaint I have about 99% of the dresses is THEY ARE ALL STRAPLESS! And I can't tell you how many times I've heard a bride on that show say, "I want to look sexy on my wedding day." First of all, looking sexy is not what weddings are about. It's the one day of your life you should at least try to look pure. Also, by "sexy," those girls really mean "trashy," because having your boobs hang out on your wedding day is trashy, ladies, I hate to tell you. Three cheers for Kate Middleton for showing that you can look absolutely stunning, set off your amazing figure, and still look classy and elegant. Bravo!!!

Other comments:

I found the ceremony quite spiritual and touching. A lot of really great messages in there. I wonder how much anyone, including the bride and groom, internalized them in that largely un-religious country. I wonder if Charles was internalizing them when he said "I will" to Diana whilst having an affair with Camilla. I surely hope the fact that William and Kate have dated for 7 years already means they really do love each other and intend to be faithful.

I felt sad for a minute at the end of the ceremony that Diana couldn't be there. And sad for her boys that that homewrecker, Camilla, got to walk down the aisle after the bridal couple. Does Charles have no shame?

I wonder what Elton John was thinking through all that talk about marriage being between a man and a woman. Did he feel like walking out? And, for a professional singer, he sure didn't look like he was singing with much gusto. Way to give it a D+ performance, Elton.

What is with the uni-color lady-suits with matching hats? Hasn't anyone ever heard of mix and match colors or patterns??? (Although I was happy to see all the hats. I really wish hats would come back into fashion.)

Is the Queen supposed to sing "God Save The Queen?" It IS the national anthem, after all. But kind of self-promoting if she does sing it, huh?

I called Daphne over to the TV so I could show her a REAL princess and prince getting married. She looked at Kate getting walked down the aisle by her dad, just behind the Dean of Westminster, and said, "I wouldn't want to marry THAT prince!" I said, "That's her dad." "No, THAT guy," she said, pointing to the Dean. "No, that is the priest who marries them," I said. "You mean the one who tells them they can kiss?" she asked. "Yes," I clarified.

A few minutes later, they showed William and Harry walking towards the front and I told her those were the two princes. She asked which one the bride was going to marry, and I told her the one in red. "Well, I wouldn't want to marry him either!" she told me. "But I WOULD like to marry the one in the blue and gold. He's so HANDSOME," she said, curling her hands under her chin and batting her eyelashes at Prince Harry. Oh geez, I'm in trouble.

Any thoughts about the Royal Wedding?

Blame It All On the Fetus

I think it's safe to say I've nearly lost the will to live. I certainly have lost the will to get up. And my will to cook meals that take longer than 45 seconds in the microwave left a long time ago. That's why my kids had cereal for breakfast, cheesy roll-ups from Taco Bell for lunch, and are about to be served Papa Johns pizza for dinner (I WILL put some lettuce and Ranch on the table because, you know, I want it to be a balanced meal.)

And posting, poor posting, sigh...I remember when I actually used to post. When I had things to say that didn't consist of whining and whinging. And I remember a very distant time when I was clever and witty in saying them. But alas, most of my brain is now taken up with forming complaints about my body and fighting the urge to punch my baby back when she places a left hook firmly on my liver. So for now I'm going to re-post a super hilarious post my sister sent me that hits home in a way only those of you who have had children come out of your hoo-ha can relate to. From the blog Scary Mommy I give you: The Six Week Post-Partum Check Up:

The six week post partum check up
I’m not great with dates. I can never remember minutiae like Thanksgiving is the fourth Thursday of November or that New Years Day is exactly one week after Christmas. The individuals who know when Harvest Moons and Daylight Saving Time occur must be calendar makers or descendants of Nostradamus. If it weren’t for computerized alerts, I’d never be aware of birthdays, anniversaries, or the days Oprah is giving away gold-coated Maytags and half-sisters. The one date I can always remember – after three pregnancies in as many years – is the one that falls six weeks after delivery: The six week postpartum checkup. It’s the appointment in which the OB will stare at your nethers under the glare of a strobe light mounted to a hardhat as she asks leading questions to discern how many times you’ve fallen down the stairs in a fit of delirium and how closely you identify with the movie The Omen. As you gently hint at the likelihood of getting a script for Tylenol PM for Infants, your doctor will smile at you, offer congratulations for your bundle of colic, and will utter the one sentence you are – no matter what her speculum says – entirely unprepared to hear:

"You can resume sexual activity now."

Your Gone Fishin’ sign was just yanked right off your vagina. Mayan Year 2010 hit your private parts. If this visit follows the birth of your first baby, your husband is likely standing beside the table as this news is delivered. The grin to spread across his face will outstretch the one you saw when he was first handed his newborn child. The smile fades as he witnesses your descent through The Five Stages of Grief, all of which occur in dramatic flair with your knees still touching opposite coastlines.

Denial. “I think you have the wrong file. I just delivered a baby. A human. See, that’s her right there. That was inside of my body until she tore her way through it, like a goddamn Trojan Horse. Are you certain you went to medical school?”

Anger. “Why did you ask me here? I was told by a woman I work with that you were going to give me happy pills at this appointment, not tell me I need to be having sex with… (unsubtle head tilt in partner’s direction). And I would like my underwear back now.”

Bargaining. “Listen, I may have overreacted. Let’s find some middle ground. You pop a couple of those episiotomy stitches down there and I’ll tell all of my friends with yeast infections to come see you. Deal?”

Depression. The utterance of words during the passage through this phase ceases altogether as you consider that the only moments your day permits for a shower and a status update on Facebook have been stolen.

Acceptance. You nod slowly, shifting your eyes from the doctor, to the baby, to your husband, understanding that all are working in chorus to destroy your personal anatomy and your DVR queue.

You exit the physician’s office, quite possibly still wearing the oversized Maxi pads you absconded with from the hospital, with a slow and wearied gate. Dead Vagina Walking. Your husband, on the other hand, has a buoyancy to his step and is already suggestively whistling something by Marvin Gaye.

This is when the calendar floats into your consciousness again. Whatever day this 6 week postpartum check falls on – a Tuesday, a Friday, May, December – is the day that will be listed on your tombstone. This is the day you’re going to die. Your friends and family will eulogize your life with somber nods, “She endured too much. Sleeplessness, poor oral hygiene, elasticized waistbands, a diet of fistfuls of cereal. Despite this, her doctor told her she was ready for exercise and sex. It was too much to bear.”

Too much is exactly what it is. A nurse once whispered in my ear, upon walking out the door with my firstborn child, to be wary of the six week post-delivery time as this is the period babies present colic, when postpartum depression rears its vicious head, and – tragically – when the help and casseroles from those around you disappear. The weight of these stressors only compounds when your husband starts in with the bedroom eyes. It’s not that you don’t appreciate those eyes. May God grant Sainthood to the man who can see beyond the facade of sagging skin and stretch marks to the woman he was attracted to once before. It’s not that you don’t love your husband. It has very little to do with him actually. Your body has been hijacked by hormones, your erogenous zones assassinated by nursing, and your ability to lay prone in the dark without falling comatose has been lost. And you’re a bit terrified because your lady innards still feel a lot like Hiroshima must have looked after the A-bomb.

However, he will start dry humping your leg like an un-neutered Jack Russell Terrier if you continue to cite ‘funky stuff you don’t want to even know about down there’ as your reason for celibacy. He will start to suspect you’re stretching the truth when you say you’re considering a Divine calling to join a Roman convent. Even you understand, with the small portion of brain matter you’ve got left, that reuniting may make you begin to feel more like your old self. You’ve weathered pregnancy and delivery together without any casualties, thus there must be hope for the same outcome in the bedroom. After all, isn’t marriage about compromise and leaps of faith?

But it’s completely fair to say you’re not taking your sweatpants off.



Oh man, the joys that still await me. In the meantime I'll try to put together at least two original posts. They might even include some humor. But don't quote me.

Wearing Funny

My husband showed me this funny website with these funny t-shirt slogans on it. FUNNY.

And finally, a few dedications:

For Daphne...

For Mindi...

For Beck...

For Big Daddy...



For Jennie (Although I'm sure Big Daddy would say this one is for me.)

For Mr. Jennie...


This website makes me wish I actually wore t-shirts!

Seeing Signs

I was at the Fashion Place Mall the other day. I have to say, they have a very nice bathroom area in the food court. REALLY nice, actually. It reminded me of something from a nice hotel, with a lounge area full of modern art and leather couches outside the restrooms and granite counters and large stalls within. They had a family bathroom with a mini toilet for kids. They even had a room dedicated just to nursing mothers. Only one thing kind of struck me as odd about this bathroom area...



I don't think whoever made this sign really gets how breastfeeding works. It usually involves BOOBS, People. Not doobs, boobs. But whatever. I guess any men who'd like to take over the nursing for us women are more than welcome to it!

Mr. Integrity

I'm a golfer. My husband taught me to golf back when we were dating and I realized that if I didn't learn to golf, I'd never see him on a Saturday. I'm not fantastic. But I'm decent. I can hold my own. On occasion I out-drive the boys or birdie a hole that the others have only parred. I like to golf. In fact, I love to golf. Watching golf, on the other hand, has never been my cup of tea. And I'm pretty sure it isn't a cup of tea very many people out there enjoy.

But in April an event took place on the golf course that I think everyone needs to be aware of. It was an event that kind of changed the way I look at humanity. And certainly at professional golf.

Brian Davis. A British golfer who had never won a tournament, was neck and neck with Jim Furyk, a golfer with many wins under his belt. On the first hole of the playoff to win the tournament, Brian Davis took a swing that got him within distance of tying the hole and continue the playoff. But shortly after making that swing, Brian Davis called over an official and told the official that he thought he had committed a penalty. On his backswing, he said, he thought he saw his club brush a reed. This is, officially, against the rules. The club can't move any "impediment" on the back swing. No one saw it. No one had called him on it. Even on video replay, the tiny movement of the reed could only be seen in slow motion. But the reed had moved. And Brian was forced to take a 2-stroke penalty, forfeiting the game.

What is amazing here is that a man had so much on the line--his first tour win, over $1 million dollars in prize money--but he chose his honor, his integrity, his name as more important. He could have let the error go. Probably no one would have ever noticed. But HE noticed, and so he had to speak up.

There are a lot of names in golf that come and go. A few that stick in our minds for their greatness. A few that stick for their folly. But Brian Davis, a nearly unknown name in the world of golf, will always be remembered because of this day. He is an example to me. Something to set my honesty watch by. Thank you, Mr.Davis. You are a true hero.


Link to the article here

My New iPhone Addiction

Can't. Stop. Playing.







(Best 99 cents I ever spent.)

It's Never Too Late

I can't embed this, so please take a minute to click on the link. You'll be glad you did....

HERE



Keep the dream alive.

Animals Never Get Old (Except At The Zoo)

Just to proove that I am an animal lover, despite the fact that I hated the zoo this last time, I give you the following montage of funny animal pictures. Seriously, they never get old.

(I'm not sure what the deal is with the weird pigeon English, but the pictures are funny regardless.)










































(Ripped straight off from Christie's email to me. Thanks, Girl.)

p.s. Tomorrow is the big day! And by "big day" I mean that most horrible and wonderful of all days, the mid-30's birthday. Be sure to tune in for your chance to partake in the giving of the presents!

An Etsy Bit Too Strange

Etsy.com is a great place to find wonderful handmade, original, custom, unique products. Everything from soaps to jewelry to clothing and more. And most of it is adorable, well-crafted, and beautiful. But every once in a while I run into something that I just think, "Huh?" about. So here's a list of some of the more out-there things I've come across on Etsy lately:


Check out these lovely eyelash extentions. For when Mardi Gras just isn't soon enough.


I’m all for saving the environment. But these flannel, reusable panty liners go just a bit too far for my taste. Plus, they might not work out so well with light colored pants.



I’m not sure which is more troubling. That these are turkey feather earrings, or that they’re called “moths" and look like moths. Frankly, I’m not sure I want to wear either.



Um, yikes! This lovable stuffed troll would give my kids nightmares for weeks. Ok, me. It would give ME nightmares for weeks. Probably years!



They're actually trying to pass this off as jewelry?? For reals? My husband made something better than this wooden charm in woodshop. In first grade! (They do have woodshop in first grade, right?)




Does this really count as handmade goods? Finding pieces of wood on the shore that look like a duck and, I quote, “THE OTHER SOME TYPE OF ANIMAL I'M NOT QUITE SURE WHAT LOOKS KIND OF SAD THOUGH.” I think this person should spend less time collecting drift wood and more time working on their writing skills.




I am not sure which would be uglier: This paper plate holder, or the paper plates that go in it. I think rather than splurge on this toilet-shaped holder, I'd just save up for real plates.



Healing and Fertility Honeysuckle Magic Wand? Oh, phew. I thought they were selling me a bunch of rocks and sticks and crap from their back yard.


I don't mean to scare you off etsy. Most of the stuff on there really is unique and wonderful. But it just goes to show you that Wal-Mart doesn't have a corner-on-the-market on cheap, useless junk.