Yesterday I took Stella to Claire’s to get her ears pierced.  She was so excited and nervous, but so brave.  The lady asked her if she wanted her to count or just do it, and Stella said, “Just do it!”  She didn’t even flinch.

Jack and Max decided that since I didn’t have to pay for a hole in their head, that I should spend money on something else for them.  Max picks out at $9.95 Angry Birds necklace.  I told him that we should just wait and look at Target to find something better.  AKA cheaper.  He insisted that he had to have the necklace.  Sure enough at Target a few minutes later we find the exact same necklace that is also packaged with 2 bracelets and a little toy for 4 dollars cheaper.  And then I was the one who was Angry. Stores shouldn’t be allowed to over charge for crap. There should be a law stating that crap should only cost a certain amount.  That way you know when you are buying crap, you are paying a set amount for said crap, and will not later realize that you not only bought crap, but that you got screwed over.

The worst is going to The Dollar Store and finding something that you purchased someplace else for much more than a dollar.  Then you vow to look at The Dollar Store before you ever buy anything ever again, just in case they have it.

I just got out of the shower, and I am trying to get dressed.  My bra is no where to be found.  I know I left it on my dresser, and it is not there.  My first inclination is to scream at the kids.  ”WHERE IS MY BRA?”  Stella reports that she saw Jack throwing it at Max earlier.  Max corroborates the story.  We all start looking for it, only to eventually find it in the kitchen floor.  I was already annoyed getting dressed, because my pants feel tight.  Why is it that I can be good for 2 months straight, and the scale very slowly goes down a little at a time, but when 5 days of PMS and boredom cause me to be bad, the scale shoots up 4 pounds. It really isn’t fair.  Why can’t it go up as slowly as it goes down?  I knew I was sabotaging my myself every time I put shit into my mouth this week, but I ignored that little voice telling me I was an fing idiot and kept eating.  And now my thighs are rubbing together.  I very clearly remember last Saturday being skinny by the pool with thighs that most certainly did NOT touch.  Now, less than a week later those things are creating friction.  Which leads me to believe that all 4 pounds I gained has deposited itself on my inner thighs.  Oh well.  Moving on.  I had my fried chicken and chocolate.  Time to get these thighs back in shape.

I am dressed.  Bra is on.  The reason it was so important to find my bra, is because it is THE bra.  My only one.  I had two, but the wire has recently started poking out of the other one, making it extremely dangerous and uncomfortable to wear.  I am really upset about this latest development, because these two bras were very expensive and they were perfectly fitting.  Every woman needs a perfectly fitting bra, but especially those that are well endowed like myself.  It may sound nice to be well endowed, but not so much.  They are huge. Which means they are heavy. And there is this thing called gravity that makes them constantly strive to touch the ground.  And they are getting pretty damn close to making it.

Those two perfect bras were Christmas presents from my mom last year.   We went into one of those fancy bra stores where they measure you from 15 different angles.   Scott told me before I went that he had googled it, and they make you stand on a stool naked while a camera hanging from the ceiling takes an aerial 360 degree photo of you to calculate your size.  He was trying to be funny and scare me.  Really?  I have pushed three children out of my vagina in front of an audience.  I am not very concerned about a few women taking pictures of my boobs.  Of course, he was lying anyway.  It ended up just being one woman with a measurement tape.  She did get to see my boobs though.  We found my perfect size, and I wore one of my new bras out of the store.  I looked fabulous!  But I was in excruciating pain.  Apparently the secret to having a perfect fitting bra is that it feels like it is 5 sizes too small and squeezes the shit out of you.  The lady at the store assured me that I would get used to not being able to breathe, and that pain would lessen, and that it would all be worth it, because she really thought my breasts looked amazing.  She was right.  I did look amazing, and the pain did eventually die down.

But now my thighs are rubbing together.  And chaffing is a whole other world of pain.

They say the best thing for writer’s block is just to start writing. Stream of consciousness.  Brainstorming. Just see what comes out of your head.  I am kind of scared what might come out of my head.  At least maybe it will be entertaining or therapeutic to just write.  Just listening to the sound of the TV and a DS game and the I pad.  All kinds of electronic devices going at our house at any given time. Also lots of messes.  I often wonder if other people’s houses look like ours, or if we are really disgusting, weird people who should have our own show on TLC or at least a Dateline special.  I try to keep things clean.  I really do. But every 3rd day or so I look around and wonder what the hell happened.  The dishes are piled up.  There are no clean bowls or spoons for us to have cereal for dinner since I don’t feel like cooking.  There are piles of clothes that are spilling over into other piles of clothes, so I am now not sure which is the clean pile and which is the dirty pile.  I lie in bed at night sometimes and worry that if Scott and I both die in our sleep, this is how we will be remembered. They will find the kids who haven’t had a real shower in a week since the chlorine in the pool kills most of their funk and school is out, so there is no reason to worry too much about hygiene.  They will find our dirty kitchen and piles of clothes and a stinky bathroom.  They will think, “Oh those poor kids.  We had no clue they were living in such horrid conditions. They always seemed like such a nice family, who would have thought?”  Sometimes these thoughts have taken over so fiercely that I talk myself into getting out of bed to at least run the dish washer and scrub the toilet.

We have a new dog.  He is not helping my house cleaning.  We were told that he was the perfect dog and that he is house trained.  However, we were not told that he has a drinking problem. He doesn’t know when to say when. He keeps drinking and drinking and drinking and then he pukes on my carpet.  And then he tries to lick it up. Then I start feeling like I want to puke.

Scott made me the best present of my life that he presented to me on our wedding night.  It is a CD of songs and poetry and him saying wonderful things about how great I am.  I never listen to it, because it makes me cry.  The other night I wasn’t feeling well, so I was lying down in bed.  Scott was hanging out with the kids and making them dinner, and they some how got on the subject of how we met.  He told them the whole story, and then he played the CD for them. He said they were wide eyed and so excited to hear it.  Max came and got in bed with with and said, “I know how you and daddy met and how much he loves you.  We listened to your CD, and it made me want to cry.” I asked him why it made him want to cry.  He said, “Because I love you so much, and after I heard the CD it made me love you even more.”  Those may be the sweetest words ever said to me.  I know how much I love him.  And Scott and Jack and Stella.  And I know sometimes I look at them and just love them more than I thought I already did.  So I know what he meant.