So we were offered to participate in Frisco Adventure Boot Camp, I was all about it.  I like to keep in shape, and have done boot camps in the past.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t commit to a full boot camp, as I can’t get my ass out of bed any earlier than 8:30 every morning.  And I couldn’t commit to something at 6:30 every night of the week.  I would have too many happy hours to give up.  There is also a 9:30 am option, but I have to work.

However, I did go to try out a class.  Although I’m not slim, I’m in pretty good shape.  I’m strong, can run 6 miles, blah blah.  There was a lot of variety, and the hour flew by.  All in all, Linda kicked my ASS.  The next, probably about 2 days, I could feel every muscle in my body.   

I love boot camps because you’re working all areas of your body, along with cardio.  When hubby and I were doing ours a few months back, we agreed that only after 5 weeks, we were in the best shape of our lives!

I know sessions are starting back up soon, so if you’re interested in losing weight or just trying to get in better shape, you should check out Linda’s class. 

I give it four out of five Collin Countini’s!

Dudes.

I’m going to come out of the closet, or medicine chest, right now.  I’m on a truck load of medication.  I have been for years and when I say years, I mean, like, yeeeears.  Here’s my list in case you think I’m just wanting to play Bullshit with you:

Lexapro, Synthroid, Estradiol, Trazadone, Clonazepam, Seroquel, Ambien

OK, so it looks like a short list.  It’s the amount of each medication that makes it crazy.  For instance, I take 2 Ambien, 100mg of Trazadone, 3 Clonazepam…you get the picture.

On Wednesday my Psychiatrist decided we would try and get me off of some of the med’s.  He wants to see where I am without them.  I think he may have hope that I’ve done such grand work in his office that I am mentally going to be A-OK clean and sober.  And on Wednesday I was all, “Cool!  Let’s do this!”  And then he said to me, “Don’t be so excited.  This is going to be rough.  Really rough.  Call me any time, day or night if you feel like this is taking a turn for the worse.”

And I was all, “Come on doc.  I’m strong.  I can do this.”  We’re just removing the Ambien and the Trazadone.

Last night I was begging my husband to break my toe so I could go to the hospital and get some kind of medication.  I’m hot – no wait, I’m cold.  No wait!  It’s 6AM!  That’s the problem.  And that has been the prettiest side to this whole withdrawal beauty program I’m on.  Most of the day I had my head in the toilet.

Husband offered to send me to our favorite private island in Belize for 2 weeks so I could detox there.  Then we considered a hotel locally.  Then we finally agreed that I would get through this here.  In the house.  With him supporting me.  And the last thing I remember him saying clearly to me was, “I love you and I’ll see you on the other side.”

I will not be here, writing.  I have to get through this and get to the other side safely and that requires my full attention.  On Wednesday he may remove another medication from my list.  And I don’t know what that beast will look like until we do it.  Elanah and Twila will keep you occupied until I get back.

So, Internet, I’ll see you on the other side.

So this has been a strange week, to say the least.  I spent 7 days, no longer married, but separated.  I’ll be honest, this isn’t the first time the term ‘divorce’ has come up in my relationship.  In fact, it’s come up more times then I would care to count.  This time it started with a simple fight.  He said he didn’t want to be married anymore, and I responded with ‘then get the fuck out.’  They were words I maybe shouldn’t have said, but in a moment of anger I didn’t care.

I spent those days in a daze, and as I watched my sister’s marriage fall apart, I felt like failure #3 in our family (I would make it 3 for 3 on the divorce scale of siblings).  We spent our lives with my mother and father in a completely loveless marriage, and you would think that seeing how miserable they were would inspire me to change.  Instead, I guess I became my father.  We learned that marriage was just something that was there, and that it wasn’t something you worked to build.  My dad would get home from work, and my mom would bring him dinner.  As she tried to tell him about her day, he would just roll his eyes, and tune out to the sound of the tv.  When hubby said he wished I wouldn’t tune him out, it felt as if I was in the twilight zone.

During the sparation span, I did some soul searching.  And with every soul searched, there’s an episode of Oprah behind it.  This one was about being a mommy, but it brought up, pardon the cliche, an ‘ah-ha moment’.  They talked about how when you become a mommy, there are some who try to hold on to the same person they were before the baby.  However, it’s impossible, because change is inevitable.  By no means should you lose who you are, but you can never be the exact same person.

No, I’m not a mommy, but when I said ’I do’ I had no intention of changing, when in marriage it should also be inevitable.  I never changed my last name, still wanted to go out with the girls, and I would take frequent trips back to Scottsdale, by myself.  I justified it by wanting to see my friends.  However, there was also the other side of the spectrum.  When I married him, he was in school.  So to keep up my lifestyle, I started to work more, way more, and as much as I tried to work more for him, and keep old me, it all fell apart.  I basically no longer had time for him, plain and simple.  Along with the no time, I carried that little thing we called resentment because I had to work so much.

As we talk, figure things out, etc, I find myself asking a lot of questions.  When do you know it’s enough, and just to let things go?  Am I fighting for him, or just the fact that I don’t want to be divorced?  Is it me, or do I have any justification to be upset about the things he does?  This marriage is a long hard battle, and I guess I’m trying to figure out if it’s the time for the white flag to arise, and say ‘I give up.’

I really do refuse to be my parents, in that they’re approaching 40 years, and I can’t tell you the last time I heard them say ‘I love you.’  I won’t look back and see those years have past, and all I have is resentment and bitterness.  Yes, I know I need to step up to the plate, but wow, there’s so much of me that just wants stop, walk away, and scream ‘do over.’

A while back I celebrated my 5th anniversary with my dear, handsome Hubby. We don’t usually give gifts for it, instead we usually go on a small trip.  But, since it was 5 years I wanted to do something extra special. I wracked my brain for months and couldn’t think of anything. All I knew was that the traditional gift was wood.

Ok, no problem…. Hubby is a woodworker so he would always enjoy a new addition to his shop. Hmmmm, but that’s not very, ya know, romantic. That’s when after a late night of websurfing I came up with my idea… boudoir pictures.

That’s right people, Twila in her skivies taking naughty pictures just for her Hubby’s pleasure. Now if that ain’t wood, what is?

Of course trying to pull this off was no small task. I had to buy sexy undies and stuff without him noticing a change in finances, had to shop for all of the sexy stuff with my two boys (a total nightmare) and prep my body for being almost fully exposed.  Meaning everything waxed, toned and cute. It took me a month to get it all together. Then, I had to come up with an excuse for where I was going in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.

Once I got there I was terrified. The place was a preteen boy’s wet dream, tons of women running around in sexy lingure. All, in my opinion, looking more confidant than me.  I sat down to get my makeup done and then put on my first “outfit”.

I had picked this hot corset with lace undies and thigh high fishnets that then hooked to the corset. Kinda like this.

Undies on, check. Corset on, check. Fishnets, check. Alright, now on to attaching these crazy hook thingies to my fishnets. Ok, so I’m sure that I just hook it…wait, no hook. Ok, well then I snap…. huh? No snap? What’s this fucking round thing? Shit…. why didn’t I think to test this out BEFORE I arrived?

By this time I had already been in the bathroom for more than my allotted time (remember, lots of girls) and needed to let someone else use the restroom. So I quickly threw on a robe and tried to figure out what the fuck to do.

That’s when I decided to swallow my pride and ask the lady who did my makeup to help me out. She looked at the round thing just as puzzled as me and then called over a few of her closest friends to give advice. Here I am, trying to cover up with a robe, but totally exposing the bottom half of me so that 5 complete strangers can help me with my garter problem. (Remember Sabrina talking about boob sweat yesterday, yep, that was totally happening by now along with sweat in so many other unpleasant places.)

After about 5 minutes we had it figured out and she was there, head right next to my ass trying to attach the back hooks. What happens next? Ohhhhh, the strap breaks. This is the moment that I  scream as quietly as possible, “How the fuck do these Victoria Secret models do it?!?!”

Makeup lady, not missing a beat, grabs a needle and thread and just sews it back up. (Please remember, her head is right at my ass. I was SOOOO glad I had taken a shower that morning and not eaten beans the night before.) Just then, they call my name to get my pictures taken.

Not much to say about the pictures other than I totally rocked them. And if you are trying to picture them gentleman, just open your wife (or daughters)  Victoria’s Secrect catalog and check out the sexiest pictures in there. That’s EXACTLY how I looked.

When Hubby received them he was very surprised. I’m just gonna say that the juice was worth the squeeze.

I made it out to see my gynecologist last week. I always freak out for about four days prior to the appointment. I don’t eat anything that might cause me to fart, I don’t shave my legs, don’t have sex with Husband (or anyone else, including myself). I just know that if I even tickled my own fancy that I’d be laying there on the table, feet in the stirrups, doc’s head nestled deeply into my nooks and crannies, and he’d look up over my knees and the perfectly draped pink sheet, point his rubber glove at me and say, “You’ve been masturbating again, haven’t you?”.

The fact that he would have to say “again” would be humiliating enough. And, then I would run out of the doc’s office in the paper gown, to the parking lot, then it would be on the news how this crazy (yet classy) woman ran screaming out of her gynecologist’s office because of the masturbation scandal. It would be referred to as “Masturbation Gate”.

I also wait to shave any and all shaveable areas on my body until the day of the appointment. That way I’m smooth!

When I get to the gynecologist’s office I always ask the receptionist if they’re going to need a pee sample. This is not so much because I need to pee. It’s to make sure that there’s not any toilet paper fuzz or something hanging off my ass. I pee in the cup, bend over and shove my own head up my own ass to investigate the possibilities of rolled up toilet paper balls, then wipe with one of their “fresh wipes” to help minimize the possibility of nervous hoohoo stink.

I am then led to the room. The room where I have to change into the lovely paper gown and wrap the pink sheet around my lower half. The room where I will spend the next 25 minutes waiting for the doc and trying not to sweat so much that my ass actually sticks to the paper on the exam table, again.

So, I’m sitting there. I can feel that I’m starting to sweat, so I spread my legs a little bit, loosen the pink sheet around my waist in an effort to let a little airflow up through there. And, I notice that under my boobs I’m starting to sweat. Nice. I contemplate how to wipe the sweat in the least noticeable fashion.

So, I spread apart the paper gown, trying desperately to not tear it, I look down at my boobs and there it is. A. Black. Hair. A thick, stiff, black hair growing out from the outer banks of the areola region. Oh. My. God. After all the efforts I have put into this day and now this? And, now, this one stray hair has set me up for total meltdown. AND, what the fuck is that hair doing growing out of my boob??? Someone is fucking with me. I’m on so much estrogen I should be wearing an apron and baking cookies all fucking day! Now, I have this manly hair boob??

I went into immediate action mode. I tried to pluck it out with my fingernails. I broke two nails. I saw the big long wooden tongue depressor things in the jar. I hopped up off the table to retrieve two of the wooden sticks so that I could form a makeshift pair of tweezers and pluck the hair out. As I hopped up I took half the roll of paper off the table with me because , you guessed it , this hair had sent me into such a downward spiral I was sweating and the paper on the table had stuck to my ass and was now walking with me to retrieve the wooden sticks.

The wooden sticks didn’t work. I think it’s because they weren’t pointy enough on the ends to snag the little hair. So, then I’m stuck standing there, in my paper gown, pink sheet, and socks, holding two wooden sticks that I now don’t know what to do with. Do I put them back in the jar? Why not? Why the hell does a gynecologist have tongue depressors anyway?

No. I cannot do that to my fellow girlfriends. I put them in my purse. Now I’m worried that he’ll see them and think I’m a thief. So I bury them deep into the pits of my purse. I’m talking, beneath the receipts, beneath the cheerio crumbs from yesteryear.

I hop back onto the table just in time for Dr. Hoohoo to bless me with an appearance. The exam goes well and rather fast. And, then it’s time for him to do the breast exam. I try and mumble something about stray hairs and masturbation. He opens the paper gown and the black hair is now surrounded by red skin. It looks like a bullseye. Like I should’ve just drawn a big arrow up my stomach pointing directly to the hair and sent out invitations to the nursing staff and the docs down the hall to come and check this hair out. And, I think the amount of sweat pouring out from under my boobs is worth mentioning. The hair was not only surrounded by red skin, it was swimming in a pool of boob sweat.

He paused, but only for a professional minute, then went on to doing the exam and said nothing. But, I know at the next HooHoo Convention he’ll be there at the podium talking about his patient’s boob hair. There’ll even be a Power Point Slide.

On the way home I was itching my neck. I thought the only thing that could make this better is if I broke out in hives and then had to go and see my general practitioner. At a red light, I pulled the mirror down and looked at my neck for the hives. There were no hives. But, there was this stray hair. And, I’m not talking about a short little beard hair. I’m talking about a good inch long hair.

Now, how fucking long has this hair been growing out of my neck? We’re not talking about the chin. We’re talking NECK. And, this fucker is so long that if the wind blew it would blow with it. How many people have had a conversation with me that couldn’t keep their eyes off this outrageously long neck hair? And, where is my husband? Didn’t we vow something like, “for better..worse, sickness, health, tell your heifer wife when she has a NECK HAIR that needs plucking!” Am I really that big of a dolt that I didn’t see it all this time either? When my colorist colored my hair 3 weeks ago why didn’t she offer to stain that hair on my neck, too? She did my eyebrows, why not throw in the neck hair.

Fuck, I need a drink and more estrogen.

I’ve been kind of down on myself lately. Don’t know why, just am. I noticed that I started feeling a little down when the Housewives stopped going to see Madame Diva on a weekly basis. Thats also when I realized that I have not been working out like I used to. I am one of those people who has to do some sort to activity and be in sunlight to stay sane. If not, I will totally go Kate Gosslin on your ass.

So since I have been having trouble getting to the gym and to see Gwen, I decided to do the American thing and buy a workout game for my Wii. I went to Target, bought Bob Green’s answer to my prayers and vowed to do the 30 day challenge. I put the kids down for their nap, changed into a sports bra and tennis shoes and then took the long trip to my family room. I was given a choice of what level to choose. For some reason I chose the hardest setting.

Off I went, lunging, squatting and jumping away. It was quite a workout. I mean if you want thunder thighs. That’s pretty much all the workout was along with a few wimpy arm moves and running in place. I’m not going to go into the fact that I wanted to hurl my Wiimote at the TV because I practically bruised my ass trying to get the kick ups to register. How much fun it must have been to listen to me scream, “I AM kicking my own ass, can’t you tell unibrow fitness trainer?!?”

Ok, so I pulled a Sarah Palin and quit. The Wii game just wasn’t doing it for me. I mean how long could I really do it for? I started at the highest level. Plus, the couch behind me while I worked out looked too comfortable. So I figured I needed to find something else. That’s when I decided to go old school. Swim.

This is where I tell you guys something very personal to me… I am a swimmer. Always have been, always will be. And life has gotten in the way of my love for the water. I used to swim for hours everyday. Then senior year in high school I started to realize that swimming was getting in the way of a social life so I cut back. Then I made the decision not to swim in college. And finally when I decided to stay at home with my son I decided to let go of the masters team I had joined to save some money.

It has now been 3 1/2 years since I have swum a lap. I’ve been in the pool. For Mommy and Me lessons and the occasional birthday parties but I have not been the the pool for me. That changed the other week. One evening I put the kids to bed, turned to Hubby and said, “Ok, I’m going swimming.” I dug out my Speedo, cap and goggles and walked out the door.

I felt like a fool at the pool. My suit was a little too tight after having two kids and I kept having trouble getting my cap on. I looked like an amateur. After 5 minutes of fiddling around with my cap and goggles I jumped in.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Instantly, I felt at home. It was like being hugged by a long lost friend. Even though I was exhausted after less than a mile I still felt good. It was just what I needed. I’ve been back a few times now and I am starting to feel better. I’m not going to let something that I know I love leave me for that long again. It is a part of me and to think that I could just forget about it was dumb.

Sabrina:  1st week – gained 5lbs, no inches lost

Sabrina:  Week 5 – lost 2 1/2 pounds, 1 1/2 inches lost

Elanah: 1st Week – lost 2 pounds, 5 1/2 inches lost

Elanah: Week 5 – lost 4 pounds, 1 inch lost

Twila: 1st Week – gained 3 pounds, 2 3/4 inches lost

Twila: Week 5 – lost 6 pounds, 2 3/4 inches lost

TOTALS SO FAR:

SABRINA: 2 1/2 POUNDS LOST, 1 1/2 INCHES LOST

ELANAH: 6 POUNDS LOST, 6 1/2 INCHES LOST

TWILA: 6 POUNDS LOST, 5 1/2 INCHES LOST

So sometimes, I admit, I’m not the biggest fan of Collin County.  I miss driving through neighborhoods at 20 mph and not having to worry about taking out a kid.  I miss events in a city that don’t 100% revolve around kids.  I miss… well you get the point. 

Well a few weeks back neighbor friend, Sabrina, and I decided to do happy hour.  Needless to say, happy hour led to dinner at RA, which then led to dancing at Loft 610.  After about the 2nd round of shots at 610, the memory got a little fuzzy. 

Right around bar close, I walked Sabrina out to her car, then ran back in the building  to find neighbor friend.  She had my purse and my phone, and she was no where to be found.  I searched and searched, and suddenly was in a panic.  I had no wallet, no phone, and I was about 10 miles from home at 1 a.m.

So yes, probably should have called hubby from a phone at the bar, but let’s remember, my mind was not at 100%.  So what did I do, I started my journey home on foot.  Yep, passed the Original Pancake house, and headed home.  Now to save time, I could have cut through some fields, but I didn’t know what was in those fields.  Mice, snakes, critters of all kinds, and so I stuck to a trek home that consisted only of sidewalks.  Well, as best as I could anyway.

I made it to Lebanon, where I hit a major dilemma in my path.  I was still very far from home and very exhausted.  In a completely rash decision as a car drove by me, I threw up my thumb.  It was the first time I ever attempted to hitch hike.  The car sped by, and then I saw the red brake light.  It backed up, pulled up along side of me, and the window rolled down.  He asked me if I was okay, and I told him I just needed a ride home.

I climbed in the car, and he drove me home.  No hassle, no nothing, but he just drove me home.  Do I realize I am the luckiest freaking person in the world?  Absolutely!  Am I forever grateful to this man for not just getting me home safely, but for not taking advantage in a completely vulnerable situation?  Absolutely!

Later that morning neighbor friend and I reconnected.  She was still in 610, but couldn’t find me.  Poor girl waited for me for an hour, but I was already on my way home.

So as much as I want to hate Frisco, how many other cities would I still be alive in?  Okay, I love it here!

Y’all might remember a few weeks back when I said that all I wanted for my 30th Birthday was the chance to decorate my bedroom. It’s one of the rooms in our house that has been neglected. People don’t always see it and we kept putting our decorating money towards other things. Well, I got my wish. On my birthday I received  a card with an IOU for a redecorated bedroom.

I got started right away. First, new quilt. The Ikea one, that we got to tide us over until I found the perfect one, wasn’t doing it for me anymore. And, guess what? I found the perfect one. I called to order it. They are sold out. After lots of convincing on the phone the lady checks the outlet inventory. In all of America there is one and it is in San Marcos. Great! I call down there and they have it. They can ship it to me for a tiny fee of $60. SIXTY FUCKING DOLLARS! I don’t buy it just because I think it should be illegal to charge that much. Plus I can’t return it if I don’t like it. So no bedding yet.

Next paint… we need to pick out the colors. I narrowed it down to two and bought the sample cans so that I wouldn’t get stuck with a color I regreted. Let’s just say that due to a “color mixer malfunction” I now have 3 gallons of a color that was not sampled on my wall. After a tiny panic attack while leaving Lowe’s I have come to terms with it and think I will like the color.

Now, moving furniture. My god, for people who don’t have as much shit as others, we still have a lot. It took us two hours to go through our nightstands and armoire. Mostly because we were finding shit that we had forgotten about. Like my journal from senior year in high school, the paperwork from buying my first car, my long lost SS card, pictures from my bachelorette party, and random stuff I had bought at a Passion Party. The funniest of them all was this…

They were a joke gift given to Hubby during his Bachelor party. (At least I hope it was a joke. If not, I weep for the lady who marries the guy who gave these as a present.) The tag is still on them because I am pretty sure that I told Hubby if I ever saw him wearing them I would divorce him. Sorry, I’m not into men wearing banana hammocks, even if it is black tie. And yes, that is a return sticker to Dillard’s if you can believe it. Do you think Goodwill will take them along with some satin sheet spray and a book about 52 ways to romance your lover?

So after 3 hours of reminiscing, donating shit and moving furniture around we have accomlished very little. I knew the job would be big but I really hadn’t thought it would be huge. My little weekend project is starting to turn into a month long project. (Kids always add 2 weeks to anything.) This is just a classic case of being careful what you wish for.

During a recent trip to Sonic, after a night out drinking, and in desperate search of GREASE! my girlfriends and I were sitting in the car enjoying our little cardboard boats full of tator tots with cheese. Amidst all the gossip and recap of the evening my plastic fork lost one of its fingers. I am far too busy recalling with great detail and much slurring the story of my ex-neighbors that used to dress their dogs up for Halloween and bring them to our house to trick or treat. (This event truly earned them the Highest Douche Ranking on my list of douches, and so far they remain the clear winner.)

So, it was much to my surprise when I bit down on a sharp piece of plastic. It was a bigger surprise to me when my friends started screaming and pointing at my bleeding mouth. After many drunken attempts to stop the bleeding, like caking the wound with lipgloss, and one suggestion of spraying it with hairspray, the Sonic waitress made the sober suggestion to apply pressure with Sonic napkins.

Once the bleeding was under control we had a lovely laugh about it and conversation turned towards whether my bleeding mouth was the biggest buzz kill in the history of Girl’s Night Out. Or, perhaps the fact that I cut my mouth on a plastic fork while eating tator tots with cheese at a Sonic and required the waitress to intervene with medical attention was the biggest White Trash Moment in the history of Girl’s Night Out.

It was decided that it was neither. It was decided that it fell a close second to the time I was cut off at Hooters.

I met a couple of girlfriends at our local Hooters to catch up. Hooters would not have been my choice, but not because I’m not a Breast Girl, rather because I’m not a wings or beer girl. I’m more of the wine and potato skin type. My girlfriends were ordering beer by the pitcher and I was ordering wine by the glass.

Shitty House Merlot wine by the glass.

Their menu consisted of wings with hot sauce, wings with mild sauce, wings that were scrubbed by the Legg’s pantyhose our waitress was wearing, and wings that the previous table hadn’t finished. It looked like it would be a wings and Merlot night.

The night progressed as pitchers of beer were continuing to flow and my glasses of wine kept coming. After a few hours, we lost a couple of the girlfriends to babysitter curfews, so it ended up with 2 of us remaining.

At that point a very young fella came over to our table, I think he thought we were so drunk he stood a chance. He took great pleasure in showing us his pierced nipples and my friend had a great time teasing him about sex with older women. And, seriously, when you reach the stay-at-home-mom status she had, this is clearly getting her off.

This is when the orange short wearing waitress came over to have us settle up our tab. I, of course, thought the night was still young. I had completely gotten over my hatred of The Wing and was devouring them all, firmly believing that Hooters was the finest establishment I had ever eaten in.

The waitress informed me that I had met the Hooters establishment limit. This place that seemed to be successful based clearly on pushing limits, pushup bras, and pushing wings.
“You have a limit?”
“Yes, and you’ve reached it.”
“What’s the limit?”
“Six glasses.”
This is when I should’ve shut my mouth, but what drunken Hooters patron has that kind of sense? Certainly. Not. Me. Instead, I insisted on speaking to the Manager immediately regarding my dissatisfaction and to reassure anyone that would listen of my sobriety.

So, with all the energy I could muster I spoke to the Manager in what I’m sure was an obvious attempt at a drunk trying to speak clearly. I pleaded my case for another glass of wine, even informed the Manager of my ability to drink way more at home. I think I even complimented his “wings” in some sexual reference.

My efforts were futile , he wouldn’t budge on the 6 glass maximum. To add insult to injury, the waitress felt it necessary to add 15% gratuity to my tab and my bruised ego, obviously assuming she wouldn’t get a tip otherwise. Hooters Heifer.

I went home to Husband and cried about my mistreatment at Hooter’s and showed him the comment card I had taken on my way out. I sat down with my pen and my comment card ready to tell the Hooters Corporate Bigwigs exactly what I thought about their 6 drink maximum. Fortunately for them Husband stepped in and saved them from my tongue lashing.

And this evening, sitting in the car with my girlfriends laughing and enjoying the tales of Girl’s Night Out Past, I am so happy that there’s no maximum on tator tots with cheese orders.