Uncontaminated Beach, here I come! You were hard to find last minute but after lots of calling, begging and a shit load of last minute perseverance, our family is off on it’s first vacation that doesn’t involve mandatory extended family visits.

It’s the only thing that I hate about living in Texas, none of our family does. So instead of enjoying restful vacations we spend all of our money and time on seeing family. We have a HUGE family so that usually means 1-2 trips to both coasts each year. By the time thats over, there is nothing left for a relaxing vacation.

Well this year we did the big FUCK YOU to family. It’s not like they have been clamoring to come and see us. I have lived here for 25 years and still have family members who have never visited but damn those Hawaii/Europe/Exotic island pictures they send me every year sure do look nice. And by the way, to my aunt, yep, I know how pricy is it to travel with two kids, I’ve made it to your house across the country and listened to you bitch to me about it. Who’s the one who got the tickets, rental car and hotel to visit? That’s right. Funny how you live in a multimillion dollar home, send your kids to wicked expensive private schools and live in arguably the most expensive place in America yet are complaining to me.

I’m also already having to pay for this trip with guilt from my mom. “Now Twila, your next trip will be to visit me….RIGHT?!?!” I know I will hearing about this for the next 3 years. God Damn it people, why can’t I have one get away without someone giving me a fucking guilt trip. The last time there was no guilt was my honeymoon. Oh wait, there was guilt, from work.

It’s worth it, 7 days of no laundry, cooking, schedules or 100 degree heat. Just beach, ice cream, food, coffee and sunrise on our balcony, beach, ice cream, food, beach, food, beach, ice cream. And then the bill. Totally worth it.

I’ve been given the OK to drive from my doctor, (if he really is a back doctor.  At this point it’s questionable.)  And, yes, I’ve gained a respectable 40 pounds.  Nice, huh.  40 pounds!  I’ve probably gained more than Twila has and she has a human inside her.  So at my last appointment the kind doc actually called me….are you ready for this?…”a person of size”.

Cry.  Whine.  Cry.  Blame it on the water weight.  Cry.  Then – what the fuck?  40 pounds?  I haven’t done anything except barf every food I eat and cry.  Where the hell did 40 pounds come from??  Then I lapse into not giving a shit mode because there’s nothing I can do about it right now.  I’ve only been OK’d to drive.  Which is daunting at best.

I did get my hair done and it made me and my fat ass feel frisky.  To initiate sex (which I have not been approved to do) I first have to remove my back brace.  It is held together by industrial strength velcro, and oh my, what a sexy sound that is!  Then I have to move my hospitalish bed into a position that won’t hurt my back.  Then I say something real sexy like – Just Do It Already!  This isn’t just sexy, it’s UBER sexy.

I am a frame of my past self.  My nails no longer exist.  My feet need some serious looking after.  I’m not tan.  And I’m no longer fit enough to take one spin around my pole.  And my standard uniform every day is pajamas, not the cute kind either – the giant t-shirt kind.  This is when everyone should nominate my husband to be an official Saint.  I don’t think taking me back after I left him included becoming a nurse.  But man am I glad he took me back.  I’m not sure Elanah could’ve stuck me 10 times with a syringe in my stomach.

We met up with some friends the other night to eat Mexican food. As I was lifting my carefully assembled beef fajita to my open salivating mouth, Friend (we’ll loosely call him a “friend”) looks up at me and says “Hey, why didn’t you call me back today?” Then blankly stares at me.

First of all, DON’T interrupt me when I am about to eat something that requires both hands to eat especially when I am starving AND dining without kids. THIS IS PRECIOUS TIME, ASSHOLE.  If any of the carefully placed shredded cheese or Mantequilla sauce falls out of the bottom of my fajita during the pause you just made me take I might throw the remaining fajita in your face and have to start over.

The question perturbed me so I went ahead and took the bite into my masterpiece and spent extra time chewing up the grizzle before I swallowed. He stared at me waiting for an answer.

Me: “I saw you called but you didn’t leave a message.”  Next!

Loose Friend: “No, I didn’t leave a message but figured you would call me back when you saw that you had a missed call from me.” Blank stare.

 Me, not wanting to start a debate because I had a whole sizzling hot pan of cow I was anxious to finish, flatly answered “I don’t call back unless you leave a message” and then I promptly asked him to pass me the extra napkins so I could wipe off the melted butter running down the side of my neck.

So, really is there some kind of phone call etiquette book that I am missing? He’s not the first person to get pissed at me for not calling back without a message. Are there rules I am just not following? If you don’t leave a message then I assume that you are getting your question answered elsewhere. Unless you come up as “Oprah” on caller ID, I’m not ringing your ass back without a reason.

I don’t even have a long winded message to sit through. It’s the standard number message and a beep. How hard is it to say “hey, I’m bored, call me back”? Cause guess what, I WILL!

Now, when I worked it did drive me crazy to get  the message “I have a question. Call me back.” Really? Really? Here’s an answer to a question… You’re a dumbass. WTF is the question you have? Just leave it on my voicemail or give me a hint so I can start pulling shit up for you. Most likely, I could’ve called you back with an answer but when I (will most likely) get YOUR voicemail back I still won’t have an answer for the question that you didn’t leave me.  What a waste of fucking time.

If I have 15 consecutive missed calls from you then I assume that your car has already sunk to the bottom of the lake and there is no need to call you back. Shoulda called 911. I hear they are pretty good at answering the phone…or Dominoes.

Then there’s the dropped call and who is supposed to call who back. I always thought the original caller called back but apparently 90 percent of my friends and family haven’t heard this rule so a dropped call results in two solid minutes of cellular arm wrestling.

Emily Post, what would you have done?

XOXO

Roxy

I generiously bowed out of this review because, well, if you’ve been reading long enough you know I don’t wear panties and I avoid bras.  Never a better time to delegate my friends!

So, Elanah got the bra in the size she requested:

I opened the package and said ‘ah, hell no.’. There’s no way that thing came close to fitting my girls, let alone supporting them.  0 countinis on that one.

Roxy got a size bigger than she requested:

I must confess that sexy underwear isn’t really my thing. When I ask for panties for Christmas, I get a pack of Hanes Her Way cotton underwear in my stocking and I am perfectly happy with that. I wear undies that have candy canes on them in July, seriously.

I used to wear thongs, pre-kids. I got used to them and owned at least a weeks worth of them. Now, I don’t give a shit if I have a panty line unless I am wearing something that also requires me to get an up-do, so like, um never. I’m so out of practice that when I put this itty bitty thing on, even with the light and airy material, I felt like I was trying to keep a carrot lodged in my crack. It also sort of rolled on my hips which was kind of annoying. But, they DID have a nice wide crotch area…for a thong (ahem, cough Twila, cough).

The size chart online indicated that I should get a small, but since I was the newbie of the group I got the medium sample. The medium seemed to be a decent fit which makes me think that the small might have squeezed my apple butt. Clothing sizing online is always tricky. However, ordering online and getting a nicely-wrapped-in-sterile-plastic thong IS nice knowing that some gross crab infested person didn’t try them on 10 minutes before me. I don’t care if there IS a “protective strip” on the ones in the store.

The site does have some cute baby dolls, and the Zara collection looks totally fun but out of my price range. The Lola Babydoll would be a great blushing bride gift.

Roxy gives Cosabella 3 out of 5

Twila got the Hot Pants in the size she requested:

How fitting that we are reviewing panties this week. I’m gonna be totally honest and say that I only had one day to review since I was out of town. But it seems like one day was enough. I got to try the boy shorts. Let’s start with what you were thinking… crotch size. It was ok, not crazy small, covered what needed to be covered. They were cute, I liked how they looked. Kind of a mesh fabric, light, breathable and I think no lines. 

Twila gives Cosabella 2 out of 5 Countinis.  (One because they were cute and two because… when in the right place, it was comfortable. Too bad I’m not a statue.)

There are many things through this whole divorce process that I thought would bother me, but really haven’t. For example, there was the packing of his stuff, which I did without thinking twice. I can even look at wedding pictures, and think it’s a shame, but never really get sad over it. I’ve completely accepted I’m on my own, and I have to admit I’m having fun with it.

However, I was thrown for a loop the other day.  A friend of mine convinced me to take a few classes at the gym with her, and I’ve been having a good time.  So I decided I would join.  I was in a hurry, trying to fill out the application before the next class started when the question presented to me took me back.  My Emergency Contact.  I didn’t know who to put.  For the past five years it was so natural to put in the ex’s name and number.  Before that, it was my mother.  Granted she was always 1,000 + miles away and probably couldn’t do much, but I knew she should be the first person they should call.  As my relationship with her has been pretty strained, and well, now that I’m divorced, I had no name and number I could fill those blanks with.

I sat for a moment staring at the paper.  Names of friends rummaging through my mind, but I couldn’t think of anyone.  Not one person I thought they should call if something serious happened.  So without thinking, I automatically put in his name.  I’m not really sure why, and I can’t even tell you that he would care.  Maybe it would be good for him to know in case he needed to come and take the dogs.  Yes, I’m totally over thinking this whole damn thing.  After all, I’ve yet to have to use an emergency contact, and obviously I’m hoping it never has to be used.

Damn Divorce has left me Emergency Contactless……..

For the past week and next couple of weeks, I am a soccer widow. Hubby has left me for a black and white ball, sweaty men and bad actors.

I’m used to it, 4 years ago I was thanked by him for waiting to push out our Eldest until the Brazil game was over. Yep, laboring while watching the World Cup, Brazil game over…. time to push. In fact I think that was the only thing on the entire time I was there. That and the random baby channel I watched at 3 am while hormonally crying, nursing and eating peanut butter all at the same time.

Damn those players are bad actors. I mean these are well paid athletes can’t the teams at least afford some acting classes on how properly pull off a fake injury. Cuz when you are only sorta tripped by another player because YOU were running into them, then fall and grab your fucking face as if you were punched…. it’s not convincing AT ALL. It just aggravates me . No, irritates me. No…. annoys the holyshitfuckfakeitbetter out of me.

Good news is that my Spanish seems to have improved. Univsion is pretty much the only channel on right now and I feel like I am getting to know the “news” anchors fairly well. My personal favorite is the afternoon chick. I always know when she is on because I hear from Hubby’s office in a low Tim the Tool Man voice, “booooobs”. That’s all he has seen of her. I’ve seen the rest, you know, her face. And while her boobs are quite perky, her Michael Jackson nose (post 100 surgeries) and abnormally high cheek bones has me cringing enough that I either have to look away or stare at her boobs also. Booooobs!

All I know is that I am starting to stereotype hotness. Like I thought that Greek men were cute… now… not so much. What’s with the long hair? Doesn’t it get in the way? All I want to do is hand them a ponytail holder. Actually, a lot of the teams I’m not really feeling the hotness. I may be ethnocentric but the Americans… totally the hottest.

So is anyone else enjoying/despising the World Cup right now?

Dudes, what’s up with all these little fill-up-your-own-bucket-with-yogurt places? I swear, I woke up one morning and they had popped up like zits on prom morning. They were everywhere. Is it the new companion to the must-haves in shopping centers? A dry cleaner, a donut shop, a nail salon and now a self serve yogurt shop? I shit you not, in five square miles of my house there are FOUR of these places. In addition to the FOUR frozen yogurt places, there are also THREE ice cream shops and ONE wimpy gym.

Now, I’m not saying this is necessarily a bad thing because I do love me some frozen delight. Anyone remember Swensens? God I miss that place. It was my parent’s bribe to get us to behave in restaurants. If we didn’t start a war over the main course then they took us there and loaded us up with Bonanza Splits. The closest one is in fucking Midland Texas.

My current favorite is Marble Slab even though we have to forgo buying the kids Christmas presents to pay for our family of four to eat there. I love the film of lard covering my tongue after eating crushed Oreo cookies enveloped in chocolate fudge ice cream stuffed into a Butterfinger and chocolate dipped waffle cone. Oh sweet Lord in Heaven I am having a chocolate attack, pardon me while I go lick a Snickers wrapper.

Ok, back to the explosion of yogurt shops.  Have you been in one of these places? If you have been in one, you’ve been in them all. You pick your bucket (really, it’s just a large cup, but looks like a bucket to me), then you fill your bucket with as much non-fat yogurt as you want before you pile on the sugary toppings. C’MON, really with the low-fat shit? It’s like ordering a Diet Coke with a Big Mac….oh right I do that, never mind.  

The toppings bar is like a cellulite buffet. Snickers (dimples on the right thigh), Reeses (dimples on the left), Gummi Bears (dimples on the love handles), Strawberries (fruit, eh, that actually helps move the lard through the digestive tract), Rainbow Sprinkles (can you get cellulite on your ear lobe?) and so on.  My bucket never makes culinary sense when I am done. Fruits are mixed in with cereal and candy bars and chocolate sauce on Mango and fudge yogurt. It looks like a bucket of throw up but DAMN each bite results in an oralgasm.  

Then they weigh you…er, the cup. I always have self-serve remorse when I have to put the cup on that stupid scale in front of God and everyone.  I totally panic as the scale calculates how much sugar I am about to spend my money on and desperately want to secretly scoop out half my bucket into my purse. WHY WHY did I think that I couldn’t live without the heavy fudge blocks? Shit, I might as well have thrown on a set of Goodyears for crying out loud!

 So far, however, I have been pleasantly surprised each time and walk away spending less than I thought I would, sort of shopping at Kohl’s. For three of us, I haven’t spent over $9.

Like having a hot boyfriend, I am afraid to get attached. With so many saturating the hood I can’t imagine that they will all stick around for long and will eventually leave me broken hearted when they depart, like that Swesen fucker. For now, I guess I will just have to play yogurt shop spin the bottle and enjoy my oralgasms.

Are these things everywhere or just here? Holly-in-NC? Cupcakes?

XOXO

Roxy

There’s no true one thought, story, etc that I have for this week….just a bunch of randomness.

On a good note, I supposedly have a signed decree on it’s way to my house. That means I’m just a short time away from this chapter being closed. I got a little sad yesterday when someone started asking me about my husband. I wasn’t close to them (met them through a client), didn’t have the heart to tell them, and they were interested in doing what he does for a living. I babbled as if our marriage still existed.  I found myself stumbling through the words about what he did, etc.  In not talking to him in so long, it felt as if I almost forgot.  I babbled on, though, because I didn’t want to go into the whole we’re now divorced thing. It just opens up ‘I’m sorry’s’ and ‘oh, gosh, I didn’t know.’ I then have to quickly go into ‘no, no, it’s all a good thing, blah, blah.’ Sometimes it’s just better to not offer up the information.

However, all in all, the 61 days have flown by, and I’m ready to put it behind me. I feel like I’ve moved on, and I honestly feel divorced. However, I’m ready for the State of Texas to agree with me.

It’s been a weird week. Doubtful Elanah showed up. She’s the one that convinces me to apply for jobs, get a little scared about money, ask me again what in the hell I’m doing with my life, etc. I really hate her, but sometimes she does have a good point. She shows up with PMS Elanah.  They seem to be good friends.

I had a friend ask me this week, ’so what are you going to do?’ I could only respond with ‘I have no fucking idea.’

Yeah, it’s been one of those weeks.

Wow, who new I would be foreshadowing my own life on this blog. This is where you guys have to remember back a while. I wrote some dumb post about Revolutionary Road and  how it was horrible because it kept me up at night. The premise was that there was a couple trapped in suburbia aching for more so they come up with a plan to move to Paris. Turns out, the husband was cool with their life and never planned to go through with it while the wife needed it and ended up committing suicide.

Ok, maybe it’s not total foreshadowing because neither Hubby or I are suicidal. But I think that both of us want something else. We were given a chance, a chance to do what they were wanting to do. At the beginning of the year we were presented with the chance to move overseas. All paid for. We screamed as loudly as possible, “FUCK YEA! We’d be crazy to say no!” And started plotting our get away. Getting the kids passports, visiting Great Grandparents one more time just in case, ect.

I was supposed to be in Europe 2 months ago. I was supposed to be writing to you guys about all the Eurotrash, the dog shit covered, urine smelling streets and the fantastic food that I was ingesting. (Wow, I said fantastic food, urine and shit in the same sentence.) Instead, I am here, sweating my tits off thankful that we at least have AC, the wonderful American novelty. (Yep, because where we were going, they don’t believe in AC.)

I’m pissed, annoyed, put out, but most of all relieved. See, starting in February we kept being told, “We will have more info for you by the end of the week.”  They are STILL saying that. Europeans don’t seem to grasp the idea of a timeline. And as things got pushed, my mind started over thinking. I knew it was crazy to move while pregnant but I mean, they have babies in Europe too. I knew it was insane to move somewhere that I didn’t speak the language, but people come to the good’ole US of A of the time. Shit, Hubby’s own Grandmother can’t even speak English. I knew all of it, but this is Hubby’s dream and I have always approved of it. I can’t back out now.

We have now reached the end of deadline that we set. I said I would not move once I hit a certain point in the pregnancy. That point arrives in 3 weeks. So, obviously, there is no way those Europeans will get their shit together and move us in 3 weeks.

I’m the bitch. I’m a happy. Ecstatic. Relieved. I like it here.  Hubby, not so much. He’s totally bummed, still yearning to move. So to appease him for a while, I am now walking around the house in tight clothing, wet/see through shirts and skirts that can be lifted easily at anytime, hoping it might take his mind off it. Because, holyshitonastick, I don’t want the same ending as that god forsaken movie.

Breaking up is so hard to do!  Especially when you weren’t even asked or conferenced in.  Yes.  Shortly after Cabo my son and my future daughter in law broke the fuck up.  And did they even consider my feelings about this?  Nope.  They just broke up.  I put almost 2 long years into this relationship and now it’s over.

See, I totally have a way of making EVERYthing about me.

Girlfriend and I even shared SHOES people!  I don’t share my shoes with anyone.  I’m not emotionally ready for all this moving on already.  I was still in love!  Then I found out she cheated.  Oh, oh, oh no she didn’t!  AND she already has another boyfriend.  Me and my son were just thrown to the side, you know, AFTER Cabo and everything.  What’s a mom to do?  I know – don’t get attached!  Son has already moved on to.  He has about 3 chicks in the wings just waiting around for him to Skype them.  And his phone is going off constantly.  One of these days she’ll realize she lost the best thing that ever happened to her.  Probably when she’s 30.  But what about me? I’m just not ready.  I don’t want to meet anyone new.  I’m sour about it all.

This is what happens when all you watch is Keeping Up With The Kardashians and Toddlers and Tiaras…and the worst, Say Yes To The Dress.  I’m even considering renewing my vows, if I live and all.

Now, I’m considering having a Staying Alive Party once I get the OK from my doc that I’m actually going to be staying alive.  Tacky or HAWT?