Shameless Mom-Type Plug #387

If you're in the area....go! Cuz Averie's funny. Oh, okay, it's all funny and she has one line. But man, does she deliver it.

And....They're OFF!..........

So it's been two weeks since I started this damn weight loss plan and ten pounds less of me and more of my fabulousness is wonderful. The incredibly impatient Pua that I am however, wishes it were more and wonders what's wrong. That's a whole different fathead story. The point of this is that along with the diet comes the ever-popular "And don't forget to drink eight 8 ounce glasses of water every day". Me? Always the good girl, always the overachiever, and always wanting to please my nutritionist Rochelle, I drink five 16.9 ounce bottles of water a day. As a result, I'm now spending, what seems like the better portion of my day, in the bathroom. I not only pee like a racehorse, I run like one. The flag drops and I'm outta the gate.

Fine. I don't have a problem with that. You do what you have to do. The way I figure it, these days, it's the family that has to watch out for me and NOT the other way around. So, when the Grommet sees me running down the hall with my fingers hastily trying to manipulate the zipper on my pants, he knows to get the heck out of the way or get run down. And when Averie sees that look of panic in my eyes at work, and I start doing the "Pee Pee Dance," in the middle of trying to help a customer, she plays tag-team with me and segues gracefully into her customer service mode, so that I can slip into the back and relieve my aching bladder. Everyone makes sure there's always toilet paper stocked up in each bathroom to accommodate me. Because as we all know, if Mama ain't happy,.....nobody gets a ride anywhere or gets fed or gets their underwear washed.

This morning, as usual, at 2 a.m., my screaming baby, otherwise known as my bladder, needed attention. I have a snoring husband next to me (he has bronchitiis, so snoring is allowed right now), a snoring dog between us, and a bladder that wants me to get out of this cozy, warm bed. I quickly stumble out, being careful not to disturb the happily resting occupants, and literally run to the bathroom. I'm already beginning the ascent into position and nature is already opening the floodgates. As my backside settles, I feel a distinct WALL of cold...someone has closed the damn lid! And too late to stop or stall the process (because we girls CANNOT do that, especially after babies, I don't care how many *&^*% kegels you do!), I just pee all OVER the toilet and myself, grabbing towels off the rack and crying as I go.

Composing myself, I clean up the flood damage, after all, I've cleaned up worse. Then, I slip into the shower and cry some more. Have I mentioned that I've done all this in the dark? A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens and a sleepy voice says, "Pua, what are you doing Honey? It's 2:00 in the morning."

I'm thinking to myself, "Thank you for stating the obvious, Sweetie." Which probably would have been the kinder response. But instead, I whip back with;
"I'm dieting. Go back to bed."

I have to go now. Literally.

House of Tiki's Resident Comic Relief

People ask me often lately..."How's business? Is it slow?" Averie apparantly has a cure for that...

Fabulosity

So, as you know, I am not your typical Orange County Housewife, thank God. I'm not sure I could live with myself. Despite what people are led to believe via the media, those women are NOT representative of the REAL Orange County. I'm offended that they even use the words "Real Orange County Housewives". We're not wealthy (we live paycheck to paycheck and right now, I'm the only one getting a paycheck), we don't live at "The Beach", I don't shop at "The Mall" (I'm a Target/Wal-Mart Girl, thank you very much), my kids aren't spoiled (they actually WORK while they're in school), I haven't had any work done (I earned these wrinkles, dammit), I don't hide the fact that I'm forty...something, I have an IQ that's higher than the speed limit , I drive a 12 year old mini-van, and most importantly, I'm not a size 2. Middle-aged Rednecks, bikers and lesbians LOVE ME and think I'm hot. I'm friggin fabulous!

I have struggled through one weight-loss plan after another and still come back to that place in my head where I realize that food is my drug of choice. It's my comfort. And man, have I needed comforting this last year! So, I'm fluffy and fabulous. Take me or leave me. That's pretty much the lie I've told myself. It hurts like hell to be invisible. Because here, in the OC, if you're fat, you don't exist. It is what it is. Babylon; home of plastic people with shallow lives.

Yes, I'm still fabulous. Yes, I'm still fluffy. But there's 9.6 pounds less of my fluffiness and I've put those 9.6 pounds over into my fabulousness. Hopefully, by the time I go celebrate Auburn Pisces' natal anniversary, I'll be 20 pounds more fabulous. That will make running naked on the beach with Pony a little less intimidating. Okay maybe not. :o)