Saturday, March 28, 2009

And the Oscar Goes TO....

The 2008-2009 annual highschool district drama rally BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS goes to....


Miss Alex Jean!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(the crowd goes crazee...well...her mom and maw maw go crazee)

Woo Hoo, my oldest baby girl just won the award for best supporting actress in her highschool's district drama rally! They were competing against eight other high schools in her area.

We Are So Proud!

Friday, March 27, 2009

Abigail's Garden

Watching patiently
As each seed breaks forth from the
Ground, pink flowers bloom.

PhotoStory Friday
Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

Thursday, March 26, 2009

My Boy Likes To Potty All the Time

It's that time of the year when the leaves are beginning to show their bright, shining faces, flowers spout from the Earth's rich, brown soil, and the birds and the bees start playing kiss chase. A time where getting wet won't lead to getting pneumonia. Where running around with only a shirt on won't be give your neighbors the right to call child welfare. A time of (pause) potty training.

Yes, you heard it right. . .potty training.

You'd think by now I'd have the skills of a professional potty trainer. Yes, (said with a sauntering gait in my stride) I've got three pottiers tucked under mah belt. You'd think I'd know everything there is to know, and that within a week of training, I could add another niche in my toilet seat.


Not gonna happen.

Albeit a mere year that the last diaper wearer kicked the bucket and started wearing big girl pants, I seem to find myself clueless which direction to take. Let's start with the "potty." Have you seen the selection of pottys they have out there??? There are talking pottys, singing pottys, pottys for the rich, pottys for the poor, pottys that look like trucks, pottys that look like flower pots, frog pottys, bucket pottys, spider man pottys...a potty for every occasion. I mean COME ON! What is the deal here? It all goes in the same place, doesn't it? Anyway, I went with the potty that looked like a truck, and when activated by warmth (not gonna get graphic here), it makes the sound of a truck starting its engine. Yeah, it really does. Well, it looked cute, sounded cute, had cute stickers, but there was no way my son's chubby rear end was going to fit between the wheels of that there bus. Not to mention a flimsy construction and a lid that snapped off the second time it was used as a step stool (yes, it is a supposed step stool as well). So, back to the drawing board...or the local Wal Mart.

We found the potty for him...the Fisher Price Royal Seat thing. It plays four different royal tunes, warmth activated of course, and it is roomy and comfortable for his chubby butt. Much more sturdy than the truck and tractor pull potty.

So, we're set, right? Well, let me just say that pull ups are hard to pull down. We fight to pull the up, we fight to pull them down, and once they are down, he insists on walking across the room with them about his ankles. Secondly, pull ups are like the diapers he so fondly remembers, so why not use them the way he used the diapers? Why can't he potty in a pull up? Why use the potty? So, I abandon the pull up and pull out the Amazing Spider Man big boy pants. Let me pause here and say one thing...Why is it little girl undies fit nicely, accordingly to size, while big boy pants are loose and tend to sag to the knee? I know he needs a little more room in the nether regions, but I don't think we have to worry about a little snugness lowering his sperm count just yet, now do we? Give me some boy underwear that fit please, Alex, for the win. However, all sagginess aside, I am having better luck. They are easier to pull down, and he likes pretending he's spider man.


With my belt slung haphazardly around my waist, packed with stain remover, wipes,Lysol, loaded with resolve and determination, I gaze across the room, meeting his steel blue eyes. Off in the distance you can hear the Clint Eastwood Western whistle going off...I spit...he spits.

It's potty time.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Yes is the Answer

Look to the right of my blog. See the clicky buttons I have installed? Well, I've just put up a new one, Prayers For Stellan. Stellan is the youngest son of "Mckmama." His story is an amazing one of strength, courage, and tenacity from both him as well as his parents. Stellan was told he would never see the light of day, but he proved, and amazingly so, the doctors wrong, and showed up, not only alive, but alive and kicking, proving that even in this so precise medical world there is a power stronger than even death.

Stellan is fighting once again, and needs your help. Whether you believe in God, some higher power, or nothing at all your prayers and positive thoughts are needed not only to help him, but to give peace to his parents that can only watch Stellan's battle.

I may not have faith in religion, but I do know that there is power and healing in prayer...especially when two or more gather in His name.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Tell a Joke Tuesday

Tell a joke Tuesday was created by Wayne at , passed on to me via Jillian at Word of warning, I'm a horrible teller of jokes, but I will (girding my loin) try. The post's title is an active link to Wayne's blog. Go check out the other jokes! You're apt to find a much better teller than me. Have fun!

prologue...these jokes MUST be told using a heavy cajun accent. Without the cajun accent, it is useless chatter. I have done my best to use a cajun accent while telling these jokes. They are called Boudreaux and Thibodeaux jokes (pronounced Boo dr owe and Tib ah doe). Enjoy!

Number One:

Boudreaux was passin one day bah his bess frin, Thibodeaux's house when he saw him standin out in da middle of his field holdin his hans out in da air and wavin dem aroun. So he stop by and went ova dare and he say, "Mae, Boudreaux, wat you doin out in dis field wavin you hands around in da air for?"

Thibodeaux says to Boudreaux, "Mae, I'm trin to win me one of dem Noble Peace Prizes, das wat I'm doin."

Boudreaux says, "Mae, how you plan on doin dat? You ain't no noble."

Thibodeaux says, "I plan on winnin one for bein out standin in mah fields."


Thank you, thank you.

Monday, March 23, 2009


We were both new. The size and volume flowing through the halls of the school threatened to bulldoze the both of us, and although we were eager to meet and greet the swarm of people buzzing around us, the sheer number of over one hundred fifth graders threatened to topple the poorly assembled self confidence that allowed us to put one foot in front of the other.

It was my first teaching first one that had me teaching a full classroom for more than one week at a time. I was a student teacher. Christmas break was over, and the kids were definitely not ready to begin the second half of the school year. Standing in front of the class (did I mention that I was shy?) being introduced to the reluctant prisoners, I could smell the nervous sweat emerging from pores I didn't know existed. I had no idea fifth graders could be so intimidating. And right when the buzz saws starting going off in my head and I knew I"d be making imminent contact with the concrete floor, totally embarrassing myself, he walked in and saved me.

He was the new kid; just moved in from another school. His fist clutched tightly around a stack of pencils, a worn out binder, and a school bag slung across his shoulder were the weapons of choice. However, he clearly won the battle with a huge smile as he introduced himself, Travis...came from so and so just moved back to hometown...where do I sit?...and so on. Together we took on the school and awkwardly danced our way through the fifth grade year. But this really isn't about me at all, and then again, it is.

You see, teachers love their kids...we really do. Well, most of them anyway. When they walk through those doors of the hallowed insane, they become ours, and we love them and teach them and encourage them to reach for the stars and tackle the universe. But every once in awhile there comes a student that for some reason invokes more. And even though you only have them for a short while, the impact they make on your life lasts forever. For me, Travis was that student.

His fifth grade year wasn't all peaches and cream. Although he had that winning smile, it wasn't easy for Travis to make friends. As far as school went, Travis was an average kid that loved science and never did his homework. His bowl cut hair and ill fitting jeans kept him apart from most kids, but eventually he found a niche with a small group of boys, trading cards and telling stories. The stories that child would tell like the time his mom introduced him to this famous rock star, or the time he got to stay up all night playing some game, and how his parents let him do whatever he wants, and why he didn't do his homework because his step dad punished him last night and made him did holes in the backyard and then fill them back up again and he was doing that until 2:00 in the morning. Or the time he threw him out in the middle of a winter night wearing nothing but boxers because he was being too loud. I wanted to take him home. Keep him safe. Allow no harm to come to him again. He moved before the year came to an end.

He came back the next year, and then moved again. Two years later he returned once more. He was no longer the scruffy little guy in ill fitting jeans struggling to fit in. He fit in. Not with the best of crowds either, but he fit in. His eight grade year was a rough one, in and out of trouble, in and out of school. He found his first love, albeit a rather young first love, and finally, moved on to high school. Of course, it wasn't all caviar and champagne. Travis fell into a rough crowd, dropped out of school, and just kind of wandered. I never knew when I was going to pick up a paper and read about his incarceration or even worse, death. And even though I was no longer his teacher, I still wanted him to succeed. To get out of the rut he was in. To become, as corny and cliched as it sounds, the man he ought to be. I still loved that kid.

I saw Travis last spring, and you wouldn't believe the turn he had made. Yes, he was still the goofy kid I taught in fifth grade. They never do grow up you know. But he had reached his turning point. He was clean, drug-free, sober. He was employed, responsible, alive. He was in love, and with the same little girl he had met in eight grade, and she loved him in return. He had gone back and earned his G.E.D. His life was on the road to recovery and damn it all he was becoming the man he ought to be. I had never been so proud. We talked for a while, I think I told him how proud I was at least a half a million times before giving him the teacher student hug and walking away. I cried, not in front of him of course, did the Calvin and Hobbes happy dance, and went back to school and told everyone I could meet that my baby boy was becoming a man. You see, I wasn't the only one whose heart Travis had captured. The science teacher became his "mom" during sixth grade, and in the eight grade, the guidance counselor adopted him. We loved him. We were his alter ego moms. He made us proud.

Travis died in February. He was killed after loosing control of his car and crashing into a tree. I am going to miss that kid. The one I saw grow up into a man. And I will always remember him as the fifth grade boy who walked into my classroom and stole my heart.

Friday, March 20, 2009


In celebration of fishful thinking's 5 ingredients, will be highlighting one every few weeks.The first one she is covering is one on optimism, read it here Here is my addition.

Roughly ten years ago I was diagnosed with APL, a form of acute leukemia. It was treated with chemo and other body altering drugs. During that time I was told that more than likely, I wouldn't be able to have any children...that was ok, because I already had two beautiful daughters...


and Caylith

I went into remission, and three years later, I met an incredible guy and we became a family

We were all living a happy life, new family, new house, but no children to tie us all together

No, none at all

Then came Abigail

Atticus followed shortly there after

And just when we thought we were done, Avery shows up

I will always have the cancer rearing its ugly head in the background of my life...just because you're in remission doesn't make it go away, but I am optimistic about where I will be ten, twenty, even thirty years from now...and that is with my family.



"Pink Floyd, Pink Floyd, Pink Floyd" chanted the mobs of the impatient hormones. Were they going to tear down the wall? Bury an axe in the wall? Shine on like a crazy diamond?

Actually, we were just going to watch our VERY FIRST PINK FLOYD LIGHT AND LASER SHOW uh huh, yeah buddy. It was emotionally, captivating, riveting, and we were storming the gates just like they did in the movie. You know, the movie, "The Wall," the one that we watched ten million times and in every type of altered state of mind we could find. It was great. We were fanatics. We knew the lyrics. We owned every piece of music published, including the solo albums of Syd Barret and Roger Waters. Our arguments rolled around facts on which lead singer made Pink Floyd so pink...I was a Roger Waters fan. You know they totally fell apart once that "other" guy took over. We were impassioned, obsessed, zealously, fanatically driven! We were against air pollution, politics, loved hair spray (not the movie the actual stuff), and wanted to save the whales.

Down with conformists, down with establishment, down with religion, down with anything that made you grow up.

Where did that go? Oh, not the love of good music. I still listen to the good stuff, the new stuff, sometimes the bad stuff, never the horrible stuff,but where did the being so totally passionate over something that I'd stand outside of a rinky dink civic center impatiently waiting to have my retinas burned out by a light and laser show go? The drive to be socially different from everyone else. The desire to be.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not some totally devoid of emotion lifeless lump of Swiss cheese sitting on the sofa waiting to be spread on a cracker (that just sounds gross). There are issues that stir me...the education system, abuse of children, pollution, stupids. And trust me, I rant and rave and get emotionally wound up, but find it hard to walk the walk and not just talk. Have I become the grown up? No way. I couldn't have. And really, I haven't. At least not like the grown ups I didn't want to be. Okay, so I didn't move to New York, live with Robert Smith from The Cure, and become a fabulously famous Broadway actress, but I did live, and with gusto. Sure, traveling around the country with a small, one-roomed travel trailer hitched to the back of a run down Ford may not equal to the flash and flair of living with Robert Smith in New York City, but I had some really good times. Really. Good. Times. I miss those times, and I miss the friends I made along the way. I will never see them again. But I like what I've become as well.

Is obsession just for the young? Because we don't obsess loudly, vocally, and with great vigor are we lacking passion?

Nah, I don't think so.

My youngest son is awake. He's lying in his crib with a blanket playing peek-a-boo. He has no clue that his mom once had a black mohawk, rallied protests against society, and wore combat boots. When he gets older, I'll be even older. He'll never know that his sixty year old uncool mom would drive through the streets in the middle of winter's cold night with her windows down and the radio blaring. He'll never know that sometimes, I still do.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

They Call That Average?

Annoyed would be the current description of my mood at the moment. Well, not annoyed, aggravated. No, no...not aggravated, irritated. Frustrated, maybe? No. That doesn't work either, asphyxiated?

There is a rumor going on that men think about sex, want to have sex, when ever possible actually have sex, and have nothing but sex on the brain twenty-four hours a day...twenty-five if you throw in a couple of leap years. This rumor also states that MEN want SEX more than WOMEN do. Furthermore, once you enter your mid thirties and so forth, your desire for sex decreases to only wanting it once or twice a month.

According to very outdated research:

13% of married couples reported having sex a few times per year, 45% reported a few times per month, 34% reported 2-3 times per week, and 7% reported 4 or more times per week (Laumann, Gagnon, Michael, Michaels, 1994).


A survey by Durex, a leading research firm, found the frequency of sexual interaction varies significantly from country to country. The global average for frequency of sex is 109 times per year (2.1 times per week, or once every 3.3 days). The following summary shows how individual nations compare to the national average of frequency of sexual interaction per year.

Frequency By Country
United States 135
Russia 133
France 128
Germany 127
Britain 124

People from Thailand had the lowest average sexual frequency at 64 times per year, half the frequency of Americans.

Source: 1997 Durex Global Sex Survey

WTF? (I love that acronym)

I am a woman. Yes, for real. I'm a woman that likes sex, thinks about sex often, and wants to have sex okay, not daily, but maybe every other day.
I think about sex. Quite often, I might add. I think about the good sex I've had. I think about the good sex I want to have in the future. I think about the sex I've never had and wonder if it's as good as people say. (warning, there are going to be lots of "I's" in this particular passage because I'm feeling a bit self-centered today) I like sex. I like sex on a daily basis. Personally, me, myself, and I, do not fall in the average category. However, I do not fly solo, much, so my marriage does fall in that 45% range of "a few times a month." By the way, how much is a few?


Well, the usual suspects are at play here. Kids...yes...those adorable sticky, smelly, salt-nose encrusted specimens produced by my marriage. I have five of them, remember?( There ain't nothing better than being in the middle of doing the nevermind and having a teenager run in, yes, without knocking, and ask if they can borrow money or your shoes. MY SHOES??? For crying out loud! Not to mention the fact that the lock on your door is broken and your two and three year olds take great pleasure in storming in just to see how fast and wide they can open the door. Don't forget about the nine month old that just LOVES to take power naps of five minutes or less and has the uncanny ability to know "just" when to wake up. HA. Now go ahead and include how unimaginably tiring it is to run after three, three and under, children all day, do minimal household chores, cook supper, run after two teens, and blog (had to include that huh?). Wow, I just wore myself out reading all of that. Then there is the male counterpart. You know, the one that is supposta be thinking about sex 24 hours a day? Well, he wakes up at five a.m., heads off to do manly work things all day, gets home at six, does the SSaS routine (figure that acronym out ha!), and is in bed for nine. In his defense, his job is physically demanding. It does get hot here...very hot and humid. It can drain a person does. So anyway, I understand when he says, "Not tonight honey... I'm just too...snore...

In defense of my amazing husband:

I love my husband. And he's absolutely incredible and just where incredible should be! He is, without a doubt, the most giving of bedmates! I haven't a complaint. (But I didn't win the give-a-way sponsored by! No, I didn't so he just needs to wake his snoring behind up and take care of the situation at hand right now and no one can see this part because it is in ( ) and that makes it completely invisible).

Anyway. :regains self-composure: My point, if there is one, is that women like sex and think about sex just like men do. We do become disappointed when it only happens once a week. And we love those surprise in-the-middle-of-the-week romps! We don't fall into general "honey, I have a headache" stereotypes.

So, back to my current mood...

I don't

(pregnant pause)

have a headache.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Not Me!

I'm stealing this from Jillian at who got it from !

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. You can head over to blog to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.
I always take my teenagers on time for their yearly physical. I never, ever coerce my mother into bringing them by mentioning the fact that she can always go to the thrift store while waiting. Needless to say, I never mention the fact that Avery is now in 6 to 9 month clothing, and the thrift store just put out their spring clothes. No way, I would never do that.

As a good mother should do, I always fill out the paper work needed in order to complete their physicals. I would never, ever make my precious children fill out their own paper work and the forge my name at the bottom. I wouldn't ever call out from the back of the room, elbow deep in baby diapers, yes or no answers to any previous health issues they may have had in the past. And I would NEVER tell them to leave the Social Security portion blank because I didn't have time to run to the filing cabinet to look it up (and I won't tell them when they call later on to fill in the blank that we must have looked over that section).

I always sit with my children as they fall asleep during nap time in order to keep them calm, and give them a sense of security. I would NEVER EVER use this time of the day in order to take a moment and use the computer conveniently located in the nap time bedroom. I would never tell my husband that supper was a bit late today because the kids had a hard time falling asleep for nap time and they needed me in the room with them to keep them from getting out of bed every five minutes. Time just happened to pass a bit fast and I didn't realize they had fallen asleep 2 hours ago. Especially knowing that my husband will read my blog when he has extra time, I would never ever blog about that here!

Blogging that entire time? Me? I would Never, Ever do that!

Saturday, March 14, 2009

What Was That?

It was the first weekend of December, 1992. A large bonfire casting it's luminous flames against the murky waters of the moat surrounding Fort Jackson offered a meager warmth to people gathered nearby. The usual rounds of beer and gin helped ease the bitter cold of that particular winter. The weekend festival had been a rough one. I was sitting further away on a nearby picnic bench when I saw one of my friends walk from the fire towards me. When it looked like he was going to continue down the path instead of stopping, I called to him, hoping he would stop. He didn't. He kept walking. Five steps down the path, he vanished. No Mark, no footsteps, nothing...he was just gone. Weird. Even weirder when I went to the bonfire and discovered that Mark was there...had never left the fire, and I had just seen my first full blown apparition.

That wasn't my first paranormal experience. Growing up in my mom's house, I had already experienced the bumps, shakes, and sounds in the night. Of course cabinet doors that creak open and beds that shudder and shake can be explained away. The voice that whispers "hey" or "Alex" in your ear while you are walking through the dark kitchen towards the bathroom can always be shrugged off as your imagination going haywire from late night novels. But this...I was wide awake, sober, and an adult (if you can call being twenty-three an adult). He was real, tall, dark, and right there in front of me and in not even a blink of an eye, was gone. It wasn't until later that I realized that even though the ground was littered with the fallen leaves of the trees around, his footsteps made no sound at all.

Now, don't think I went chasing after this phantom. No way, not me. I'm one of the world's biggest scaredy cats. Hell, I won't go down my hall unless I can turn the light on first. BUT, I am totally fascinated with the paranormal. Wednesday nights will find me sitting in my dimly lit living room following Jason and Grant investigate supposed hauntings around the US, and now even abroad. I am their biggest fan, not literally though...hopefully. Sometime in April, a few friends and I plan on visiting one of the spots they have deemed "haunted," the Myrtle Plantation located in New Orleans. I plan on being scared out of my mind. Hopefully, when it's time to leave, my mind will return.

However, there is one area of the paranormal I will never mess with...ever...and that would be the occult. Never. Ever. But a long time ago, I did. I was young. I was stupid. I was stupid (did I say that already?), and I will never do it again. I won't even go in to detail, but to needless to say that a Ouija board will never pass through my doors again. Heed my shadowed warning. They may seem harmless, slumber party cheap scare tactics, but they are nothing to trifle with. Even the heroic Jason and Grant won't mess with them. Enough said!

I know I'm not the only one fascinated with the "other" side. What is it about them that scares the living out of me, but keeps me compelled to want to experience more. Why do I thrill on the scare I get every time I turn on Ghost Hunters or Paranormal? What is it about the unknown that scares the living out of us, but keeps us coming back for more. Hrm...

My girls swear they have seen shadow people (and in my own house...creepy). I've had pots taken out of my kitchen cabinets and placed on the floor. Do you think I could get Jason and Grant to come over?

Ah, that's just dust.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

The Number You Are Trying To Reach Is No Longer In Service

I can clearly recall driving the thirty minute drive out of our rural area for doctor visits, grocery runs, and other mundane trips on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. Since forgetfulness runs in my family, I always had to make a pit stop at a pay phone in order to refresh the gray matter sleeping snug as a bug within the confines of my skull. "What did you need from the store?" "How much money is in the account?" "What are the shoe sizes of the girls again?" Trust me...always in need of the pay phone I am.

What I'd like to know now is, WHERE HAVE ALL THE PAY PHONES GONE? (can't you just hear Peter, Paul, and Mary singing, "Long time passing...")

Yes, they were dirty, germ ridden, smoke smelling, alcohol reeking, money sinking parasites of communication need, but they were always there when you needed them! They are gone. Gone, gone, gone. Replaced by that ever changing device called...the cell phone.

Before we move on, I will let you know, yes...I have a cell phone. I jazzy little number; lime green is its color. I like it. It serves a purpose, and since I never carry pictures (welcome to the digital age huh?), I can update long lost relatives with a snazzy little pic of my brood. However, lets go back to the first paragraph where I let you know about my mind's tendency to forget. This forgetfulness, which is a natural occurring phenomena (thank God for spell check), has been pushed to the limits by something called chemo does exist. So, as you probably guessed, that helpful little cellular device often gets left behind when I set out on my road trips. This brings me back to my original topic (I'm being a bit tangenty today), pay phones.

These guys are harder to find than Carmen Santiago (is that how you spell her name?), more elusive than Waldo, and apparently abducted by aliens. You can drive forever and ever, searching endless gas stations, Wal Mart parking lots, and Casinos (go La.). They cannot be found. But that's not all. When you actually do find the Bell South symbol, you know, the one with the telephone handle within a circle, and colored blue and white, the symbol that lets you know "Hey, there's a pay phone here!" nine out of ten times the phone is gone! Yes, gone. No phone, just the box. WTF! (how's that for an acronym?) Growl.

Of course, there are the times that you actually do find the pay phone. The pay phone, lonely, in a pit stops of pit stops, surrounded by broken concrete, scattered glass, and that guy wearing a raincoat...nothing but a raincoat. Do you really want to use the phone...that bad? Oh My Laundry!

Maybe this is God's way of saying, "Hey chicky, don't be forgetting your cell no more, got it?" I dunno.

Buddy can you spare a dime? Pay phone ahead at five Oh Clock, roger and out.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

And the Winner is...

After hours of agonizing moments pondering which way to decide how to rightfully choose the winner of the "Bag of Crap," (Dipaola, I honestly wonder if we aren't related somehow...sister's-in-law? but I'm gathering wool and tangents) and without partiality (is that a real word?) in all fairness and honesty. I have chosen to do it the Warcraft way. Yes, I play World of Warcraft...well I did before we became partially homeless. Anyway, after assigning a number to all commenters, and giving bonus entries to those who joined my site, I logged on to my High Priest Troll, Alphina (I figured I'd use the priest so the results would be more pure). I entered the command that rolls the dice /random 1-121. Twice...yes, that's right...two bags of crap. I figured there is always enough crap to make more than one bag. The winning (I refuse to call anyone getting a bag of crap lucky) numbers are: 69 (the first random roll) and 45 (the second random roll)


Are the two winning (lets not call them lucky just yet) SiTStas (did I spell that right?)!

Contact me at and we'll do lunch...well..not really but we'll make arrangements to get that crap outta here!

Thanks to all who participated in my first give-a-way! I enjoyed it quite a bit, and it made me feel like I was part of the cheerleading squad or something.

Have a Great one

Alex the Girl

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

A Bag of Crap???

Ah, the great spring give away at is well on its way. Here I am, not quite a day late, but always a dollar short hosting my own first give a way. The lucky winner will walk away with a surprise! Yes, my give a way is a surprise. Maybe it's a surprise because I"m the world's biggest procrastinator, or maybe its a surprise because it's just that...a Surprise! After all, the secret is in the sauce. The rules are simple (and stolen from someone else's blog as well). For every post I have written (and since I'm a fairly new blogger it's not too too much to read), leave a comment. For every comment, I will add an entry. Winners will be chosen at random.

Who knows! It could be you walking away with a freshly baked batch of my double chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, or brownies, or whatever! If you're even luckier, it could even be the ever elusive "bag of crap" that is featured on But only if you're lucky.

Winners will be listed soon. Very soon indeed. Deadline for entries is at 12:00 midnight. Be there or be not there!


Alex the Girl

P. S. You do not have to be a SiTS follower to participate, but you should check them out! It's a great way to find new blogs to read.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Baby's Got Fat

Imagine Gweneth Paltrow and Jack Black sitting at a restaurant. Gweneth orders from the menu, and once her food is delivered begins feasting by unhinging her jaw and piling in enough food to feed three grown men. We're talking food, major food. Jack Black stares at her in awe not knowing that he is seeing a thin Gwen and not the massively obese Gwen. He's been rewired by some sort of hypnotist into seeing "inner" beauty, but on the outside. So instead of seeing Gwen in a fat suit, he sees her as the skinny chic, but one that puts away massive amounts of food. Food. Lots and lots and lots of food. Hrmmm...

Truthful confession number one:

Please, allow me to introduce myself. I'm Alex. I'm fat. And I have never, in my whole entire LIFE, eaten even half of what Hollywood implies fat people eat. I have never eaten a triple cheeseburger, fries, pies, ice cream, and my date's leftovers when taken out to dinner. Hell, I can't even remember the last time I ordered dessert. Hollywood has projected the image that all fat people eat massive amounts of food, smear food across there faces when eating, and shove anything resembling food into their mouths proving nothing and no one is safe at the dinner table. All this for a bucket of laughs.


Yes, I'm sure there are people who gorge, pig, shove, and tunnel through food like there was no tomorrow. I saw the Oprah show that had video of the 500 plus pound guy who could put away several chickens at one meal. However, this is not the norm. Sometimes fat people are just fat because they are fat. Period. I'm fat because I had five kids, and I am laaazzzzy. I'll be honest with you. After getting up at 5:30 every morning, chasing, feeding, playing, and mom hooding with my three, three years and younger, children, I'm too tired and lazy to do the thirty minute work out it takes to burn off my three and two year old's left over fish sticks. I dunwanna, and I pay for it by putting on some package. Baby, FedEx has nothing on my packing materials.

I don't know. Movies like Shallow Hal really piss me off. Yay for the fat chick because at the end her guy can love her even though he can finally see her for the fat chick that she is. We should all get warm fuzzies because the fat chick is happy. Phew, I almost sound bitter...but really...I'm not. I'm just annoyed. I really should be taking a brisk afternoon walk while my perfect children nap.

Maybe tomorrow.

Baby's got fat.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

First I was Afraid

Before I even go there, I want to give credit for inspiration to Pseudonymous High School Teacher @ . Thanks.

Helicopter rides can be quite an exhilarating, terrifying, adventurous, and gripping ride. My first one didn't leave me disappointed. Nope, it met every expectation I had...and then some. Too bad I can't remember most of it.

I was in shock, no, not from the helicopter ride, although it could have been, that pilot was one crazy flier, I was in shock from blood loss...gallons and gallons of blood loss (can a body lose gallons of blood?). According to radio transmissions sent back and forth, I was being listed as a white female, bleeding profusely, and going into shock. Shock? I was thinking, don't people die when they go into shock? Okay, I wasn't thinking, I was actually on the verge of freaking out. The only thing is, people don't freak out when they are going into shock due to massive blood loss. They just kind of lay there. So, I suppose I was a silent freaker.

Anyway, the helicopter landed on the top of the hospital. It was so cool. It was just like ER, the television show. The ER team was waiting at the double doors. Once the helicopter landed, the team took me to the ER room. I remember them running next to the rolling bed, giving me oxygen, taking stats as best as they could...the lights on the ceiling flashing by like a subway riding through its tunnels. Things were fuzzy after that. I think I died...there in the midst of blood transfusions, failed IV pokes, people tugging at my listless body, my mom's tears, and my best friend's hair (she had HUGE hair). I really don't remember much...the tubes, the blood, the nurses, the chaos. At the end of the day, the paramedic slash doctor slash helicopter guy who worked on my vitals during my flight stopped by to say hello. He wanted to see if I had made it. He wanted to know if everything was going to be alright. JUST LIKE THE SHOW, ER!!!

Obviously, I made it. It took awhile, but I made it. The events that followed were just as surreal as the events that led me to that place. Dark rooms, small light bulbs floating above your head, a team of specialty doctors whispering, figuring and poking their way through your body. They shoved needles in places I didn't know needles could go. Oh yes, I remember those. Trust me. Anyway, keeping in line with the ER drama, the silver-haired doctor shoved a silver long needle in my not so silver colored rear and took a sample of my bone marrow.

I remember. The only light coming in was from the nurses station. My little area was dark, small, and cramped. My mom was there, along with my sister who had flown in from North Carolina, and the long silver needle doctor. Cancer, he said. Leukemia. Cancer, I heard. Death, dying, pain. Who was going to take care of my babies? Who was going to send them to school? Who was going to take them to church? Who was going to make sure they didn't do drugs, become unwed mothers, stay away from wife beaters? Good God, I didn't want to die, but Mr. Silver Needle Guy told my mom to start making phone calls and gathering family members, I may not make the night, too much blood loss, can't stop the bleeding, only hope is a pseudo remission...drone drone drone. I couldn't hear the rest. I needed to find someone to take care of my babies when I'm gone.

Enter my sister. She's eighteen months younger than I am. She came. She read to me every night that I was in ICU. She took my babies back home with her when I went through treatment. I knew everything was going to be alright after that. No matter the out come. She was a big part of my saving grace. I will always be eternally grateful.

There is more to my story. You know...chemo, vomit, weight loss (yay), hair loss, and a variety of other things that they just don't tell you about on the made for lifetime movies. But this part of my story was the hardest to tell.

Thanks Pseudonymous High School Teacher.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

I am you as you are me and we are all together?

That is until you bring up the subject of religion. There are so many beliefs, studies, branches, churches, bibles, and the list goes on and on and on. If I had a dime for every religion out there, I could pay off the deficit. But my question is this, who is right?

This leaves me baffled to absolutely no end. Yes, I realize that religion if based on faith, and without that faith it is literally impossible to truly believe. How can you believe in something that happened thousands of years before you were born without having the faith needed to believe that it actually happened. Faith. George Michaels had it, albeit not of the religious kind. But it doesn't actually end there, does it? Who is right?

Touchy subject. Who is right? This is an almost impossible question to answer. If you follow the teachings of the New Testament, you're going to hell. If you don't follow the teachings of the New Testament, you're going to hell. If you don't go door to door teaching the doctrine of your church, you're going to sleep forever and ever when you die. If you don't confess your sins to your local priest every Sunday, follow his instructions on absolution, and die before being able to confess your sins again, you're going to hell. Pray to saints, don't pray to saints, kneel before the cross, don't put up images, have images, don't add to the bible, follow the changes made by the head of the church even if it was in the bible years and years ago, pray to saints, don't pray to saints just pray to God. Don't allow women to preach and teach in your church, women preachers and teachers. Homosexuality is evil, no it's not, yes it is, it can't be helped, yes it can, pray to be straight, be gay and abstinent. WHAT???

If that isn't confusing, I don't know what is. I am having a hard time choosing the direction in which to go.

My sister is gay. Is she going to hell because of this? I don't believe so. She is who she is because that is who she is. My grandmother was Catholic. She prayed the rosary faithfully, prayed to saints, knelt before idols in her church. These were her beliefs. Were they the right ones? My sister is Baptist. She goes to church on Sundays, participates in bible study, follows the bible to the exact. Is she right? That's scary, because if she's right, then our grandmother was a major sinner and may not be in the arms of her maker. My best friend believes that in addition to everything the bible says, you must also do works in order to meet the maker. She believes that hell does not exist, and that when you die, you just sleep forever. Which one is right?

Are they all right? Is faith in your beliefs the force that makes what you believe the right one? We all believe that the one we choose is the right choice to make. We pray for those that have made the wrong choice because we know the one we are following is the one that is right, right? And what about all of those other books that were written, but not included when the bible was put together. What about those?

This is frustrating. I have children. I want them to know God, but I want them to make their choices on their own. I don't want them forced into this decision based on what I push at them. But right now, I have yet to find the place where I want to go in order to do this. I don't want them going somewhere that teaches them that men have the ultimate authority, and that what they teach is okay, as long as they know that they can't teach/preach to men because they are women. I don't want them going to a place that condemns those for loving someone built just like themselves. I don't want them going to a place that up until 2o or so years ago, Native Americans and African Americans were considered soulless because they weren't white.

In a world of so much information, sometimes there is just too much information.