Month: January 2008

  • I’ll write this down before I fall asleep again

    I know I said I was going to quit talking about the flu, but I lied. Either the flu has completely drained me of all my energy or I have become a narcoleptic. Not that I really mind, the spontaneous napping creates a nice break in the day. Except for the part where I wake up with someone trying to stick stuff up my nose or in my mouth. And then I have to tell P to quit messing with me and leave me alone.

    Yesterday morning I woke up with a little more energy than I’ve had in the previous week, so I decided it was time to go to HEB since we were out of juiceboxes and Donettes, which according to P and Caroline are household staples. Plus, it’s Caroline’s turn to bring snack to school today and those teachers are so picky and act so put out when you bring in a bag of stale pretzels and a few Hershey kisses leftover from Christmas. I mean, these kids are four, it’s not like they’re expecting gourmet items.

    By the time we found ourselves on the cereal aisle, I was about ready to lay down and take a nap. I can’t believe a normal trip to the store was so tiring. It’s like I’ve developed the physical stamina of a 97 year old woman. And not the ones that do water aerobics at the Assisted Living Facility.

    We finally got home and Caroline was excited because she had scored an orange helium balloon with a sucker attached. Oh, and it had a lollipop on it, too. I let her eat the lollipop even though it was lunchtime because the exhaustion, my word, the exhaustion. I had no will to fight the battle.

    After the lollipop was gone, all that was left was the balloon with a long string attached. While I slipped into a coma-like state on the couch, she entertained herself by letting the balloon float up to the ceiling and then jumping up to grab the string and pull it back down. I don’t know how long this went on because, like I said, I was passed out cold.

    At some point P came in and she talked him into playing the balloon game with her. They were throwing it back and forth, trying to catch it before it could float back up to the ceiling. And that’s when it happened.

    She didn’t catch it in time. It floated back up to the ceiling and then something went awry. I guess the string wasn’t tied around the balloon opening tight enough, but it came undone. We all stared up at the balloon in horror as it slowly deflated and then dropped to the ground like it had been shot.

    Two things happened at that moment. P and I began laughing uncontrollably. Caroline began to scream and cry like I had just set one of her Polly Pockets on fire. It was a scream so unprecedented and so filled with horror that it caused P and I to immediately quit laughing and rush to her side to offer her comfort in this time of balloon loss.

    At least that would have been our reaction if we were normal, caring people. Instead, her over-the-top reaction caused P and I to double over with laughter until we both had tears streaming down our face.

    I have no doubt this will be something she’ll discuss with her therapist some day.

    However, once she saw us laughing and realized her balloon wasn’t permanently damaged, she began to laugh too. And then P took the opportunity to show her the annoying sound you can make by blowing up a balloon and then stretching it out while you let out all the air. Hilarity ensued.

    And the sound of balloon flatulence was enough to keep me awake for the rest of the afternoon.

    It was a precious time.

  • I’ve been mocked by the mocha

    Have I mentioned I’ve had the flu?

    I couldn’t really remember until I looked at my last 15 posts that seem to ramble endlessly about my ill health, so I’m putting you out of your misery and talking about something else.

    Gulley and I usually go to Starbucks every Monday morning after we drop the kids off at school. Neither one of us have ever been serious coffee drinkers, although Gulley did date a boy named Juan Valdez in college.

    That isn’t true at all, but it just made me laugh so I’m leaving it there.

    Anyway, on cold mornings we like a little pick me up in the form of liquid caffeine, and more importantly, to catch up on the events of the previous weekend.

    A few weeks ago, we walked into Starbucks and I ordered my favorite holiday drink, a Grande, Non-fat Peppermint Mocha with no whip.

    I’m embarrassed to say that I feel a sense of pride in having mastered the Starbucks terminology, although I’m sure they are still secretly laughing about the amateurish nature of my order.

    It lacks a certain sophistication and discriminating coffee drinker’s palette.

    Oh, and on a completely different note I once worked for a man that thought it was hysterical to go to Starbucks, walk up to the counter and just tell them he wanted “whatever tastes the most like Folgers”.

    I’m pretty sure they spit in his coffee when he wasn’t looking.

    Anyway, Gulley followed behind me and ordered her standard drink, a Grande Caramel Macchiato.

    As they handed us our drinks, Gulley wondered aloud about the calorie count of her drink and if she wasn’t inadvertently consuming more calories than she realized.

    In a fit of coffee legalism and judgement, I said, “Well, actually, I didn’t want to say anything before but a Caramel Macchiato is pretty much THE WORST thing you can order.”

    “Really?”

    “Oh yeah. If you look at Starbucks.com at the nutritional value, it has, like, the highest calorie count of ALL the drinks.”

    Well, let me tell y’all, do not point out the Caramel Macchiato in your friend’s eye, when you have a Peppermint Mocha in your own.

    I went to Starbucks.com to check it out for myself.

    And yeah, the Peppermint Mocha is pretty much the worst thing you can order.

    Thank you. Thank you very much.

  • Purple haze

    John Boy Walton breaking up with his girlfriend at my dining room table

    Lime green Calphalon cookware with polka-dots

    Rhett Butler moving in next door

    Dale Earnhardt, Jr. shopping at our neighborhood Gap store

    Purple hippos dressed in butterfly costumes

    Paula Deen hosting a cooking show on my back porch

    What do all these things have in common?

    They have all been the subjects of feverish, hallucinatory dreams I’ve had while taking my prescription cough medicine.

    And, if this is any example of what is floating around in my subconscious, WOW.

    It’s a little disturbing.

    I spent the better part of the weekend lying in bed trying to find the will to live or at least the will to get up to go to the bathroom. I don’t know that I’ve ever been as sick as I’ve been the last few days, except for maybe the day I found out that Dr. Phil was getting his own talk show.

    Mimi took Caroline most of the day Thursday and Thursday night. P had her during the day on Friday and then she went back to Mimi and Bop’s to spend the night Friday night. Unfortunately, no good deed goes unpunished and Mimi succumbed to the plague on Saturday morning, so P picked up Caroline and they headed to the ranch.

    In the meantime, I was trying to keep my lungs from seceding from my chest cavity and attempting to breathe through my nose. Both efforts proved mostly futile.

    However, Saturday afternoon, just as I didn’t know if I could go on living, I turned on CMT and “Urban Cowboy” was on. It was better than any prescription medicine. If you haven’t layed around half-drugged, watching Bud and Sissy fall in love, fight, break up, fall in love again, and put their matching license plates back up in the window of his truck, then you’ve missed out on one of the finer things in life.

    But seriously, the scene where Bud describes how you know when your hand “gits broke” is a timeless piece of American cinema. It sustained me in my darkest, cough-filled hour on Saturday.

    I woke up Sunday morning with my head a little clearer, although concerned about why I dreamed about John Boy Walton and his relationship troubles, and discovered that my people were gone. And judging by the fact that “Max and Ruby” was still playing on the T.V. and breakfast was still on the table, it looked like they left in a hurry.

    I was right. They left in a mad dash. Otherwise known as trying to get to church on time when you have a four year old who likes to dress herself.

    I climbed back in bed with the Sunday paper and fell back asleep while checking to make sure my name wasn’t in the obituaries. A short while later I heard P and Caroline walk in the back door, home from church.

    She walked into the bedroom, shirt on backwards, hair unbrushed, mismatched socks, and a jumper that was in desperate need of ironing. God love her.

    And God bless P for just letting her go with it, although I’m a little concerned that her Sunday School teacher may think her Mama’s on drugs.

    Which, I guess technically speaking, I am.

  • According to the “experts” I don’t have the Black Plague

    I finally felt so bad yesterday that I decided I needed to go to the doctor. I called my doctor at 9:00 a.m. and left an urgent message with his nurse letting her know I was pretty sure I had the Black Plague.

    Shortly after leaving that message, I turned on “Gone with the Wind” and slipped in and out of consciousness while watching Rhett and Scarlett. If I didn’t feel so terrible, it would have been like a vacation.

    Around 2:30 p.m. I came back to life and realized the nurse at my regular doctor’s office didn’t feel it was important to call me back, so I decided to go to the Minor Emergency Clinic around the corner.

    I walked in and they asked me what the problem was. I let them know I was pretty sure I had Black Plague and they were all, “Black Plague hasn’t been around since the 14th century”, and I was all, “maybe I’m bringing it back”.

    Anyway, turns out it’s the flu. A very bad case of the flu. But GOOD NEWS. I should feel better in 5-7 days which, with a 4 year old, isn’t inconvenient at all.

    While I was at the doctor waiting for my Black Plague test to come back negative, I found out some disturbing news while reading the Wall Street Journal. Burt Reynolds is 71. SEVENTY-ONE. The Bandit is receiving social security.

    And probably wouldn’t look nearly as cute driving a black Trans-am these days.

    Which, if you think about it, is probably true of most of the population.

    So, yeah. Having the flu stinks and I ache all over. But on the bright side, I have no appetite.

    In fact, last night I made myself the comfort food of my people. Frito Pie made with Hormel chili in a can. Because, canned meat, YUM. And I couldn’t even eat 1/4 of it.

    Flu, BAD. Jump start to losing holiday weight, GOOD.

    It’s all about the silver lining.

    Although P and Caroline did bring me a 14 oz. package of Sour Patch Kids to make me feel better. And if any of y’all want to lecture me about sugar and my immune system, you can save it. Because all I’m going to hear is BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.

    And, finally, one last bright note. Good drugs. I’m about to take them by the multiple spoonfuls to knock myself out for the next 12 hours or so.

    Later, internet.

  • Greetings from the infirmary

    Oh, internet.

    Look away. I am hideous.

    There will be no Fashion Friday today because, well, I have the Black Plague.

    But here’s a fashion tip from Caroline.

    Santa brought her those shoes.

    Christmas morning she took one look at them, slipped them on her feet, and said, “Now that is fashion.”

    I’ll be back when my lungs are no longer engaged in full-fledged mutiny.

    In the meantime, I wouldn’t get too close to your monitor. The Black Plague is highly contagious.

  • I apologize in advance for the amount of random contained here

    Guess what my New Year’s Resolution for the blog is? To be completely lazy and not post on the first day of the year.

    Not really. I blame the pressure. The pressure to write something brilliant and witty to kick off a New Year. I cracked.

    And actually none of that is true. The real story is that I’m changing webhosting services and I believe there were some very technical things going on last night that caused WordPress to not let me in to the inner workings of Big Mama, Inc.

    Or maybe something was just wrong with my computer.

    Either way, TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES.

    Many of y’all have asked how I write my posts every day, so let me walk you through the process. Warning. It’s very involved and intellectually driven.

    Around 9 p.m. every night I sit on the couch next to P with my computer. I check email with the intention of answering it and then get overwhelmed. So I leave the email to go see what is up on People.com. I read a little about Jamie Lynn Spears and once I have lost 134 brain cells or so, I go read some blogs.

    After reading some other blogs, I’ll log into my WordPress account and attempt to write a post. Nothing. I have nothing. I look at P and say, “I have nothing.” He looks at me with a blank look, which doesn’t really help my creative process.

    Then I head back over to People.com because I didn’t finish reading the whole story about whether or not Jennifer Aniston is going to have Vince Vaughn’s baby. The suspense is killing me.

    Finally, armed with a wealth of entertainment news, I make another attempt to write a post. Nothing. I have nothing. So I go answer some emails and go to Youtube to find video clips that make me laugh.

    True story. Last night I actually spent my time on Youtube looking for clips from “That’s Incredible!” and “Real People”. Remember them? I was inspired while watching the Sugar Bowl and seeing Fran Tarkenton’s impressive imitation of Donald Trump’s hair.

    Oh, and the Sugar Bowl. Poor Hawaii. They basically proved that the BCS does, on occasion, know what it’s talking about. And while I still believe in a playoff system for college football, I think we have all learned that an unbeaten record in the WAC doesn’t really translate to any kind of dominance on a national level.

    Hey! That’s an idea for a post. Except most of y’all couldn’t care less and are wondering what the WAC is and how it has anything to do with Fran Tarkenton and “That’s Incredible!”

    Anyway, at 11:00 last night I knew I couldn’t procrastinate anymore and logged into WordPress to write my post. And it wouldn’t let me in. And sure, I could have written a post in Word and then cut and pasted this morning, but that’s not how I roll.

    So, here I am this morning. I’ve already been up and out this morning because P is still sick and needed pancakes from a local Mexican restaurant. Little known fact, Mexican restaurants make the best pancakes. And P had a fever. A fever for more pancakes.

    And basically, I apologize for this entire hot mess of a post. I blame the pressure of the New Year. And WordPress. And my former webhosting service whose name I won’t reveal, but rhymes with ICOWER. They are evil and will put you on hold for over 45 minutes before finally telling you that they cannot help you in anyway whatsoever because all the information concerning your account is private.

    Even though I own the account, IT’S PRIVATE.

    Even though I pay for the hosting, IT’S PRIVATE.

    Which is why I’m switching hosting services.

    And also, why we are all a little frazzled and discombobulated here at Big Mama, Inc. today.

    I promise, barring any technical difficulties, that tomorrow will be better.