Dear Lumberjack . . .

 

Dear Lumberjack,

I would like to submit a complaint. I have heard rumors of people who use these contraptions to heat their homes:

Apparently, all you need to do is turn the knob and the house will magically heat itself.

If the weather outside is frightful, no worries.

This little unit is so smart, it will work even harder to keep us nice and cozy.

Were you not aware of this, Lumberjack?

Because that would mean that this:

is completely unnecessary.

And if that is the case, then we would no longer need to feed and fuel this hungry beast around the clock from October through May.

We would also not need to put the kettle on and keep that full round the clock.

If that beast was not in our home, perhaps we could have room for that massage chair you have always wanted.

 

And if we did not need to heat with wood, and used that cute, clean little unit thingie, then our kids would not be left unattended while you split wood and I stacked the wood.

And our baby would not be covered in fudgesicle goo and screaming because he was abandoned in a dirty exersaucer in the backyard.

And speaking of the backyard, have you seen ours lately?

This is what it looks like when four children are left unattended while the adults sweat and slave away to prepare wood for winter, like prairie folk.

I am not cut out for this kind of life.

This is hard work.

I know you have fantasies of being a lumberjack and all, but I do not share in this passion.

 I got splinters in my pinky fingers and ankles.

I got wood chippings in my eyes three times.

I had to sneak away and take two Aleeve because my body was killing me.

I am pretty sure out of all of my friends, I am the only one who has a 4 wheeler and log splitter set up in her backyard.

I do not suspect that they are jealous.

After all our hard work, there is still more to split.

And I know you are planning on going to get more, you wood glutton, you.

But just think of the pros:

 If we did not heat with wood heat, we would not need a wood splitter, truck, cables, chain saws, axes, splitting mauls, and a CB radio.

We would not need to worry about the pipes freezing if the fire dies out.

 I would not be late everywhere I go because

 a) I forgot to load the fire

 b) I overestimated the size of the log and cannot close the wood stove door

c) I unknowingly got sap all over my hands and ran my fingers through my hair, bringing a whole new meaning to the phrase "bad hair day"

d) I accidentally let the fire die and I must go gather twigs in the yard because I am not strong enough to split kindling.

If we did not heat with wood heat, we would not have to worry about our youngins eating bark and wood chips off the floor.

You would not have to wake up at 4am to go fall a tree and be a lumberjack.

And, finally,  we would not need to wonder what on earth Handsome Dude got all over his shorts tonight while he was left unattended.

Love,

Your Lumberjill

***

Disclaimer:  This is a an old post from August 11, 2009, and is dedicated to my Auntie Datenutloaf who loves it, yet can never find it.

Lumberjill is feeling antsy, worried and blue today . . . this post makes her smile.

Tell me, dear readers . . .

What do you do to help yourself get out of a funk?

***

 

PS-To this day, I still don't know what was on Handsome Dude's shorts.

Grossness.

PPS-My pleas and protests fell upon silent ears . . . we still heat with wood.

PPPS-As long as the stars shine down from the heavens, long as the rivers run to the sea (name that song) . . . my husband will always have a hankering to fall trees.

PPPPS- Is this PS getting excessive? 

PPPPPS- Please notice that this post is single spaced, not double spaced.

PPPPPPS-I have no idea how any of this happens.  I just type a bunch of foolishness out and hit publish.  The formatting has a mind of its own.  Except for centering.

PPPPPPS- I heart centering.  And I don't care who knows it.

 

Happy Tuesday!

Last Valentine's Day

 

Visit www.kellyskornerblog.com for more.

Last year, on February 14th, we received a phone call from my Uncle Greg.

Uncle Greg was staying at my parent's house.

My parents were on a cruise.

The same cruise where this unfortunate photo was snapped:

But that is a story for another day.

"Hello, Taylor?"

"Yes."

"This is your Uncle Greg."

"Hi, Uncle Greg!"

"Is your husband there?  I think the dog died."

Fact:  All peoples from my bloodline do not do animal death. 

We are also ignorant when it comes to routine household maintenance, extreme household maintenance, farming facts, hunting, and mechanics.

Honestly, the only reasons why we keep the Lumberjack around is for his knowledge and bravery in the areas of:

power tools

farm equipment

firearms

vehicle maintenance

basic veterinary skills

mice removal (gross)

bat removal (grosser)

hammers

nails

dirt

and burying dead pets.

I have already shared with you how the Lumberjack had to bury my parent's dog, Joey, not once, but twice.

Was that not the grossest story event out of all events in the history of time?

So, I find my fearless husband and hand him the phone.

"Ok.  You are sure he's dead.  Ok.  Do you want me to come take care of it?  Ok.  I'll be there in 15 minutes."

This Valentine's Day was already off to a super romantic start.

And now, gentle readers, I present to you:

My Conversation with My Handsome Husband Regarding the Removal of my Childhood Dog's Body on that Romantic Valentine's Day

Interruption:  Whenever I post past conversations, people always comment something like this,

"How do you remember these conversations word for word?"

And this is my response:  I carry around a mini-tape recorder everywhere I go.

I am that dedicated to bringing you the facts.

LJ (short for Lumberjack!  Keep up, will ya?):  I gotta go

Me:  What happened to Willy?

LJ:  I don't know.  But he's dead.

Me:  Poor Willy.

LJ:  OK.  I'll be back in about an hour.

Me:  Ok.  What are you going to do?

LJ:  I'm going to take care of it.

Me:  Ok.  But how?

LJ:  Do you really want to know?

Me:  Yes.

Interruption:  That answer was both a lie and a mistake.

LJ:  Fine.  I'm going to take him to the dump.

*GASP!*

Me:  You can't just take a dog to the dump!

LJ:  Sure I can

Me:  No.  You can't.

LJ:  Oh, stop it. 

Me:  People don't just take their dead animals to the dump.  That is so wrong.

LJ:  I have taken plenty of animals to the dump.

*GASP!*

Interruption:  I am beginning to question my reasoning for marrying this man.

Me:  What?!

LJ:  Taylor, stop it.  Do you know how many sheep I have taken to the dump?

Interruption:  Sheep?  Who is this man?  He's actually seen a live (or not-so-alive, but real) sheep before?

Me:  You take sheep to the dump?

Fact:  The Lumberjack is getting quite frustrated with me at this point.

Fact:  The Lumberjack's Wife did some fact checking.  It is perfectly legal to dispose of animals at the dump.

Fact:  Gross.  Sad.  Gross.

LJ:  Ok.  What do you want me to do with Willy?

Me:  Can't you take him to the vet?

LJ:  And what do you think the vet is going to do with him?

Me:  I don't know . . . properly dispose of him?

LJ:  No.  Take him to the dump.  But then you have to pay the vet to do that.  Whereas I will just do it for free.

My whole world is crashing all around me.  The vet takes animals to the dump?

When will the madness end?

Me:  Please don't take him to the dump.

LJ:  What do you want me to do?  Let him rot in your parents house until they come home?

Me:  Please don't say he's going to rot.

LJ:  But he will. This is life.

Me:  This is so wrong.  Just bury him.

LJ:  Um . . . how about you bury him.

Uh-oh.  He's getting sassy now, folks.  Watch out!

Me:  Please.  You know I am not strong like you.

When in doubt, just start flirting.

That's my motto.

LJ:  LOOK OUTSIDE.

Fact:  We were in the middle of one of the worst winters known to man.  Tons and tons and tons of snow and freezing temperatures.  There is no way we would be finding this "so-called" ground.

Me:  Fine.  I just don't want to know anymore.

LJ:  OK.  So, I am going and I will be back in about an hour.

Me:  Ok.  Don't forget to wash your hands!

LJ:  (rolling eyes) Whatever, Taylor.

LJ:  Handsome Dude!  Want to go on a truck ride?

Me:  What?!  You cannot take our almost 2-year-old with you!

LJ:  Why not?

Me:  I don't want him to see you throw a dog away.

LJ:  It's time he learned the facts of life.

Me:  Are you sure he can handle that?

LJ:  I gotta go.

Me:  This is the worst Valentine's Day ever.

LJ:  Can I go now?

Me:  Fine.  Whatever.  Throw away my dog on Valentine's Day.  Sounds great.

LJ:  OK.  See you later.

 

And that concludes the retelling of Valentine's Day 2009.

The End.

A Day in the Life

Handsome Dude's Schedule:

*Wake up, if possible by 5:45am

*Climb out of crib and quickly flip on light to alert Little Dude that morning has broken

*Make as much noise as possible with Little Dude

*Do not be quiet until I receive my morning milk

*Ask Mom where Dad is

*Ask Mom for more milk

*Mom said no

*Cry

*Ask Mom where my glasses are.

*Cry

*Wait until the last minute to tell Mom I need to go potty

*Freak out, dance in place, cry . . . then pee

*Better pee a little on the floor, too

*Ask mom for a t.v. show.  Act manly.  Then, throw a fit when it is not "Barney"

*Sing and dance with Barney

*Sneak upstairs to my sisters' room while mom thinks she is taking a peaceful shower

*Run like a crazy, insane person all around sisters' room

*Knock over their mirror

*Hide from Mom, who is wet and angry

*Ask Mom where Dad is.

*Time for breakfast!

*Feed toast to Mabel from right under the table

*Put leftover's on Little Dude's tray so mom thinks I ate breakfast like a good boy

*Bath time!

*Repeatedly inform Mom, Sweet Pea, Daisy Mae, and Little Dude that I will no longer poopy in the bath

*Time to get dressed!

*Insist that I dress myself

*Put all clothes on backwards

*Refuse help

*Throw a fit

*Demand help

*Pretend to look for glasses

*Tell Mom I don't know where my glasses are

*Get in Mom's truck to take sisters to school

*Ask Mom where Dad is

*Ask Mom if we can take Dad's truck instead

*Insist we listen to "One, Two Buckle My Shoe" the entire ride

*Cry because I can't go to school

*Return home

*Get out every toy I possibly can find

*Decide I need a back rub.  Enlist Little Dude's help.

*Return the favor

*Wait until the last minute to tell Mom I need to go potty

*Freak out, dance in place, cry . . . then pee

*Better pee a little on the floor, too

*Request a snack

*Ask Mom where my glasses are

*Ask Mom where Dad is

*Ask Mom for more snacks

*Cry

*Time to pick up Daisy Mae!  Truck ride!  Woo Hoo!

*Insist we listen to "One, Two Buckle My Shoe" the entire ride

*Back home!  Lunch time!

*Get out of chair and dance with Daisy Mae

*Get in trouble from Mom

*Get out of chair and run with Daisy Mae

*Get in trouble from Mom

*Give food to Little Dude

*Get in trouble from Mom

*Ask Mom where Dad is

*Insist that I wash my face all by myself

*Show Mom how good I did

*Play upstairs in Daisy Mae's room

*Decide I thoroughly enjoy baby dolls now

*Wonder why Mom keeps telling me I need to find my glasses

*Wait until the last minute to tell Mom I need to go potty

*Freak out, dance in place, cry . . . then pee

*Better pee a little on the floor, too

*Demand silence for my sleeping baby

*Remind myself just how manly I truly am

*Request that Little Dude reads me and my awesome baby a book

(Name that book and author)

*Nap Time!  Wonder why Mom is so happy

*Time to wake up

*Protest having to wake up

*Demand after-nap milk

*Get in Mom's truck to pick up Sweet Pea

*Ask Mom if we can take Dad's truck instead.

*Insist we listen to "One, Two Buckle My Shoe" the entire ride

*Return home.  Get out every toy possible.

*Fight with Little Dude over the same truck

*Ask Mom where my glasses are

*Wait until the last minute to tell Mom I need to go potty

*Freak out, dance in place, cry . . . then pee

*Better pee a little on the floor, too

*Run around the house like a crazy, insane person

*Cheer and clap and cheer and clap when I see Dad's work van

*Immediately jump on Dad's back and remain on him for the entire rest of the evening . . .

like so:

*Ask Dad where my glasses are

*Dinner time!  Why does this woman keep insisting that I eat?

*Throw a fit

*Eat

*Throw a fit

*Eat

*Pretend to almost throw up

*Eat

*Help clear the table

*Throw all dishes as hard as I can into the sink

*Play with trucks

*Wait until the last minute to tell Mom I need to go potty

*Freak out, dance in place, cry . . . then pee

*Better pee a little on the floor, too

*Play with trains

*Play with trucks

*Insist I put my pajamas on all by myself

*Put pajamas on backwards

*Refuse help

*Throw a fit

*Demand help

*Brush teeth

*Smear toothpaste on couch

*Kiss everyone good night

*Jump on Dad's back and get a free ride upstairs

*Say prayers

*Good night!

Pretty Sad.

It's pretty sad that I was thrilled to see the number "7" on the clock when I woke up this morning.

Sure.

I've seen numbers like 1:57

and 4:07

But 7:28?

That's unheard of.

It's pretty sad that yesterday, I just could not get my kids occupied so I could do my exercise DVD.

As soon as it started, Handsome Dude woke up.

5 minutes into it, he was crying because the girls were outside and he wanted to play, too.

7 minutes into it, Sweet Pea, had to go to the bathroom.

10 minutes into it, Sweet Pea and the neighbor girl were spying at me from the window and laughing at the site of me doing some horrific exercise called "plank jacks."

I have come to the conclusion that Jillian Michael is insane.

I do, however, like the name Jillian.

It's lovely.

12 minutes into it, the girls came in.

13 minutes into it, I sent the girls upstairs to clean their room.

13.5 minutes into it, Little Dude woke up.

13.75 minutes into it, Handsome Dude snuck upstairs to "help" clean the girls' room.

15 minutes into it, Sweet Pea and Daisy Mae are yelling that Handsome Dude has taken all the clothes out of their closet and is hanging from the closet rod.

It's pretty sad that I could only work out for 15 minutes.

It's pretty sad that the DVD is only 20 minutes and I didn't finish it.

It's pretty sad the girls were not exaggerating and Handsome Dude did, in fact, take out every single item from their closet.

It's pretty sad that the reason I could not do my exercise dvd at my regularly scheduled time because I had both a dermatologist appointment and a gynecologist appointment yesterday.

It's pretty sad how uncoordinated my daughter Daisy Mae is.

My friend, Bimlissa and I took 5 children to the local skating rink.

100 (meaningless) points to anyone who can remember why she is called Bimlissa.

Who has been reading this blog that long?

Who is actually paying attention?

Anyone?

Anyone?

Hmmmm . . . .

Am I talking to myself?

Here are 3 of the girls we took with us on our skating adventure.

From left to right: Sweet Pea, Daisy Mae, and Cute-Little-Red-Head-Friend.

Cute-Little-Red-Head-Friend was by far the most advanced skater.

Sweet Pea did fairly well.

But Daisy Mae . . .

was having issues.

Poor Daisy Mae.

Careful, Daisy Mae!

Oops!

Are you good?

Oooh.  That's gonna leave a mark.

(Name that movie)

Daisy Mae.

Do not, I repeat, do not skate against the current.

It will only end in disaster.

Told ya.

Hi, Pumpkin!

Are you having a good time?

It's pretty sad that this little guy from our group was not having fun at all.

Not one bit.

But he had a good attitude, bless his heart.

It's pretty sad that they had a game called "Hitchhiker's Couples Skate."

All the girls had to line up against the wall and stick their thumbs out like hitchhikers.

Boys were supposed to skate by and "pick them up."

Daisy Mae and Cute-Little-Red-Head Friend stood their with their thumbs out the entire time and not one boy, I repeat, not one boy picked either of them up.

Yet, there they stood.

With their thumbs out.

Boo, local skating rink.

Boo.

Breaks my heart.

It's pretty sad that today I have to wear a swimsuit.

In January.

Yes.

I am going to a pool party.

Jealous?

And finally . . . .

It's pretty sad that, for the first time in many days, I actually stayed within my points range last night, only to attack a pan of brownies at 10:38pm.

I mean, really.

Who needs brownies at that hour?

Oh, well.

There's always tomorrow.

Later, dudes!

A Monday Story for You

I would like to dedicate this post to my friend, Lani.

For without her and my delightful conversation with her yesterday, I would have never remembered this horrific, yet painfully true,  tale to tell you.

Everyone say, "Hi, Lani!"

Lani is pregnant with her 5th child.

Let's all give Lani a round of applause.

Okie -dokie, here we go:

When I was pregnant with my fourth child, who is presently known as Little Dude, I began having irregular heartbeats.

Interruption:  In a earlier post, I blamed my pregnancy-related heart issues on Handsome Dude.

I fear I made a mistake.

It happens.

Handsome Dude:  please forgive me.

In order for the doctor to decide what was going on with my heart, I had to wear a 24 hour heart monitor.

Now, this was a treat.

First, I got to join a really unfriendly nurse in a very bright exam room where she proceeded to rip open my shirt and place electrodes all over my chest.

Awkward.

Next, I got to carry around this box-thingie.

Whenever my heart was doing it's freaky thing, I would have to push the button.

I looked . . . ridiculous.

Let me set up the scene for you:

*I am pregnant for the 4th time in 5 years

*I am really, really, really large

*I have varicose veins

*I am cranky

*I am uncomfortable

*I am large

In short, I do not feel glamorous.

My husband comes homes.

Let me all remind you of him:

*He is the love of my life

*He is the one who is supposed to make me feel beautiful

*He is the one who is supposed to make everything okay

*He is the one who supports me no matter what

Now, what do you suppose my husband, the man I have been married to at this point for almost 8 years, is going to say when he sees his wife wearing a heart monitor?

Is he concerned?

Is he worried?

Is he encouraging?

No.

And without further ado, I present to you:

His Statement.

The Lumberjack:  Dude! (yes, he calls me dude.  charming, huh?)  Did they have to shave your chest?

****************

I gurantee you that none of you have had a more embarassing moment with your husband than I had with my husband on that very tragic day.

I have been pregnant for 40 months of my life.

I am not planning on being pregnant for any more.

How many months have you been pregnant?

PS- I do not have chest hair.

A Weekend Story for You.

Welcome to everyone from Kelly's Korner!

I don't have any personal collections myself, but this is a story about an unwelcome collection of my husband's.

Read through it all and it will make sense.

This is just to make you smile, as it would not be considered a true collection.

Happy Friday!

***

 

The year was 2002.

The time was 7am.

I was about 7 weeks pregnant with my first child.  I woke up sick, as usual.

I was young.  I was new to this whole "pregnancy" thing.  I honestly had no idea what I was doing.  I was already going against the advice I had gotten from others:

1)  Don't drink caffeine. (I had about a cup of coffee a day)

2)  Don't gain more than 3-5 pounds in the first trimester. (I already gained 10 pounds.  It was sad, really.)

3)  Don't stand by microwaves. (Seriously.  Is that one for real?)

4)  Don't tell anyone you are pregnant until you are at least 12 weeks along. (I told everyone and their mothers within 15 seconds of taking the pregnancy test.)

The Lumberjack had already woken up and left for work.

I was all alone.

I went to the bathroom.

As I turned to flush, I noticed something foreign floating in the water.

As I stared at it, tears filled my eyes, and I knew instantly what it was:  my baby.

I was devastated.

And mad.

Mad at myself for drinking caffeine.  Mad at myself for eating too much.  Mad at myself for microwaving popcorn. And mad at myself for telling people.

But mostly, I was truly devastated.

I stared and stared at it, horrified at how easy it was to just lose a baby.

I knew a girl who had a miscarriage a few months before that.  The doctor had told her to bring the baby in so they could look at it.  So, I figured my doctor would want to look at mine.  I took a clear, plastic cup and fished it out of the toilet.

Then, I sat it on the counter.

And I stared at it.

I called my mom.

Mom:  Hi!

Me:  I lost the baby.

Mom:  What?  How?

Me:  (crying) I don't know.  It just came out.  In the toilet.

Mom:  Are you sure it was the baby?

Me:  Well, what else could come out of me?  Something came out of me.  Something was in the toilet.

Mom:  Call the doctor.

Me:  I did, but they aren't open yet.  I have to wait until 9am.

Mom:  Ok.  Call the doctor at 9am and then call me.

The time dragged on.  I stared at the little object, trying to make out what I was seeing.  At one angle, I was sure I saw a spinal cord.

Finally, the time came to call the doctor's office.

The receptionist put me through to a nurse right away.

Me:  I think I had a miscarriage.

Nurse:  I'm sorry, hon.  Tell me what happened.

Me:  Well, I woke up this morning and I went to the bathroom.  And after I went, I saw it floating in the toilet.

Nurse: Hmmm . . . ok.  Is this your first pregnancy?

Me:  Yes.

Nurse: Ok. Can you describe "it" to me?

Me:  Sure.  It is bluish-gray.  And it is kind of fuzzy, almost like lint or something.

Nurse:  Interesting.  Sweetie, do you think what you saw in the toilet could actually be lint?

Me:  Well, I don't think so.  Do people normally pee out lint?

Seriously.  This nurse is insane.

Nurse:  *sigh* No, hon.  Sweetie, are you in any kind of pain?

Me:  Nope.  I just feel nauseous.

Nurse:  Bleeding or cramping?

Me:  No.

Nurse: Ok, hon.  Why don't you just call us back if any more comes out of you?

Ok, I am certain I hear a chuckle in her voice.  She is making me very angry. 

Me:  You don't need to check me out or anything?

Nurse:  No, hon.  I think you are fine.  Just call us in a bit.

I stare at the object and cry and sob.

I am mad at that nurse for not believing me.

I am mad that she was laughing at me.

And now, I am quite perplexed because the object has slightly disintegrated in the yellowish water and become two objects.

I guess it does kind of look like lint.

But how could that be?

And then . . . it hit me.

The Lumberjack.

Everyday, when he wakes up, he has a huge wad of belly button lint.

Everyday.

Without fail.

Gross.

100 (meaningless) points to anyone who can tell me why.

I have never in my life had any bit of belly button lint.

I decide it is time to give my husband a call.

You might be wondering why I haven't called him yet, seeing as how I fear I have just lost my baby.

My husband does NOT like phone calls and he does NOT like getting phone calls while he is crawling through tiny crawl spaces, hanging from ladders, and getting electrocuted.

Yes.

My husband gets electrocuted regularly.

I wonder if he is any good at this electrical business?

The Lumberjack: What's up?

I can barely hear him over the hammers, drills, and blaring music.

Me:  I have a very important question for you.

The Lumberjack:  What?

Great.  He is already annoyed.

Me:  When you woke up this morning, what did you do with your belly button lint?

The Lumberjack: What?!

Me:  Your belly button lint!  What did you do with it?

The Lumberjack:  I don't know!  I think I threw it in the toilet. 

Oh, my.

Me:  Can you please do me a favor and flush next time?

The Lumberjack:  Sure.  I really gotta go, Taylor.

*****

I am happy to report that

A) I did not have a miscarriage

B) I do not pee out lint

C) The Lumberjack still remained married to me after that ridiculous phone call

D) The Lumberjack still, to this day, has belly button lint.

E)  I still don't have belly button lint.

The End.

28 Days

(Name the actress in that movie)

In approximately 28 days, my dashing Lumberjack and I will be driving the fab four to my parents house where we will be leaving them for 8 full and glorious days while we, my main man and I, hop on a plane and fly to Cancun.

No.

I am not kidding.

Yes.

I can't believe it either.

So, two days ago, when this post could have been renamed 30 days, I got a hankering to participate in this:

Now, I have never seen this so-called "Biggest Loser."

I don't know how Jillian Michael's is.

But, I'll tell you this:  I am not fond of her.

Why?

Because she makes my arms feel like Jell-O, that's why.

And who does push-ups anymore?

Honestly.

But I have committed to doing this each and every day until I leave for my fabulous and glorious kid-free, sun-filled trip.

Interruption:  I will most likely be heartbroken and missing my monsters by day three.  But days 1-2 should be fun.

Now, I am convinced that there is some mysterious, evil power attempting to thwart my fitness goals.

Allow me to explain:

1)  I wake up at 5:40 am to do this torturous video.  Yet, if I wake up that early, so does Little Dude.  He's cruel like that. Therefore, I must wait until nap time.

2)  Daisy Mae no longer naps.  So Daisy Mae, who is my BFF and extremely chatty,  will be joining me and Ms. Michael's.

3)  I put the DVD in the DVD player.  On this DVD, there are 3 different workout episodes.  So, if one were to want to pick one, one  would need to use a remote. 

Yes.

That might seem like a simple task.

But not for us.

Our remote has been missing since March 28, 2009.

Yes.

I am certain on that exact date.

So,  there is no way for me to choose a workout.

4)  Don't lose heart! 

I do not let that deter me.

I remember we have a laptop with a handy DVD playing function.

So, Daisy Mae and I  reverse gears and we switch to laptop mode.

5)  Our brand new laptop is irritating me.  The speakers only work when they choose to work.

Why?

I do not know.

And, no.

My volume was not muted.

I am smart enough to know that.

But that's  it.

I firmly believe that for $700, this computer should be at peak performance 100% of the time.

Guess when they decide to not work.

So, I get to stare at Jillian and attempt to read her lips as she shares with me vital information on how I will get the body of my dreams.

6)  While I am jumping all around and looking like a dork, Daisy Mae, is jumping around alongside me.  Since I am using weights, she feels she needs weights.

I don't have weights for my 5-year-old.

So I give her a can of green beans and a can of corn.

Daisy Mae is extremely uncoordinated and she almost throws the can of green beans at the laptop.

That would have been unfortunate.

Daisy Mae is also extremely chatty.

So, instead of Ms. Michael's helpful tips, I get to listen to Daisy Mae.

"Mom, do you want to look like her?"

"Mom, how do you look like her?"

"Mom, are you doing this cause you are so chubs?"

"Mom, I'm thirsty."

"Mom, I'm hungry."

Interruption:  I am hungry, too.  I am always in the mood to eat.

"Mom, I'm hot."

"Mom, can we watch something else?"

"Mom, is this how you are going to lose the tummy chubs?"

And as she says that, she begins to poke at my belly fat.

Ah, the joys of motherhood.

7)  I am now 11 exhausting minutes into this dreadful DVD when, it stops.

It just stops.

It's like it has a skip or something.

And when it corrects itself, it jumps to the end, so I am missing like 8 minutes of what I am sure is necessary calisthenics that will give me the body I deserve.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am now frustrated.

And still chubby.

So.

Here is my question.

Does anyone know how to repair a DVD?

Any home tricks?

Because I am on a timeline here.

And Jillian says right on the DVD cover that I could lose up to 20 pounds in 30 days.

And that is just amazing.

Help.

Six years.

On Tuesday night, I fulfilled one of the resolutions I made for 2010.

I went . . . to the dentist.

Now, in school, I was always striving for A's.

Yes.

I was one of those kids.

An "A-" made me nauseous.

That was so dangerously close to . . . *gasp* a "B."

When I was a child, my mother would take me, my brother, and sister to the dentist.  At the end, we would each get a report card.  My sister and I usually got "A's" . . . cause we're awesome like that.

My brother usually got "D"s.

Foolish boy.

Getting an "A" on my 6-month dental check up became extremely important to me.

Because I had nothing cooler to think about.

Fact:  The Lumberjack's Wife weighed 10 pounds more than she does now when she was in school.

Fact:  The Lumberjack's Wife was never invited to a party with alcohol growing up.

Fact:  The Lumberjack's Wife was never offered a cigarette.

Fact:  The Lumberjack's Wife contemplated breaking up with The Lumberjack when he told her he had participated in underaged drinking.

Fact:  The Lumberjack's Wife's parents, who read this blog upon occasion, are most likely horrified to read the above fact.

Back in January of 2004, when I was pregnant with Daisy Mae, I went to the dentist.

And, per usual, I received an A+ report card and was cavity free.

Thank you very much.

But, alas.

My dentist retired.

Our insurance became not so great.

And I gave birth three more times.

And gosh darn it, I have not been back to the dentist since.

Yes.

That would be 6 years.

So, I was a little nervous walking into this new dentist office on Tuesday.

I walk in.

I am greeted.

The greeter/receptionist gives me a complete and detailed tour.

Why?

I'm not sure.

But it was both lovely and informative.

Then she sits me down in a fancy-schmancy conference room, where she offers me water or juice.

*Ahem*

Is not juice bad for the teeth?

Thoughts?

She leaves me.

And I am waiting for awhile . . . and I am extremely nervous.

What if I have broken my perfect record?

What if I have . . .  a cavity?

So, I begin to worry.

Then, they make me wait so long that I have to use the bathroom.

My bladder only has a 1 1/2 hour lifespan max.

4 kids . . . what can I say?

I wash my hands, but I cannot find the paper towels.

I decide I don't care and I head back to the conference room . . . where the doctor is waiting for me.

And he wants to shake my hand.

Which is really wet.

Fact:  The Lumberjack's Wife is 100% certain she completely freaked out the dentist with her wet hands.

"Hello . . . blah, blah, blah . . . .are you taking any medications . . . . blah, blah, blah . . . . when was your last cleaning?"

Both the dentist and his lovely assistant raise their eyebrows.

"Six years?!  Hmmmm . . . ok."

I laugh nervously and tell them my husband hasn't been in over ten years because, for some odd reason, I feel that will make me look better.

So, I am done chit chatting with the dentist and I am taken back with his lovely, young, skinny, and certain-to-have-never-birthed-a-baby-nor-missed-a-6-month-dental-check-up assistant.

"Ok.  I am going to first take your picture."

So, she lines me up against this wall and puts this digital camera about 4 inches away from my face.

I ask her if she wants me to smile.

"Um, sure if you want."

Why is she taking my picture then?  Isn't she only interested in my teeth?"

She takes the picture.

She laughs.

"Sorry.  Your eyes look funny.  Let's try again."

Yes.

I always take pictures like this:

It's what I do best.

She takes a few, while smirking I might add, and finally decides on one where my eyes are only about half-closed.

Then she takes some x-rays of me while I am standing up.

And I am becoming more and more certain that she is laughing at me.

Every time I see her, she is looking at someone else, and smirking and laughing.

I think she thinks I am gross.

Because I haven't been to the dentist in 6 years.

And, yes. 

It is gross.

But, I am here, and that should count for something.

So, then she makes me lay down and gets ready to take x-rays of me while laying down.

She is thorough.

She gets me all set up and then stares at my tummy regions.

"Wait.  You're not pregnant are you?"

sigh

Silly, skinny, young girl who knows nothing about muffin tops caused by 4 children.

Fact:  The Lumberjack's Wife vaguely remembers having tummy fat before having children.

Fact:  The Lumberjack's Wife finds having 4 children a convenient way to blame said tummy fat.

"Nope."

"Oh, good!"

Then she takes more x-rays and continues to laugh at me to some mysterious other person whom I cannot see.

Is it whom or who?

100 (meaningless) points to whoever/whomever can correct my grammar.

The dentist comes back in.

I hope he has forgiven me for my gross, wet bathroom hands.

He looks at my x-rays.

"Hmmm . . . ."

He looks at each  individual tooth.

"Hmmm . . . "

He's going to tell me I have a cavity.

I just know it.

This is going to be devastating.

"Well . . . I can't seem to find anything wrong here with your teeth.  Everything looks great, except of course, they really need a cleaning."

Yes.

I am aware.

We have already established how gross I am.

Thank you.

Next, the cute and smirky assistant offers me the remote.

But who can watch tv at a time like this?

The hygenist, aka the poor soul who has to "clean that disgusting girl who hasn't been to the dentist in six years teeth" comes in.

She tells me I can watch tv.

I don't want to watch tv.

She gets started, then stops and reminds me that I can watch tv.

Fine.

I will watch tv.

They probably want me distracted so they can laugh about how gross my teeth are.

She finishes up.

"Well, they weren't too bad for someone who hasn't been in for six years."

Ha!

Redemption.

Then the cute assistant comes back in.

Her job is to now floss me.

Weird.

Then, before she even lets me get out of the exam chair, she makes me schedule my next 6-month exam.

*sigh*

I am not that gross, am I?

And that was my trip to the dentist.

Does everyone else in the world go to the dentist regularly?

Fess up.

Tell me how long it has been since you have been to the dentist.

Oh, pardon me.

Ok.

Yesterday, I wrote out a charming letter to my handsome dude who peed all over himself at 8:51 am.

At the end of that post, I added a picture of my handsome dude moments after he was born.

I received several comments saying that I looked too good for having just had a baby.

And, yes.

Handsome Dude was my easiest delivery.

But Handsome Dude owed it to me.

Let's look at the facts:

1)  He was 9 days overdue.

2)  With him, I developed a heart murmur.

3)  With him I gained 50 pounds (ok . . . I gained 50 pounds with each of them)

4)  With him, I developed varicose veins.

5)  He was my biggest baby: 9 pounds 2 oz

6)  He has been caught throwing dog poo at his sisters

7)  He sprays himself with pee. 

8)  He freaks out when pee is on himself.

9)  He is always breaking his glasses.

10)  He is always losing his glasses.

Do you see what I mean?

The kid had to give me something.

Now, I can't have you all thinking that I look good being pregnant or giving birth.

For that is far, far, far from the truth.

And now, gentle readers, I will take you back in time, beginning with my first pregnancy.

Interruption:  I no longer have a scanner. 

Yes.

I am simply taking pictures of old pictures.

Classy, I know.

Whoa, Nelly!

That's right after my first was born.

Yes.

My stomach still looks huge.

It also looks huge in this picture:

But, I assure you.

There is no baby in there.

That's just the aftermath.

This is a picture of yours truly while pregnant:

Yowsers!

And how about this one, which was taken the day before Sweet Pea was born:

Wow.

I look . . . trim.

And nothing says, "I just had a baby and I need to get started on losing this 50 pounds" like . . .

eating double portions for lunch hours after you had the baby.

Now, here I am moments after giving birth to Daisy Mae.

What is with my eyes?

I mean, I know child-birth can be exerting . . . but why would it cause my eyes to blacken so?

I already showed you the birth picture with Handsome Dude.

Here is the picture with Little Dude:

He's around there somewhere.

I am probably nursing or something.

I loathe nursing.

The Lumberjack knows this.

Which is precisely why he took a picture of me nursing.

So, now, because I enjoy revenge,  I will show you some of the Lumberjack's moments as a new father:

Sleeping.

This was way back in the olden days when I had no idea my Lumberjack was a Lumberjack.

Actually, he is not technically a Lumberjack at all.

He is, in fact, an electrician.

Should I change the name of this blog?

Sleeping.

Sleeping.

Looks like he cut himself on his left eye.

What does he do at work exactly?

Does he not look overjoyed?

The Lumberjack with Little Dude.

He doesn't look happy.

But inside, he is joyous as he is certain this is our last child.

Do you see the scar above his right eye?

What does this man do every day?

Electrical work . . . it's a dangerous job.

Who knew?

And here are a few more pictures to dazzle you:

Oh, dear.

Ahhh . . .  the glory days when I just had two girls and did not have to worry about potty training a little boy and his little unit.

Handsome Dude at 1 week old.

Just look at him.

Sure.

He looks sweet.

But inside he is just waiting . . . waiting to get bigger . . . and busier . . . and naughtier . . . and more stubborn . . . and much  more mischievious . . .

and much more handsome.

Dear Handsome Dude,

While I am proud of you, my dear son, for mastering the potty in a fairly reasonable amount of time, I do have a bit advice for you, now that you are regularly using the toilet.

When you are eliminating waste products into the toilet, please make sure your unit is pointed downward, leaving plenty of room for the waste product to enter the toilet bowl.

Do not close your tiny thighs.

They will get splashed.

Do not keep your underwear pulled up so high.

It will get splashed.

And please.

Please.

Please refrain from clasping your entire little unit in your little hand while urinating.

And if that happens, my dear Handsome Dude, please refrain from screaming as you watch the waste product spray all over your hands.

Do not keep peeing and screaming and soak your shirt.

Do not freak out because your shirt is now soaked.

Do not run in place and scream for fear of the pee pee that is on your little hands, tummy, and thighs.

Thank you.

But I have one more request.

If you must choose to freak out and pee all over yourself, could you please try and not do so at 8:51 am.

For you see, my dear boy, your sisters' school starts at 8:55am.

And we are late.

Every.

Single.

Day.

I would appreciate your help in making our mornings "yell-free."

Thank you,

Mom

P.S.-I love you Handsome Dude.

  You are growing up too fast.