Woids Fail Me

I've been struggling with bursitis in my right knee for a few weeks--it's improved markedly, thanks to this amazing product:

That's a Smart Temp Reusable Hot/Cold Pack, and holy cow!  I asked hubby to pick up some Icy Hot or something on that order, but he came home with this, and I couldn't be more glad.  I use it as an ice pack--it straps in place, it molds to the knee (or whatever body part), and it works like a dream.  If you've got joint problems, a sore back, arthritis, bursitis, or any injury that requires heat, cold, or alternating, this is the thing! Seriously, and it's CHEAP, too.  Check out my review here:  

SMART TEMP HOT/COLD PAD: TOOK THE SMARTS RIGHT OUT OF MY KNEE!

I can't recommend this hot/cold pack highly enough.  For a measly 12 bucks, it's done more for my pain than steroids, NSAIDs, and PT combined.  Give it a shot, you won't be sorry.  Use my link to do so, make us both happy!

I'm "working" for a new writing site--Veryhelpful.net.  Basically moderating, doing spam control, etc.  No pay yet, but I'm hopeful.  It's a terrific site, the gentleman who put it together is marvelous.

And that's about all.  Hoping to visit a few cemeteries out west of here next weekend.  Supposed to be over 80 degrees, so I'm not sure how much fun it's going to be, but we'll see.


Oh, did I tell y'all about the goats at the last cemetery?  One of them fell utterly in love with our boy--followed him everywhere, it was beautiful.  Here's the goat (a girl) who loved our boy:

And here's her pal, Ben, who was jealous of anyone who paid her attention:

An update here:  the landlord is booting us, has given us 60 days notice to vacate.  This isn't an eviction--he says we're the best tenants he's ever had, has offered a glowing reference.  But he's selling, and he needs us out so he can do that.  Which leaves us utterly screwed and possibly facing homelessness.  Truly.  So please.

Please.

Zombies, Vampires, and Chicken Selects

The past few days, my blog hits have surged.  I know, "surged" is actually a strong term, but when you go from 30-40 hits a day to over a hundred, that's a surge.  Ever curious as to who's getting here and how (if y'all would leave more comments, I'd have an easier time figuring that one out), I took a look at my detailed stats.  Most of my traffic sources look pretty benign--Google, yahoo, a few other blogs where I've left comments or I'm following.

But then there were two whose very names sound anything but benign.  Vampirestat and Zombiestat.

Don't they sound absolutely malevolent?  Yeah, I thought so, too, so instead of CLICKING on them, I did a websearch ABOUT them.  I found a very helpful piece at Spam Spoiler detailing who these malicious-sounding visitors are and what, if anything, they mean.

Practical upshot?  They don't mean anything, but don't click back.

Took Charlie to the clinic for his annual shots and a totally unnecessary heartworm test.  Test negative, shots given, and, once again, Charlie reminds us that he needs some professional training. He's great with people, he loves everyone, he's happy and tail waggy yet obedient and good.  It's other dogs.  Charlie's not so good with them.  Usually, he's good with them if he can get in close EARLY ON and say "hi."  All curvy body and happy wags.  But if he can't get close?  The barking starts.  And sometimes?  The growling and snarling.  I tie this back a lousy experience at a dog park where Charlie got his behind kicked by a much larger dog that wouldn't back off him.  He got hurt, and then he got cornered, and finally he exploded into a blur of teeth and screams.  To his credit, he did everything he could to get away from the dog, and we did everything we could to get the larger dog away from him.  It was a mess, and after that, Charlie's been very wary and iffy about larger dogs.  It didn't help that, a few minutes earlier, Charlie had been very friendly with a nasty chihuahua mix who had gotten incredibly aggressive and scary with him.  There are places around here (not Petsmart!) that offer training geared to dogs who have issues with other dogs.  We're just going to have to bite the bullet and make that investment.

Charlie with a dog park friend named Charley

Came across an article tonight about McDonald's and their flagging sales.  In an attempt to improve things, McD's is ditching their Chicken Selects and considering doing away with their Angus Burgers.  Now, we used to eat a lot of McDonalds back in the day.  In fact, when our boy was very small, we had to refer to it as "The Scottish Restaurant" in conversation, else he'd start screaming that he wanted to go.  Before you peg us gawdawful parents, understand he hated their food.  He wouldn't touch those McNuggets or any other meat product there.  He would eat a small order of fries and drink a small juice.  He was in it for the Playland.

Not exactly "our" Playland, but very close

Our boy would spend as many hours as we would allow him in Playland.  The ball pit, the tunnels, the slides.  Even the rope-climbing hill in back that brought you to the higher levels (understand, he was terrified of any height where he could see the ground through mesh or grid).  That rope hill played an integral part of me almost getting the daylights beaten out of me by some guy whose wayyyy-too-big-to-be-in-Playland daughter had kicked my then-three year-old down from the top, and maybe someday I'll tell that tale.  For now, suffice to say that our boy was hooked, and any attempt to get him to leave was met with screaming, kicking, and all-around freaking out.   Hence "The Scottish Restaurant."

Anyway, the article!  I found it funny that those are the two menu items they're looking to nuke because those are the only two menu items we ever buy.  Understand, we haven't been to a McDonald's since we grabbed a cup of coffee and two sodas at Air and Space back in October of 2011 or so.  Makes me wonder--did our lack of patronage actually affect them?  Or is it a sign that now there's REALLY no reason to go to McDonald's?

Having Wegmans bologna and provolone sandwiches tonight on my low carb/low cal bread.  With spinach, mixed veggies, and salad.  I'm down 13 pounds last month.  If I can pull this off, it'll be the first time I've ever caught a "regain" in mid-swing and turned it around.  The grief of knowing that, had I stayed on track, I'd be 130 lbs lighter?  I need to not go there.  Wayyy too painful.  So I need to focus on the fact that, even with the screw-up, I'm 112 lbs lighter than I was three years ago.

That's something.  I can still grocery shop without a motorized cart.  THAT'S something.  I can still sleep on my side.  THAT'S something.  And my blood sugar and apnea are still good.  And THAT is a lot.  I'm going to work from there.

I managed to make my doctors' appointments for the same day next month.  Scared those petty dullwits in Congress will put my husband out of work by shutting down the government.  Then won't I feel stupid dropping those bucks on copays when we can't buy groceries?

Dang.

There was more, but I've forgotten.  Isn't that par for the course.

Do not reprint without permission. © KAQ

Back in the Saddle Again

Well, that's it--I've fired up the MyFitnessPal again and started keeping track-even if I go over.  That's what worked for me just last year--not just keeping track on the days I was "good," but keeping track no matter what, with brutal honesty.  Today I'm over by 187 calories, and that's going to be okay.  So long as I kept track. 

That really was the trick--I lost 180 + lbs just doing that--keeping track.  But then I stopped losing, even though I was keeping track, even though I was still exercising.  It wasn't the first plateau I'd hit, but it was the one that brought me down.  To my credit, it took almost five months of not losing anything for me to start slipping.  I kept telling myself that the loss didn't matter, it's about being healthy.  And while that SHOULD be true, fact is, it's both, because I still FEEL really good, but I've gained back fifty pounds.  I can still walk four hours at Mt. Vernon or hike up a steep hillside at Ft. Washington and not have my back scream and cry at me.  But it's going to.  If I keep this up, I'm going to wind up housebound again, just like I was. 

The back pain, while absolutely exacerbated by weight, was a problem even when I was thin.  In fact, at 130 lbs, it nearly trapped me in the Grand Canyon after a day hike most of the way in.  It's the result of a series of back injuries when I was a kid, culminating in a spectacular car accident in 1993 that blasted out disks and shredded muscle and tendons.  So the back is a disaster no matter what, but it's a more debilitating disaster the heavier I am.  Before I started losing weight, I was seriously considering a wheel chair.  Making it from the apartment door to the car (about 100 yards) was devastating to me.  I was breathless, and the pain in my back, hip, and into the right leg was so bad I wasn't really even walking--I was just soldiering through and throwing that leg forward. 

And then I wasn't.  Then I was spending five or six hours on my feet, walking through DC, checking out museums, strolling from monument to monument, or hiking around all day in Rock Creek Park.  Suddenly I was able to be the mom to my son I had always wanted to be.

And now I'm blowing that all to hell.  I feel like the poor guy from "Flowers for Algernon." 

No way.  That cannot happen.  But it is.  The other night, my feet blew up like balloons.  Not as bad as they used to, but there it was.  Yeah, I'd had a lot of sodium.  That needs to stop, too.

So today, I keep track.  Today, I am mindful of what I'm putting in my mouth.  Even if it doesn't stop me from doing it, I am mindful.  I will keep track. 

And tomorrow?  I will do the same

Because I Don't Cry Enough

Came across this today on Facebook.  It's a meaningful piece, a worthwhile piece, and, maybe, even a true piece.  For you.

For me?  It's beyond me.  I am broken. 

I have never felt beautiful.  Not since I was a little girl in toe shoes in Ft. Lee, Virginia--that was the last time I felt pretty. 

Me, Beautiful

My weight shot up when I was seven years old or so, and that was the end of me and beauty. I tried.  I did, I worked and worked.  I tried every diet, every exercise scheme, but my weight was beyond me.  My parents sent me such mixed messages--when they weren't ridiculing me for trying to diet, they were ridiculing me for being overweight.

When I was in fourth grade, my father, after making my life hell because I wasn't grasping the nuances of long division, told me that there are few "truly ugly people" in the world, and that, sadly, I was one of them. He said that I needed to work on my brain, I needed to be smarter than smart, because no man was ever going to want me for the way I looked. Considering this was the guy who handed me a fork, snorted at me, and offered to take my "fat ass" to the dump so I could have all the food I wanted, you'd think I'd have given his opinion a little less weight. But, hey, how could I? I was a kid. This was my dad.

Me, at around my "take a fork
 and feast at the dump" stage



Me at 13 years old

When I was 15, I'd had enough.  Enough of having the Jeff Abbots of the world tell me to get my "lard ass" off his Mustang.  Enough of being the girl who winds up alone while her friends find dates.  Enough of wearing shapeless, ugly clothing and being called names like "garbage gut" and "fat-ass."  I stopped eating.  Just stopped.  Told myself I had six months to get thin or end myself.  I dropped 135 lbs in six months. 

No kidding.

And was I beautiful then?

No.  No, I thought my legs were short, my knees and thighs were chunky, my rib cage broad.  Even in size one jeans, I felt I was awful.  I had stretch marks and crinkly skin and I saw myself as just horrible.  My dream of looking like the pretty brunette in the Playboy college layout? 

Dashed. 

Me, at 17

Again at 17

I kept that weight off for almost eight years, but I spent every moment feeling like a fraud.  Like I was just a hanger for clothing, a canvas for makeup, but if anyone could see beneath those things, they'd know how ugly I really was.  Then the pounds came piling viciously back on when I was 23.  I gained it all back, plus another 30-40 lbs. 

28 years old, after the second big weight loss

And then, at 27, I lost that weight, too. 

Only kept it off for a year before it came back again.  With 60 or so of its friends.

And I never did find "beautiful."

The devastating thing?  Sorting through old photos when packing to move, I came across two pictures of myself.  From early college days, when I had first met my ex-husband.  I was sitting at about 120 lbs, hated myself for being "fat."  Hated my "hawk" nose and my "crossed" eyes.  One problem?

None of those things were true.  I was beautiful.  I mean really beautiful.  I was lovely.  Lovely in a way my 47-year-old self can never hope to be again.  My skin was gorgeous, my hair was thick and natural.  But I had no idea.  I focused on every little flaw, every speck of "ugly," and never got past those things.  Until it was far too late.  I pored over those photos and I cried.



Note the "please don't
take my picture" expression.

21 or 22 years old, with 2nd husband

When I was 18, my first husband rode me about my weight--see, I'd gained enough weight to go from a size ONE to a size THREE, and, as far as he was concerned, that made me a tub of lard, and he never let me forget it.

My second husband?

He told me I was beautiful.  He told me that all the time.  He gave me cards and wrote me letters telling me I was gorgeous, I was everything he'd ever wanted.  And I never once believed he meant it.  I look back now, and I know he did mean it.  But even now, I see it as a temporary thing--I was okay for a minute, and then I was fat again.  Plus, it's always been easy for me to discount his opinion because--well, because he was emotionally dependent, adoring, and his views could hardly be called "objective."  Of course, it could be argued that objectivity and beauty are mutually exclusive.  It could also be argued that I want to discount his opinion because that makes my opinion of myself easier to reconcile.

I hate the mixed messages I've sent my son.  On the one hand, I tell him to never judge people based upon their appearance, to never base a relationship on the size or shape of the woman.  It's a good message, it's a right message.  But then he sees me cry, he sees my eyes dart away from the mirror, sees me dodge that camera.  Hears me say how awful I am, how ugly I am, how fat I am.  Those messages are absolutely contradictory.  And worse, it's got to hurt him to see me cry and down myself.  I try to do it while he's asleep these days.  Usually I succeed.  Sometimes I fail. 

When I was a kid, there was a family across the street, the mom was pretty heavy (not as heavy as me, though!).  She wore brightly flowered "muumuus" and would shout at those kids at the top of her lungs.  The children in the neighborhood were merciless, tormented those kids cruelly about their "fat" mom.  Believe me, that has been in my mind every step of my boy's childhood.  Am *I* that mom?  Have the kids in his world talked about ME the way those kids talked about HER?  Have I done that to my child?

How can I possibly love me?

Close to my heaviest, 2010 or so

My boy has always said that I'm beautiful.  And maybe, to him, I am.  I don't know.  I don't think so--not this far down the line, not at his age.  What I do know is that the way I look inspires people to cruelty.  Ever been followed through a garden center by teenage boys snorting and grunting at you?  I have.  That, and a dozen experiences like that. 

What would I say to anyone else who'd experienced that?  Don't put your self-worth into the crap opinions of others.  Don't let others determine your sense of who you are.  Don't value the opinions of people who are so obviously pieces of trash.  That's what I'd say.

But I don't know how to do that.  I don't know how to not hate myself for the way I look.  I don't know how to be kind to myself.  I never learned how, because no one ever showed me. I've had a couple of friends who've told me I'm beautiful, but that's what friends are supposed to do.  Fact is, nobody's going to look at me like I am today and say, "Wow, you're beautiful."  Sure, the occasional pictures I post on Facebook look okay--of course, they're the results of major posing, makeup application, and are selected from dozens of shots I discard because they're awful. For every picture I post, there are at least two dozen I toss.

And yet this article suggests that *I* should look at myself, as I am, and say, "I'm beautiful." 

See, I just typed that and started to cry. 

No one is ever going to stroke my thinning hair and tell me that I'm beautiful.  No one.  Because I'm not.  But sometimes I wish for it so hard.  And I know how messed up that is, I know that it's stupid and it's shallow and that, even now, at 47, I'm looking outside myself for approval.  Or comfort.  Or whatever the hell it is. 

No purpose to this.  None at all.  Just writing because that's how I get this stuff out of my head. Don't look to me for rational guidance on the issue of self-esteem.  Obviously, I'm a mess.  I hope you're doing better. 

I hope you can see that you're beautiful.  I hope you can see better than I. 

2012, but about 30 lbs down from now.

Oh, and, because I'm not mooching for compliments (!) and I don't even think this is going to stay up for long, I won't be publishing comments.  I'm sorry.







I need to be a loser again . . .

At my heaviest, I weighed over 400 lbs.  I don't know how much over, because I stopped weighing.  Judging by the rate of loss when I first started taking it off, I'd say I was around 425.  I felt like hell.  All the time.  My back, which was mangled in a car accident back in 1993 (back when I was a skinny girl), was a constant source of pain and worry.  I had sleep apnea.  My blood sugar was starting to be a real problem.

Over the course of a year-and-a-half, I lost 180 lbs.  I felt great!  I was still fat, but I felt amazing!  I could walk for hours (though the plantar fasciitis would give me grief the next day)!  I used a program called My Fitness Pal to log calories and exercise, and I was religious about it.  Very dedicated!  My blood pressure was amazing, my resting pulse 60, my A1c down to 5.4. 

And then I just stopped.  I don't know what's happened.  I have spent the past seven months just eating.  Is it because of the surgery, the stress, the fearing it was cancer?  The relief of it just threw me into a celebratory pig-out that I don't know how to climb out of?  I don't know.  I do know that, for months, I kept being "good" but kept not losing--I plateaued and, no matter what I did (add calories, subtract calories, increase exercise, decrease exercise, etc.), I just couldn't lose.  Three plus months of 1250 calories a day, and no loss.  I kept telling myself that it didn't matter, that being healthy was the reward, regardless of the number on the scale, but that's not true--the number on the scale mattered, because when you're holding yourself down to that few calories a day, that number is your only tangible reward. 

It's not just me--yeah, I've gained almost 50 lbs, but my husband's gained a good 30 lbs, too, and he's never been "big."  We're just eating everything we want.  Ice cream with Chambord and black raspberries, gourmet cheeses, jalapeno poppers, and peanut butter!  Constant peanut butter!  See, I used to have one Clif Builders Bar (chocolate mint) a day--I would actually break it in half and have half for breakfast and half for lunch.  Then it became two bars a day, one for breakfast, one for lunch.  Then it was two for breakfast, and two for lunch.  Understand, these bars have 270 calories a pop.  In an effort to break that one, I switched to yogurts.  I started with light yogurts, one for breakfast, one for lunch.  But then I developed a taste for the Greek yogurts--Chobani Cherry, to be precise.  That's almost twice the calories of the light.  And then I wanted two.  And then?  Granola on top.  And suddenly my low-cal bar replacement was worse than the bars.  So I cut that out, too, and it was replaced by an overwhelming urge for peanut butter.  I would just slather it on bread and eat four pieces.  Yes, it's low cal, low carb bread, but still.  And I'm left wondering--is the urge for peanut butter (which I went YEARS without eating) a way for my body to make up for the protein I'm not getting from bars and yogurt anymore?

I don't know.  But I'm sinking myself, and it's devastating.

I did come across a blog today, a very nice lady who's lost a good bit of weight and talks of going back to daily logging/journaling to keep track of her weight if she should begin to gain again.  I know she's right--I have to start daily logging again, even if I'm screwing up.  Because then it's there, in black and white, and I can't deny or pretend.  And from there, maybe I can get this turned around.

But I'm scared. Terrified. I don't want to be contemplating wheelchairs again. I don't want to be unwilling to go to movies because my ass is too big for the theater chairs. I can't do that again. Please!

About 25 lbs shy of my heaviest, on the upswing

Obligatory duck-face, about 170 lbs down

About 180 down

WEIGHT LOSS MIRACLE!!! LOSE WEIGHT LIKE MAGIC!!!

So I came across a post on Facebook today, and I just couldn’t help myself. The post read, “I lost 2 pounds in three days using HCG! It really works!” My response?

“I’ve lost over 150 pounds in 12 months, and I didn’t have to shell out for pills, go under the knife, break the bank on prepackaged meals or liquid diets, starvation plans, or any urine from any sort of pregnant creature. In fact, I didn’t have to buy anything at all. It’s called ‘diet and exercise,’ and it really works!”

No, I’m not a bitch. What I am is someone who is sick to death of having people approach me with, “What are you using? How are you doing that?” only to walk away shaking their heads in dejection when I tell them the truth. I am sick of hearing, “Oh, you’re just stronger than I am” or “I could never do that.” There IS NO MAGIC PILL, KIDDIES. There is no wand to be waved, no surgery to do it for you. There is work.

Now, it would be a lie if I said I had no “miracle” to aid me. I do. It’s called “keeping track of everything.” I use a free website called “My Fitness Pal.” There are others. The site also has an android and an Apple app, so I also run it on my phone, my iPad, and my Galaxy Tab. With this program, I keep track of every scrap of food that passes my lips and every bit of exercise I do. I plan out my meals, usually a day or so in advance. It’s a numbers game, and sometimes I don’t get to have that freshly grated parmesan and asiago with my pasta because I just don’t have the calories for it. Sometimes I decide to pop on the exercise bike or go walking in order to earn those calories. Sometimes I trade off and decide that I’ll skip the smoothie for dessert so I can have the sausage with dinner. It works, and it didn’t take long for me to figure out how to maximize those calories.

Maximize them? You bet—instead of a heaping pile of 2-3 servings of spaghetti, I have ONE two ounce serving plus julienned carrots and squash. Bulks up the serving size, gives me a nice serving of veggies, and makes that meal filling without being gluttonous. I used to have two pieces of butter and garlic-slathered bread with pasta. Now? I have a salad with spring mix, dark green leafies, zesty sprouts, tomatoes, cucumbers, and black olives, topped with a serving (carefully measured) of light dressing. If I want chicken strips, my husband breads the boneless, skinless breast strips with homemade breading and we bake them rather than fry. Same with fish. Cuts the calories in LESS than half, nukes the fat, and our son calls them “Epic.” Not bad for “health food.” Other favorites? Toasted ham and gruyere, toasted roast beef and fontina, rotisserie chicken with veggies, homemade 3 bean chili, grilled steaks with onions, mushrooms, and cheese, tuna roll-ups in lavash bread, homemade tyropita and sambusa, and good, old-fashioned hot dogs. And hot chocolate with melted peppermint and dark chocolate. Yummmmmy.

Now, I do have another inspiration, something that helps keep me in line. My diabetes. See, I ate myself into Type 2 diabetes. Yes, there’s a hell of a family history (mom, grandpa, uncle, sister, etc.), but fact is, it likely never would have appeared in me, had I not been morbidly obese. But watching that blood sugar and those carbs has made all the difference. I’m unmedicated, and in just a few months managed to pull my A1c down into normal range. Hey, I’m still heavy—I could lose another 75 pounds and still be called “fat.” Another hundred, and folks might refer to me as “the chubby one.” But that’s not my goal anymore—this isn’t about fitting into “skinny” jeans or hitting a particular size. No, this is about not ever needing to be on insulin. It’s about no taking medication for blood pressure. It’s about living to see as much of my son’s life as I possibly can. My “pretty” days are long over, and that’s fine—when did our society forget that people get old, and that old has a place, too? Who wants a silicone grandma with rock hard abs and plunging necklines?

Not me.

Am I “not diabetic” now? Of course not—if I eat a half a loaf of bread (or forget and pair stuffed clam shells with potatoes), my blood sugar shoots up into the 180s and 190s. That’s not cured. But it’s controlled. And before you think, “Oh, God, she never gets to have anything goooooood,” hush. Yes I do. Tonight, I’m having a cheeseburger (5 ounces of beef) on toasted oat bread (it’s not dry, it’s moist) with two slices of 2% cheese, ketchup, mustard, and dill chips, with a salad (see above), spinach, and slow-braised carrots with caramelized onions. Oh, and a strawberry-banana smoothie for after. My blood sugar will come in around 120, and all will be well with the world.

Don’t fall for the fads. Don’t buy into the gimmicks. And do NOT tell yourself that, short of a miracle, it’s “too late” for you to lose weight, that you’re “too fat” to get healthier. It’s not true—I could barely walk from car to apartment door, I could only do museums in wheelchairs and shopping in electric carts, and now I’m walking miles and spending hours on my feet. In just a year. So don’t—don’t look back a year from now and wonder sadly what you might have done. Do what I did—just DO it, then look back a year into it and say, “Wow, look what I did!” You can, you know. Promise.

Life's Funny

A year-and-a-half ago, I posted about how my degree, which I had come so close to attaining, had wound up splattered across the dashboard of my '71 Mustang. I had spent so many years accepting that I would never be granted my degree, and then decided to go for it. Sure I had been thwarted, I posted a blog entry detailing my misery.

Well, I got my degree.

That's right--after scrounging about for records verifying my "story," I submitted a formal appeal and was granted my degree. My wonderful husband threw a party for me, and my degree is now hanging on the wall in a nice frame. I am degreed. I are, in fact, edumacated.

I forget that. Often. I'll be sitting in bed, being carried along on a wave of disappointment and despair over my lack of degree when, suddenly, I'll remember! Hey, I DID succeed there!

I'm in the process of losing weight. A lot of weight. My hope? That I'll lose enough that my vicious social phobia will ease and I'll maybe even get myself a part-time job. Don't call me silly for being afraid--read the news, read the research. Heavy women are routinely denied employment, and when they are hired, they're paid less and fired first. Anyone who says different has never been an overweight woman.

In a totally different direction, our months-long quest for new furniture we can't really afford is finally approaching its end. The amazing, wowser, super-chair and ottoman from the Land of Fancitude has come, and it truly is a wonder to behold (our friend Joe said, "That's no ottoman--that's the Ottoman EMPIRE!". It wasn't the chair/ottoman set we'd wanted--that chair, after months of hope and BS, never did come. So we ordered from someone else. More money, but hey, they actually GOT the furniture to us. The sofa and second chair are en route (that's on rooooot, not IN ROWT), and should be here in a week or so. Sleeper sofa, here we come!

Of course, the new furniture has us panicked--my Mother's got to come over SOME time, right? And what are we going to do when she decides she wants to sit on our nice, new furniture? Her running sores and total lack of hygiene completely destroyed her new furniture in the space of a few weeks. What do we do? There's no good way for that to turn out. I guess we drape blankets over the whole mess and hope?

Or maybe we move? That's what I'm hoping for. Tommy's got applications in for positions in DC, and gosh, wouldn't that be amazing? No, it's not Pennsylvania, but it's mighty close, and it will certainly do in a pinch. Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please!