mydarlingcurse.com

From Fultzie….

Here is a picture of my Fridge. Send your photo to mydarlingcurse@gmail.com.

The Top Half

I’ll show you the bottom half after some reciprocity.

I’m actually stealing this idea from a dude at ECFE, but it’s so awesome I don’t feel too guilty.

Please send a photo of your refrigerator AS IS to mydarlingcurse@gmail.com.

I want all the pictures and coupons and postcards and magnets - I want it all!

Get your kleenex ready…..

I hate even admitting that this is happening but it’s true. Slootie totally inspired me to join WW. she did it earlier in the year and has lost 50 lbs. She’s smokin’ hot too. So now I’m measuring food and counting points and it’s awesome in the way that little organizational tasks get me off, but SO SO SOOOO LAME. I’ve spent years making fun of women who pass by a Halloween Oreo and say, “No, it’s too many points and I can’t afford it.” Bah! Now I’m one of them.

I desperately need the help though. The personal training thing isn’t working out with the buns here all the time and constantly needing my attention. But I can commit to dumping the kids with hubbin and getting to a meeting once or twice a week - if one is on the weekend.

So my goal is to lose 10% and my darlings, there is no way in hell that I will admit to you what that number actually is, since it’s too painful for me. But in the spirit of accountability, let’s just say it’s over 20 lbs. I have my plan set out for today but need to hit the store for this week. Guh!

Wish me well.

Proudly we offer you The Bookclub Bitches podcast of Michael Kimball’s Dear Everybody. But I have to warn you. It’s not for everybody.

Good news! The dog does NOT have to have the tip of his tail amputated. The vet stitched up the gash and they taped it up with some plastic casing. It looks like he’s wielding a white bat at the end of his tail. He’s happy and content. We go back for a recheck on Friday.

Back from a week at the cabin. The buns and I have head colds. Cooper, our dog, got his tail caught in the door and it’s a bloody mess. PJ thinks it might have to be amputated. I’m calling the Vet at 8am.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned before how my Dad is gutting his house, my Mother’s house, and sending me home boxes and boxes of crap that I might “want for find interesting”. This is rarely the case and they are hard to go through. There is always some little thing of my Mom’s that is meaningless to him but always brings me to tears.

In the latest box of crap, my communion dress (saved) and my parents’ wedding cake topper (thrown - still had icing on it…from 1968!), and my a journal, hardly used. The first 15 pages are from my Mom’s trip to Ireland in 2002. She took some of my Grandad’s remains over to the family cemetery in Roscommon Co. It’s where I took her last year. And then a few more entries from that September, including her 60th birthday. Looking at it now, it’s hard. She was already sick and none of us really knew. What struck me the most was her handwriting. I have a few things she wrote down when I was born, a little booklet of her weight gain during pregnancy and name ideas. She could barely write in the last year of her life, other than to sign forms.

My Mother had beautiful handwriting. It was strong, confident and graceful, just like she was. I’ve always admired it. And, when I got old enough, I tried my best to emulate it. Loopy yet straight, slanted and solid. Yet, these entries from 2002 are different from that. The writing is shaky, and small. Like she was already losing some of herself and just chalked it up to being tired from the trip, or in a rush to get things down at the end of a long day traveling. The entries after the trip are somewhat better, but still not 100%.

I have no doubt that she was already sick then, back in 2002. The tiredness, the writing, the change in her gait, it was all there, we just weren’t seeing it for what it really was. The same priest that said burial rites for my Grandad, said them for my Mom. He said he remembered her, and I didn’t doubt him, but to see that my Mom put his name down, just the way I did. That was comforting. Like it was meant to be.

What ruined it was her entry from her birthday, September 28. She was 60 that year.

The start of my last year in my fifties began in Rochester. Randy gets to come home following surgery to remove a tumor embedded in his skull. Jim bought me roses and took me to dinner at Jax. I’ve promised myself to make this a year that counts. Piano lessons - volunteer work someone who loves me and wants to be with me. Maybe it is me that has to face the fact I could live the rest of my life feeling this sad and empty.

I knew she was unhappy. My parent split in 2000 and my Dad moved out. I truly believe that they would have gotten divorced if my brother hadn’t been diagnosed with cancer in November of that year. But to read about her emotional pain and seeing the diminished capacity physically, it’s just too much. I feel myself losing functionality, slipping into unyielding sadness. Why was she taken so soon?