No Nonsense

Some of you that know me may have become aware, through me shouting from the rooftops, that I have lost a little bit of weight. Not that I've been exactly trying, but it helps when you are running your ass off at work, after a pretty much sedentary lifestyle. Translation: yes I'm a couch potato. But, with the new job at a pet hospital, and the fact that my boss thinks it's bad form to give me a stool to sit on, I am on my feet and running about 40 hours a week. Naturally, I've lost a few pounds. So far I've lost around 40, give or take, depending on the day and which shoes I'm wearing, and I do feel a difference. I have much more energy! Like, now when I'm plopped in front of the tv, I'm able to cross my legs and bob my foot, without losing circulation. It's great.
Now, while I say that, I also realize I have far to go. The realization of which comes out at certain times. Case in point, while putting on panty hose.
Again, after practically living in scrubs all week, occasionally I do like to dress like a girl, so this weekend, after a long absence from them, I bought panty hose. Something I hadn't had an occasion to wear for quite a while.
So, when I decide I'm going to wear them, I go to the fancy store to buy a pair - Discount Drug Mart.
Oh, whatever. Don't judge.
So at this point, I'm thinking what a shlump I am, because I don't even recognize the brands anymore. How long has it been since I've bought them? But, I'm all excited, cause I 'm thinking, wow, what size am I in now? I've gone down about 5 sizes in my regular clothes, what size pantyhose am I in, I'm thinking gleefully. I pick up a No-Nonsense, look on the back and realize, 'Oh, same size as before. Ok.' Nice. Who sizes these things?

So anyway, I pick the 'control- top' kind, because I want to appear even slimmer and trimmer than I already am. Ha ha. The magnitude of this mistake becomes a little clearer in a moment.
That evening as I'm dressing, I pull the hose out of the package, marveling at their shiny sheen. I'm pulling them up over my feet, taking special care not to snag them on my toenails. (Ok, if I haven't bought pantyhose in a while, do you honestly think I've had a pedicure any time in the last decade?) Pulling them up to my knees I stand up.....and they go no further. Now, every woman knows these things stretch, right, I understand; but it's at that point I begin to notice the fabric of these pantyhose. They are like vulcanized rubber under the guise of fashion. Seriously. I realize at this point that I'm going to have a struggle on my hands.

Approximately twenty minutes later, after fighting and pulling and lying on my back, bargaining with God, sticking my legs up in the air, hanging on to the bedpost like Scarlet ("make me 19 inches Mammy!") I finally get them mid-thigh. I'm seeing spots behind my eyes, and having a hard time breathing. Putting on stockings should not give me a pain in my left arm, right?
Imagine if you will, these steel-belted radials of fabric digging into the fattest part of my thigh, completely cutting off circulation. It's making my butt look like a muffin top. Very attractive.
After I catch my breath, and stave off asphyxiation, I think to myself, this is ridiculous, and with a mighty heave ho, I finally get them pulled up to my waist. VICTORY IS MINE!
It's at this point, that my wonderful husband walks in. Now, I can only imagine his view from the bedroom door, I am barely standing upright, these torturous pantyhose spraypainted across my ass, and what does this lovely man say?

"Hoowee, look at that sombitch stretch!"

I turn in shock, disbelieving that he's made that douchy of a comment, and as I spin, the top of the pantyhose make an audible pop! and immediately roll down of their own accord, my ass and thighs spilling out in a mighty bounce of relief. Thank GOD I am free.
And I prepare to make my husband pay.

Needless to say I was able to catch him cause I weigh less now.

Abusive language alert

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Stolen from this guy

Megaton Maynard's New Sidekick - Bunnyman

A Perfect Day

Yesterday we took the kids to the Cleveland Air Show. This is the third time in a row we've gone, and by far the best time. Andy was able to score some fantastic tickets from a vendor at work, and we got great seats; a covered tent, a catered lunch, all the pop, water and beer you could drink. (Although I kept the kids at a minimum; those little buggers are lushes...ha ha) Ice cream and cookies for the kids. Andy actually got to hold the pole that the stunt pilot flies through on the field, which he was grinning like a little kid when he got back, although I was mentally configuring his life insurance payments the whole time. It was a beautiful, sunny day, a wonderful cool breeze kept it from being too hot; it was great. I don't know if I just appreciate these kinds of days more since I'm working, and not able to spend as much time with the fam as before, but I really cherish these kinds of days.
But what I really have to comment on is my experience with the Fried Candy Bar.
Oh yeah. If you haven't been there before, it is a miraculous concoction. They basically take a candy bar ( I won't say the name for advertising purposes, but it rhymes with Bickers), poke a stick through it, drown it in funnel cake batter, and fry it. Then, when it's golden, they pull it out, plop it on a cardboard bowl and shake powdered sugar on top.
Thou art a bountiful and sweet God, to present such a treasure.
You have no idea what glorious greatness awaits you with this little morsel until you try it. Honestly.
I ate this about 16 hours ago now, and I literally cannot stop thinking about it. You know, like when you fall in love with someone, and all you can do is think about them, and you can't wait to see them again, and you're trying to think to yourself, "how can I arrange to run into them again soon?" I'm feeling this for a fried treat! Something is really wrong with me. It's taking over my life. I think I know what junkies feel like now. I'm reading newspapers in back alleys, searching for the next county fair where I can make my next score.
I'm so ashamed.