Whoops!

Sorry gang, it's been a madhouse around here. It's nearing the end of the year at the office, which means that the bookkeeping is getting atrocious (and my adding machine is about to be kicked against the wall repeatedly), tensions are running high, and in the middle of all this I'm supposed to be panicking about Christmas shopping as well as what in the world I'm supposed to take to my mother's house for Thanksgiving.

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I'm fairly certain my Thanksgiving contribution will be mashed potatoes. Again. Because nobody else is fool enough to volunteer for that job, as these aren't just any mashed potatoes, but a certain kind known as "refrigerator mashed potatoes" which are so-named not because they're served cold (they're not -- they're heated) but because they can be stored in the fridge for a number of days prior to the actual event for which they've been prepared.

I think it's something to do with the cream cheese, sour cream, and butter in them, but I wouldn't put money on it. Five pounds of potatoes to boil then smash into an unrecognizable pulp with the potato ricer prior to mixing in all the other goodies. Oish. It's a wonder I can lift my arms the next day, but they're good. Worth it.

I'll post the recipe sometime. It's around... uhm... somewhere. I'm quite sure of it.

(Note to self: call Mom and get the recipe AGAIN... just like every other year)

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In other news, the Chantix and I have reached an uneasy truce wherein I eat before taking it so it doesn't make me want to throw up, and in return it sucks all the joy out of smoking for me.

Yes, kids, I'm nicotine-free. Grudgingly, and with much whining, but I'm there.

Why quit when I'm whiny about it? Well, to be quite honest, I never will NOT be whiny about giving up my vices. I'll do it, but I will bitch and moan, dammit.

I love my Diet Coke and y'all should have heard me when I was pregnant with the boys. My midwife with the younger child especially was concerned about all the chemicals in Diet Coke. She'd have preferred I drink an entire pot of coffee twice a day than suck down even one of my wonderful, refreshing, chemically-altered-beyond-all-recognition carbonated beverages.

Problem is, a sure sign of gestation for me is that I develop an incredible loathing for coffee. The smell of it in bean form, ground form, or brewing is still fine (stuff's like potpourri for me, seriously). But the taste of it? Oh man, just kill me now. Simply Does. Not. Work. Not when I'm pregnant, anyway.

Needless to say, for a few months there? Amanda equaled Whiny.

And now that I'm done reproducing they will have to pry my Diet Coke out of my cold, dead fingers before I give it up. I don't require much in life, but I would like to hang on to at least one little vice. Just one.

But anyway, why quit smoking? Because I'm kind of fond of this whole living thing, and smoking has a bad habit of shortening that experience. Also, it interferes with my breathing hobby. And it's a craptastic example for the kids (well, that and they've been lecturing me about it mercilessly).

The yellow stains have almost faded completely from my fingers. Awesome.

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So anyway, that's what I've been up to for the past almost-two-weeks. That and doing the Halloween stuff with the boys. The elder was Anakin Skywalker and the younger was a knight. He looked alot like a gladiator, but believe me, that child was a KNIGHT.

Just ask him.

Chantix Day 12, and Cat News

Today was day 12, 5th day of full dosage of Chantix.

It appears that the dizziness is fading, to be replaced by a weird (albeit milder) version of both side effects this has on me, that being a) I'm dippy, but not as dippy as I was Saturday, and b) I'm not so much dizzy as I am feeling as if when I walk, it's through really heavy air.

Not increased gravity, just very dense air.

I'll say this for the Chantix, it's certainly interesting. It's also affording my bosses endless amusement opportunities as they watch my memory fade out, then snap back in.

Fortunately the guys have a good sense of humor.

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In cat news, Daniel went to the vet today. Yes, again. This time it was for a weird black thing in his left nostril.

I'd let it sit for a couple of days thinking it was just mucus, maybe a touch of blood (we have three cats, there was no obvious injury... go figure).

Well, yesterday I was trying to look at it more closely, which is no small feat considering Daniel's resistance to anything remotely resembling an inspection of his face. I managed to touch the blackish thing and I swear, it felt like it stung me!

It had kind of looked spidery prior to this point, but I figured that was ridiculous. However, the weird stingy feeling made me rethink.

So this morning I called and made an appointment for His Majesty to go to the vet. My husband took him as I was at work and he was off (note to self: do TRY to give Himself more than 55 minutes notice to get cleaned up and crate the cat next time).

One pissed off cat, one harried husband, and seventy dollars later, the diagnosis?

Mucus. Mixed with blood.

And I'm the psycho cat-mommy who thinks snot stung her.

Emily goes in next Monday for a well-kitty check and a claw trim. I'll be lucky if they don't try to drug me.

Peas

I've mentioned before how I feel about peas.

To make a very long story very short, peas = bad.

So since my husband knows this, and since my one concession to peas in our home is that I gulp them down whole when he fixes them with dinner, I expect him not to put peas in the freaking fried rice.

So of course, tonight, for dinner?

Peas.

In my freaking fried rice. Which cannot be swallowed whole, thankyouverymuch.

I picked them all out and gave them to my younger son.

"Here sweetie, I saved some peas for you."

"Oh sank you Mommy!"

Whew.

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In Chantix news, yesterday was "high" day with the new higher dosage. Today has been "low" day with it. I took my second pill of the day about an hour ago, and am just now back to moving with anything resembling speed. I've spent much of the day on the couch, and even took a nap.

I also did laundry and hosed off two small boys, so I haven't been a total slug.

But dang, I hope I adapt to this newer dosage quickly. I work full time and have two-to-three children (depending on how old my husband is acting at the time -- love you, sweetie!). I don't need to be drugged into exhaustion. I can get that way quite adequately without chemical assistance.

Chantix Day 6

Well, here we are, day 6. My husband and I have been taking two pills per day starting Tuesday, and continuing through yesterday and today.

Tuesday and yesterday I was pretty sure I was going to fall asleep at my desk. But today, I felt normal which I guess means I'm adjusting to it again.

I only itch when I think about it. Or when I think about scabies (thanks to AD... heh).

Typing that line made the inner part of my right eyelid itch. See?

Grumblemutter.

Anyway, I'm noticing much less urge to smoke, which is definitely a plus.

I'm also waking up at about 4:00 a.m., and sleep fitfully until my blasted alarm clock goes off at 5:15 or whatever unholy hour I have it set for.

But beyond that? It's all good.

Except for the itching, which I'm now feeling on both sides of my neck, about three inches behind and down from my ears.

And on my left knee.

Curse you, easily suggestible mind!!!!

Chantix Day Three

Well, here we are at day three of the Chantix. Tomorrow is the first day we'll be taking two pills.

I can say that the Chantix so far is making me a bit tired, but no moreso than a Benadryl would. We'll see how an increased dosage will affect me.

Yesterday I was itching a bit, but I think it could be psychosomatic because I'm just so worried I'll get Stan's reaction to the medication and have to go back to the Nicorette. Arrrgh! I really prefer my Extra bubblegum, thankyouverymuch.

The Benadryl really didn't touch the itching (I took two), so I'm figuring that means I was making myself itch. That conclusion has been borne out by the fact that if I think of itching (like, oh say, while typing this post), I start itching.

At work I didn't notice any itching unless I thought of it.

Or maybe I thought of it because I was itching.

Oish.

Well, anyway, we'll see how it goes tomorrow with both .5 mg pills!

WalMart and SpongeBob

No deep introspection today, folks. Just me, my Chantix, my bubble gum, my Diet Coke (they will have to pry it out of my cold, dead fingers), and life in general.

This morning we made a run to WalMart. Now usually it takes an act of Congress (or my lunch with my parents) to pry me out of the house before noon on a Sunday. But for various reasons, most of which are totally under my control, my younger son's bedroom was never officially "decorated," and we finally remedied that today.

Back when we bought this house we were at one kid, and one kid only. Then one day (I think Bloody Marys were involved) we both agreed that if we were going to have another child, we should really get started on it sometime soon as Himself didn't want to be seventy years old watching his own kid graduating from high school.

Well, the birthday of the younger child puts him firmly at sixty-three when that child will finally graduate, so he's safe there unless I get knocked up at forty.*

But on the day of our closing, neither of us knew I was about eleven days pregnant. Neither of us knew that God had been actively listening when we said "We really should get started on it soon," and took us at our word (or failing that, He was pretty sure we'd change our minds if swift action wasn't taken).

When we were driving home from signing our lives away for the next thirty years (I think by now we own the pantry outright), I realized that I was technically "due" that day and nothing had happened.

It wasn't only that, though, as I'm notoriously all over the map as far as my periods are concerned. It was also the fact that I'd been napping and had developed an aversion to both coffee and Cool Ranch Doritos, which for me are pretty sure signs of gestation. Also, there was the weird development that while most of my body measurements were going down (I was in week three or four of the Body-for-LIFE program), my waist measurement was increasing slightly.

Eeewwww.

So I put the then-only child to bed, and hurried off to buy a home pregnancy test.

I came home and did the whole pee-on-a-stick thing, then sat and watched the results window.

Two lines.

Huh.

I walked out of the bathroom, found my husband, and handed him the test. His brilliant response?

"There are two lines. And?"

"Yes, there are two lines."

"Ohhhh... two lines. Uhm, are we happy about this?"

"I'm not sure. I'll let you know in the morning. In the meantime, I think we'd better scratch that idea about having a guest bedroom."

They're not kidding when they say "Man plans, God laughs."

Anyway, the next morning I'd had time to absorb what this new pregnancy meant and was more fully with the program.

"Honey?"

"What?"

"We're happy about this."

"Okay."

So we moved from our apartment into the house in a few weeks when morning sickness was finally in full swing, which made me so much less helpful than I would have liked to have been. We got the extra-utero child's room fixed up for him with a big boy bed and matching sheets and comforter.

He didn't care what was on his bed, so I picked out something semi-normal looking.

The crib went into the "guest" room, along with various boxes that contained nothing vital enough to unpack (but of course vital enough to move) and a full size bed my husband had in storage. I made that one up with some other sheets and comforter that I chose. So for about eight months we had a guest room/ nursery/ storage room.

Time passed, the second son was born, the boxes were eventually unpacked, and for a couple of years he couldn't have cared less about what was in his bedroom. However, eventually he wanted a "big boy" bed. So we moved the full bed and the crib out and got him a little twin bed like his big brother's.

I had good intentions about getting him a comforter and some such stuff, but my grandmother had just died and we had tons of sheets and other things from her house. He fell in love with a set of butterfly print sheets (very old, very soft, very orange -- the child has an interesting sense of style), and things just kind of remained that way for the next couple of years.

But last weekend as we were doing the weekly dredging of his room to be sure he still had a carpet, he mentioned he might like a bedspread other than his SpongeBob throw blanket. So that's how I ended up at WalMart this morning, relieved that we were finally not going to see SpongeBob plastered over the top of his bed anymore.

We walked down the bedding aisle and he saw it. The Holy Grail of bedspreads.

(Y'all know where this is going, of course.)

Yes, it's got SpongeBob on it. So does his new set of sheets and both pillowcases.

And then there's the little fold-out SpongeBob table and chair set we got to complete the look, because, well, we must have somewhere to do all our artwork, I guess.

Oh, and to write the sign he's affixed to the door of his bedroom which says "No cats. Only kids allowed." He wanted to add "No big brothers," but I told him that would be a bit tacky.

Emily can't read, though, and scoots through his door anytime she can manage it, much to his eternal consernation.

His SpongeBob throw blanket is now carefully arranged on his floor as a rug.

He has also informed me that we need to paint one of his walls to look like a sponge. I told my husband, who just clutched his head between his hands.

It's SpongeBob-ariffic. I kind of wince when I walk by, but he's such a happy prideful little guy about it that I end up smiling even though an interior design desecration induced migraine is trying to beat my eyes out with a ballpeen hammer.

So anyway, that was my day. Happy four-year-old, pained-but-amused husband, and an eight-year-old who still doesn't care what sheets or bedspread are on his bed, but who is now the proud owner of a purple beanbag chair.

It's all minor, but sometimes life is just good. Even with WalMart and SpongeBob.

*God, please don't take this as a challenge. I will swear off sex before I have another child, and if you're that determined I should lose what little is left of my mind and become the mother of three, I'm gonna make a killing in the tabloids.

Just Stuff

First, I've been tagged to do a meme by Babs. Topic? TANSTAAFL, or in other words, There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch.

I must cogitate.

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And trying to think about how I'm to do justice to that particular topic is a bit difficult at this point, because I took my first Chantix today and it appears to have fried my brain. The good news is that I'm not wanting to smoke as much even now, which I'm sure isn't due to the Chantix because a) I felt like this before I popped my little pill (yay!), and b) the stuff really hasn't had enough time to build up in my body anyway.

But still, it's definitely a good thing.

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In the realm of "not such a good thing," or perhaps, "too much of a good thing," I ate too much for lunch. That wasn't bright. I've spent almost a year scraping these forty pounds off my formerly-ever-widening-ass, and the last thing I need to do is pile them back on again. Yeah, yeah, one meal won't kill me, I know. It's the cumulative effect of overeating that'll do me in.

Since I'm quitting smoking, though, and am on Chantix, I have this lively horror that I'm going to pack the pounds right back on. I like how I look now, and am working on dropping a few more pounds (5'-7", 160 lbs, small bone structure... yep, still need to lose a few). I know how to make it work. I just need to continue obsessively calorie-counting and diary-ing my food, and make sure to stay within certain limits.

But it's really got me freaked out a bit.

I Can Has Chantix?

Well, the Chantix came home with me today. Happy belated birthday, dear husband of mine! Here's to many, MANY more years before us, free from these nasty little cancer sticks.

Sad thing is, I can call them "cancer sticks," I know they're bad for me, I hate the stench, I hate what they do to me, but I still. Freaking. Want. Them.

What led to the Great Chantix Experiment is that I found a very old, stale, nearly full pack of cigarettes in our kitchen. Yipes!

My husband and I looked at them. And looked at them.

Himself: They're stale.

Me: I know.

Himself: We've gone more than two days.

Me: I know.

Himself: We can do this.

Me: I know.

Me, five minutes later, firing one up in the back yard... sigh. Guilty bliss.

I went to Himself, thrust the pack into his hands and said, "Get rid of these. I can't take it. Make them go away."

Dude took me at my word. I came home yesterday and went to the garage to get something out of the chest freezer. The first thing that hit me was the distinctive smell of stale cigarette smoke.

"You've been smoking!"

"I've only smoked some butts out of my ashtray."

"Uh huh. Then why is the pack I gave you to make 'go away' half empty?"

Himself hung his head.

We finished them off that night. With great glee, I might add.

I hate this addiction. I hate how I still like smoking.

Ergo, the Chantix. We sincerely do want to quit smoking, but apparently are unable to do it on our own. We're hoping the Chantix will help kill off the "Gosh, smoking's FUN!" feeling and get us on the more realistic path of "And I want to suck smoke into my lungs because why???" frame of mind.

Here we go. Life is and will be GOOD!

Chantix

Whine, whine... the good news is that at least I'm self aware about my whining as well as my ability to quit smoking without a bit more assistance.

I went to my GP today, who is also conveniently my husband's GP. After he nearly threw his back out doing the happy dance because Himself and I are serious about quitting smoking, the Very Nice M.D. wrote us both prescriptions for Chantix.

Actually, he did the prescriptions on this little PDA which fired them directly off to our pharmacy. Cool, huh? So, Chantix, here we come!

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In other news, Angel has posted pictures of the two of us from the HP7 release. The first one, she looks great. I'm grinning so widely though that my cheeks are trying to cover up my eyes and I appear to have developed some weird side-dimples.

On the plus side, as Angel pointed out, it's a good shot of the rack. Magazine rack, of course, is what I mean.

The third picture shows off my nice yellow nicotine-stained teeth. I think I'll use that for motivation in addition to my other stuff.

But we had a blast at the release, and hopefully I'll get my pictures off my camera someday so I can post a few of my own. Those of you who've been waiting for more of my vacation pictures know how long that can take...

Blast it.

It's gonna have to be Chantix.

Why? Because I'm a total wimp. And apparently, so is my husband, aka He of the Will of Iron (not to be confused with Forging Iron Man, because, cute as Scott is? So not my husband, LOL).

So, we're wimps. Fortunately, our family doctor (my GP) is next door to my office. I'll be making a call in the morning and I'll see what he can do for us.

I'm tired of smoking. Even still.

Sorry for the "Smoking is BAD" theme, y'all. Not meaning to go there, seriously. Just spewing. If you're still smoking, I have nothing to say about it. Honestly. Been there. Still there, in so many MANY ways. So... no worries, y'all.