Wednesday, July 30, 2008
When I worked at the nursing home, we had a precious lady named Mrs. C that had Alzheimer's disease. She was able to walk and dance and she smiled 24 hours a day. She had her own language and because I always teased her and kissed her cheek, she always whispered secrets to me.
"I am taking you to the Shama Lama."
"Today after gitchy goo."
Then she would dance away with that smile and I would wait with great anticipation even though I had no freakin' idea where Shama Lama was or what time gitchy goo(?) was over.
She always wanted the new resident feel welcome, so she would push them around in their wheelchair, whether they wanted to be pushed or not. And because I am sadistically mean, I would let Mrs. C make it through two halls before I would make her stop and take the new resident back to their room.
One lady, Mrs W. was obsessed with sex and penises. That is all she talked about. And she tried to pick up every man, old or young, that entered that place. Mrs. C was her personal driver(or rather pusher) and the two of them were inseparatable. They were often found at naptime asleep in the same bed, spooning.
Mrs. W. would crack jokes and Mrs. C was her personal Ed Mcmahan and laugh hysterically, even though she had no idea what the joke meant. They fought at times like an old married couple.
We had the nurse's station in the center of the room and the residents used it as their local hangout. Mrs W would have Mrs. C push her around and around the desk area. Mrs. C would wave at me, then walk and walk, then look up when I called her name and wave again, only not ever remembering she waved the first time. It was a new suprise every time and I could have done that ALL day long. It was hysterical.
Mrs W and Mrs C both loved jewelry and makeup and were always dolled-up to the hilt. It was precious and I longed to go see them and hear what funny things they would say every weekend.
If I have to lose my mind to the horrible Alz monster, I pray that I am lucky enough to be like Mrs. C, who dances like no one is watching and smiles all the time.
But knowing my luck I will be the old hag in the corner, pissing all down my leg, flipping everyone off with my boney crooked finger and hissing, "Fuck you, Bitch!"
But I won't really mean it.
My baby sister, known in code as Hank, is the brains of the family. She is the terminal student and politic-loving geek.
I take full credit in her quest for education, as I led the ferocious pack of flesh-eating wolf-sisters that constantly made fun of her naivity and innocence. Now she knows everything there is to know about a skilled nursing facility's policies and procedures and loves old people as much as I do. So don't ever question what she says in that area.
I worked as a Supervisor on the weekends at the swankiest nursing home in the area. It has a year-long waiting list and is nicer than most of our homes. And it housed the funniest old people on earth.
I would call Erin, oops, I mean Hank, and beg her to get her administrator's licence. She blew me off for 2 years. I knew that with her freakish OCD tendencies, she could run a facility like clockwork and make $90,000 starting out.
She tried social work, CPS, to be exact and that didn't work. Then she transferred to APS, which was dealing with the elderly and she thrived. For 2 years.
Then almost overnight, she became a damn genius and decided to persue the Admin. avenue. And I alone pat myself on the back for making her dreams come true.
You will love her as we do, all 105 lbs. of blonde cynicism.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
I know that is not your given name. You were born in a far away land given 3 or 4 one-syllable names that have no more than 4 letters each.
You brought your freakishly tiny framed body across the ocean to become my best friend every three weeks, to clutch onto that attainable American dream.
You greet me with such warmth in your broken language and smile sweetly when I ask ,"HUH?" at least 43 times while you bestow your love upon me.
When you place the mask over your nose and mouth and become even more difficult to understand, your small beautifully angled eyes smile as you speak your lilting melodic language to your coworkers, surely talking about the insanely large amount of children I have or how I have put on a couple of pounds since our last rendezvous.
But all that suspicion vanishes when you focus completely on my hands and begin your foreign magic. You hum quietly to yourself as you pry with your ill-proportioned thumbnail all the old remnants from our last visit and it's hardly noticeable how nasty your fingernails are. But then again, you are always putting my needs first.
The tools that were made for wood, become instruments of art as you file and buff my hands.When you push the pedal and the drill runs with the power to put holes in doors you gently place them on my nerve-filled nails and rub away the old solar fill, only sometimes making me wince in pain from the 350 mph force that could fry an egg on my cuticle.
You so sacrificially squeeze my finger as if to take my pain away and say so oh-so-sweetly "Oh sosoddy, sosoddy." Then you ask me if I need my toes taken care of, my eyebrows waxed, or a body massage because you truly care for my well being not because you want to feed your family or buy a new knockoff Coach purse.
You so lovingly massage my hands and continue to talk to me unintelligibly, even though I intentionally keep my eyes closed and try to relax. You so innocently don't know the American custom of no speaking when you can't see the whites of someone's eyes. It's so sweetly naive.
You so kindly ask without any accent how much I am tipping you so you can add it to my credit card purchase. You so amaze me with your quick learning.
Good bye and thank you, my dear Savannah, or Ming. I will see you in three weeks.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
As some of you know, my MIL stayed the weekend with us. I LOVE my MIL. THIS MIL. So I will talk about the first MIL.
The eXMan's mother, I will call her, let's see...ummmmm, MF'nB, because, well she is AND she hated me. She had no personality and I am sure sold her soul to the devil at some point in her life. She worked as Beezebulb's right hand man and it was her mission to make me cry on a daily basis.
One day I was late picking up her prescriptions and delivering them to her due to a huge line at the pharmacy. When I returned to her labyrinth, I said, "I am so sorry. There was 500 people in line." She spun her head around multiple times and with flames shooting out of her eyes, spews, "REALLY, Jill. 500? I am so tired of your falsehoods." (That was actually a big word for her 8th grade education.) I attempted to explain the difference between a lie and an exaggeration to no avail. I left really thinking we had made some headway and she was beginning to soften.
On her birthday, I got her a book. And she actually commented to a neighbor she liked it. So, I bought her another one for Mother's Day and she threw it at me screaming, "I HAVEN'T FINISHED THE ONE YOU GOT ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY!!" Alrighty, then. Needless to say, the MF'nB and I never had much of a relationship. Frankly, I hated Satan and all that was his and she hated me. So it worked well.
Anyway, this post is not about my eXMan's MF'nB. It's not even about my wonderful MIL whom I love very much and who loves me, too. (She did comment that I was spending too much time on my computer and if she wasn't so certain that I loved her, she might take it as being rude. Point taken and I visited with her for the rest of the weekend.)
This post is about my long-anticipated visit to my sister's. So to help you understand all the characters that you will hear about and see, I will introduce the cast:
Mom- the matriarch, BossHog (only thin, beautiful, & funny without the cigar or white suit)
Erin- baby sister, single, OCD, beautiful and cynically hilarious
Parker-Erin's 13 y/o son, obsessed with his development of bodily hair, uses the word "pub" incessantly
Rick- my bald headed hunk of manhood
Lance-my son-in-law, also OCD and takes 45 min showers
Kalee- my 23 yr old daughter, the stylish Diva,known by her family as Miss Manners (mom to Grayson, 2, & Kaydi Jo, 4mo and stepmom to Jacob, 8.)
John David- my 21 y/o son, who alone keeps the local beer joints in the black
Trevor- my soon-to be 20 y/o son, the life of every party (his b'day is Sun and part of the celebration)
Brit- my 15 y/o niece, Dingbat extraordinaire
Claire and Cooper are at their dad's, so won't be in this equation
Gammy-Mom's mom, corrector of all English misnomers
Bobo-Mom's dad, Gammy's eXMan, dating Gammy for now until he pisses her off, which is usually daily, which makes us all snicker to watch her put him in his place
Dan- Mom's bro, self-proclaimed taster of all food and family clown
Cindy- Dan's wife, family-appointed laugher, who undoubtedly has the greatest giggle EVER
Gene- Amy's hunk of manhood, birthday boy, object of lots of pointing and laughing this weekend
Chris- Amy's oldest, National Champ of Poi
Cody- Amy's middle son, wearer of baggy pants that show his undies which drives Gammy insane
Cole- Amy's youngest, family teller of jokes and self-appointed laugher of everything Parker does
Amy-Ashley lookalike and hostess with the mostess
Jill-me, Mary Kate double and party go-er
Please memorize these as there will be a final test on Mon the 4th of Aug.
There will be a $10,000 grand prize of Monopoly money awarded to the winner.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Seems that EVERYONE"S a comedian...Uh huh. yeah. Sisterly competition... Older sister knows many juicy tidbits on younger sister....Also knows family members read this, so I will share one that won't cause much discomfort.
Amelia Bedelia (sis #2) and I have been VERY competitive our entire lives, but in a very mellow kind of way. As I said earlier in another post, we look alike, only she has much bigger hooters than I do. It used to bother me, but now I get all her shirts that shrink and suddenly it's not such an issue anymore. (I am easily swayed by material things like that.)
Sometimes when one of us gets new clothing, we send pix to the other one, only to have a pix of the exact clothing sent back hanging in the other's closet. It's so weird.
Our kids, when they were little, used to grab onto the leg of the wrong mom and look up only to run away in confusion calling out for their mommy.
One night, I was visiting from out of town and slept on Amy's couch. Early the next morning, her youngest at the time, Cody, crawls up beside me and begins to snuggle. I was so touched and loved right back on him. He buries his head in my chest and suddenly stops. Then in a muffled voice says, "What's your name?" hahaha kid's say the damnedest things..........I get it. I have no boobs. ENOUGH!
If we go to the same place, we have to call and inform each other what we are wearing, just so we never have to re-live Lauren's birthday party incident.
Mom has a picture of us where our hair was long and we both look like Wynonna Judd minus the guitar. It's frighteningly funny. (And no, don't even ask.)
Anyway, back to: IT'S ON!!
I worked (and I use that term loosely) with Amy in a tax return place that happened to be next door to our friend's Hair Salon, and right across the street from our favorite restaurant. It was a temporary job due to the fact it was a temporary set-up for those instant tax returns (and the fact the owner was a weasel, but paid us well).
In Jan., business was slow and the two of us would sit in the office and talk and laugh and try to decide what we would have done at the salon for that week. Amy taught me to smoke and I caught the trash in my trashcan on fire. After we had our nails done, Amy would type on the computer and make me listen to the clickety click of her nails for hours on end. (She wasn't typing anything, she just loved to hear the clickety click.)
Raymond was in between Amy and I in school. Raymond owned the salon next door and had just come back from California. Raymond was now known as Ra'mon (dropped the "y" and "d" and made the "o" long) and was now no longer a chick magnet (dropped the "ch" added a "d"). And was FLAMING!!! We loved him in school and were probably his only 2 friends, so he felt very comfortable telling us his gay escapades that included dancing, clear plastic suits, and lots of alcohol. It was uncomfortably hilarious and because he was so happy and so successful, he decided to give us a free makeover. I was first and my perm (it was 1991, PEOPLE!) was the best I have ever had and worth about $250 dollars. Then it was Amy's turn.....
As she sat in the chair, her hair freshly washed, I hovered closely to watch his Edward Scissor-like hands work their magic. Ra'mon began to comb thru Amy's long wet red hair, when Amy politely reminded him, "Watch the cocoa krispie mole I have on the back of my neck." "Girl, I will," he sang.
It went a little somethin' like this:
- Comb, comb hard, comb harder, snag, comb really hard-
- "My cocoa Krispie!"
- loud girlie scream
- loud scream from Amy
- squirting blood out of the cocoa krispie now hanging half off Amy' neck
- Ra'mon running that funny" elbows by his sides with arms flailing wildly while screaming loud girlie scream" gay man run
- towels flying
- pressure being applied
- Jill on the hairy floor ROLLING and laughing her ass off
I honestly can't remember what the haircut looked like, but I do know poor Ra'mon had to endure intensive Post Traumatic Stress therapy not unlike that of post war heroes. He moved soon after that and we were left with ugly nails and no one to make us laugh with gay antics.
My hair still looked great by the way. For 2 years. That was one good perm.
And yes, Amy had a cocoa krispie mole. HA!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Don't 'cha just hate it when you finally drop the screaming fighting spawns of satan off and drive to work and trying to calm down begin to listen to the oldies station and Elton John and KiKi Dee come on and you sooooo want to sing KiKi's part out loud, but the guy in the car next to you won't speed up or slow down and when you glance over to see if he's watching is already looking at you and thinks you like him and so you are forced to part your lips ever-so-slightly to eeek out "oooooo hooooo nobody knows it...nobody nooowhoos it" without moving them so he can't see you are singing to yourself? yeah, me,too.
Don't 'cha just hate it when you are in your car and are driving between 2 towns that have no f'n gas stations between the 2 and you have to pee so bad that you even turn the radio off so you can totally focus on NOT peeing in your pants and you even begin to hold yourself and accidentally speed up because when you try to stiffen your back to take any pressure off your bladder that you automatically press on the gas and almost rear-end the lady in front of you all while you are talking out loud and not really caring who sees you scream, "Come on MFrs I am going to wet all over myself! Get the F out of the way!" in a really high-pitched voice that could break glass? yeah, me,too.
Don't 'cha just hate it when you finally make it into the restroom where you have shoved 2 old people out of the way to open the door and rip your pants down that you had already started unbuttoning before you opened your car door and unleash the gush of urine which is more rewarding than any orgasm you have had since the night before only to brought back to reality when you open your eyes and raise your head off the back of your shoulders to see there is no F'n toilet paper and you sit and think to drip dry that gusher would take somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 minutes so you take off the F'n empty roll of cardboard and dab yourself so you won't smell like the urine-stenched patient you just saw? yeah, me,too
Don't 'cha just hate it when you come out of the bathroom after washing your hands for 7 solid minutes only to find that everyone in there must have heard you in there sigh really loudly once you released yourself because they are all looking and snickering and one says, "Damn, girl. Did you have to pee bad?" yeah, me. too. And yes, I did, thank you for asking.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
** 6 ft wooden mouse stolen from porch**
**Food poisoning at Mary Kay convention**
I am SHOCKED!!! No one got murdered, or shot, or robbed. There was some follow up stories on that poor baby who got left in the daycare van for 6 hours and the local orgy house raid.
I guess it was even too hot for killers today.
My two youngest are at their dad's this month and my niece is staying with my oldest daughter to babysit for her while she continues to look for teaching jobs.
So, that's right, WE ARE CHILDLESS FOR A WEEK!!!!!!!!!
I am sore from doing the "no kids in the house " dance since Sun night.
But I am ready for them to come home now. I have dishes that need washing.
So sorry, I am exausted tonight- No diet pill today to keep me strung out til 3 am AND remember, we are childless.........."nuff said.
Maybe tomorrow I will be rested and funny. Maybe.
The Mr. has that f'n gleam in his eye and The Grin, and he is patting the seat next to him.
He cracks me up.
Oh, and all is well with Amy amy bo bamey. She loves me and isn't going to kick my ass. Whew! I was sweatin' bullets.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
ANYHOO, my sister BoBamy (amelia bedelia in my list over there -->) and I are closet in age and were inseparable until I moved away to be a submissive preacher's wife (hehehheh) 14 yrs ago. No one in this world laughs harder at me, or makes me laugh more than she does. (BoBerin, sis#4, is VERY funny, too, but until she joins into the Fold of Believer Bloggers, she is just a name to you.)
BoBamy has always been the sweet, gentle, caring sister that never made any enemies. She also lived in LaLa Land. I am cracking up as I write this just THINKING about all the times she made me laugh without meaning to.
We didn't really watch a lot of TV when were growing up, so we,"the girls", entertained our parents with skits and dances. I was always the producer, director, AND star, and BoBamy was always the dancer, even if the part wasn't written in. She would just bust out into dance whenever there was a pause or someone forgot their line. It always made my parents scream hysterically with laughter.
We were always getting into trouble for inappropriate laughter at church, in the car on long trips, at my grandmother's during dinner, and at funerals. We never had to say anything or maybe nothing funny had even happened. It was just a look we had between us.
At my great grandmother's funeral, we were 9 and 6 and walking up to the church for the service. BoBamy begins to skip. I am talking BIG skipping, with arms flailing and long red dogears swinging. I think she may have been humming also, but I am not sure. My dad who was serious at the time (it was his Mamma Zil's funeral), reaches out with one fail swoop and thumps the crap out of BoBamy right on her noggin. THUNK!
She spins around, with her long red dogears just a blur, and says in all innocence, "What'd you do that for, daddy?"
We enter as the family and go down the aisle to sit at the front.The throb of daddy's thump had apparently worn off, because with the organ music droning it's woeful sound, BoBamy begins to skip. Again. (I think in her head she was hearing "I got rhythm...")
We filed into the pews which had no said arm rests on the ends, the sides being as tall as the back. BoBamy was behind me and as the family was seated, she was left without a place to sit. I squished as tightly as I could to my mom, and BoBamy squeezed her tiny little 6 yr old hiney in beside me.
I am not clear on how long it was before I looked at BoBamy, but I would guess a good 10 minutes had passed. I glanced over and there she sat on my right, pinned tightly against that high armrest, with her tiny little right elbow straight up in the air smashed against the side of her face, her hand dangling right next to her mouth. No grimmace, she just sitting listening intently at the service.
I remember the jerk I physically made, the muffled roar I tried to pull off, and the pain of my daddy's massive grip on the back of my neck, that just seconds earlier was lovingly placed on my mom's shoulder.
I slowly turned my head towards my dad whose jaw was officially torked, and mouthed "Amy", like any good big sister would. His grip loosened just enough for him to lean forward and see her still in the same exact contortioned position, still listening intently to the minister.
He closed his eyes and put his lips together, then took his hand off my neck, only after he gave me a loving pat. My mom glanced quickly, and she, too, closed her eyes and made her lips disappear into her closed mouth. They both faced straight ahead with neither eyes or lips appearing.
Thinking that that was the assumed funeral position, I did the same. And BoBamy sat as she had since the beginning of the funeral.
The story doesn't end there.....
We still had the burial. And a long limo ride. And more skipping.
It's still not the end of the story....
As you have read, my daddy passed away this past Jan.
As we walked into the church, our heads down and mustering the last bit of strength we had in us to even make it up to the door, I heard a familiar sound.
I turned to look for her, but she was beside me.
We both turned together to see Cole, BoBamy's 8 yr old, with his arms flailing in the air and big steps, .....................skipping.
We looked at each other and giggled.
I never missed that neck squeeze more.
Monday, July 21, 2008
My sister, BoBamy, had been begging me for months to start a blog, and not even knowing what one was, I kept putting it off. Until last week.
Anyway, since I am new, (and basically a loser, friendless, and desperate for any and all comments) whenever I get a response, I have to (after I scream and do the "I got a comment" dance) go that person's blog (knowing that I am adding them as a fav because they have impeccable taste because they said something nice and funny to me) and get to know them. So I am on a blog and reading comments to another and I see IT...
Some terrifically funny chicklet has the name Amy Amy Bo Bamey.
OH. MY. GOD.
My eyes stop dead in their tracks. My pointer finger freezes in mid-air over the down arrow. My pulse quickens and I spit up in my mouth.
MY ORIGINAL COOL NAME THAT MY DAD CALLED ME HAS ALREADY BEEN TAKEN!!! Okay, not word for word, since her name is Amy and mine is Jill, but the context was the same.
By this time I am sweating profusely and getting cotton mouth.
My worst fear has come true. I am a COPY-CATTER. Only accidentally.
What do I do now? Complete panic has set in and after 10 minutes of trying to compose myself, I decide to write her. It goes something like this:
"ummmm.....awkward moment here......like when you go to a party and someone walks in wearing the exact outfit you have on....I just started this blogging thing and called myself what my dad always called me. ( I wanted to use the pity angle here and add 'He died 7 months ago' but left out any extra sniveling.) I feel really dumb. I hope you aren't mad. (and don't beat me up or worse, talk bad about me to other bloggers) It was a toss up between Jill Jill Bo Bill and White Girl Can't Jump (because I am SO not athletic)...probably someone has that one, too!"
I ramble on and truthfully tell her I loved her blog and her room was darlin'. I meant it, but the entire time I am typing and giggling aloud my annoying nervous Betty Rubble giggle, I am watching my life as a blogger go straight down the crapper. So, like I do in real life, I try to throw in humor so she won't hit me too hard.
"BTW, do you sing the song all day long, too?(bananafannafobamy)"
I am SUCH a pud. A complete wuss. And scared shitless she is going to be peeved.
Amy amy bo bamey, please forgive me!!!!!
So, if she comments that she is headed to Texas to kick my ass, (her kids ARE in Austin for the month of July with her mom- OMG!!!!) I am going into the Blogger Protection Plan and be known as "White Girl Can't Jump" and be from another small BFE town somewhere in New Mexico.
I am going to bed looking over my shoulder, jumping out of my skin at every sound with my black toboggan on and my flashlight ready to shine up on my face as the video rolls.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
About 15 yrs ago, when Glamour Shots were THE thing to do, Amy called and asked me to go with her to watch her boys while she had the pictures taken. We arrived at the local motel, which should have been my first hint of the quality of pictures.
Her boys at the time were 5 and 4 and unmedicated so I spent the entire time in the parking lot of said motel trying to keep them from entering random rooms, or knocking on doors and running away, while Amy was getting "glamourized".
I had corralled the boys to the area of the room where the magic was happening, and turned for a split second when I heard a mountain lion scream come Chris, the oldest spawn. Turning to the direction of the scream, I see before me Chris atop the window unit of the "Magic Room" where Amy was being transformed, with his face pressed up the window, his little hands placed on the sides of his face to better his view.
He whirls around and yells,
"She's nekkid! Mom's nekkid!!" His little head falls back and he belly laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen.
I pull him off the AC unit and say, "Chris, she has to change clothes and be beautiful for the pictures."
"No, they were taking pictures of her nekkid."
ooookaaaaaaaaaaay. What am I supposed to say to that?
"No they weren't, baby. They are professionals. They don't do nudies, silly," praying that she really wasn't in there doing Penthouse centerfold layouts.
I loaded the boys into the car and waited impatiently for her emerge from the Den of Iniquity.
She comes out, totally disheveled, with her hair in this GIANT poof of a ponytail and makeup smeared all across her face.
Oh my GOD! I thought, they really DID porno stuff to my little sister and she apparently has been molested beyond my wildest nightmare.
"What the hell?" I asked when she slammed the car door. "Were you R-A-P-E-D?" trying to protect her babies from the obvious horrid truth.
"What?! Why do you think that?"
"I saw you nekkid, mom," says Chris, and he begins to giggle again.
I filled her in on what happened and she assured us all that no pictures of her nude were taken. So I made her promise not to open the pix when they arrived at her house until I could be there to ensure her virtue was still intact.
So, 3 weeks later she calls.
"The pictures are here. Hurry up."
We pull the photo out of the cardboard envelope slowly, slowly......and as the entire image emerges, Amy and I scream at the top of our lungs.
She is standing in her kitchen holding the picture with her mouth wide open and I am on the floor, having fallen to my knees in shear hysteria. It takes me a while to catch my breath and regain the feeling in my legs after the oxygen had been cut off due to my laughter.
I snatch the picture out of her hands and look with intensity at my sister's picture.
Before me was this HUMONGOUS head of red curls taking up the entire circumference of the photo that would make any Texan debutante jealous.
"I look like the freakin' Lion King!"
Her upper lips were actual TRIANGLES painted in bright red, and her blush and eye shadow were apparently applied with a trowel, all being in jewel tone family, which matched her TEAL boa.
"Holy shit! Did you pay for these?"
We laughed and looked at it over and over, getting more and more hysterical.
"We have to show mom," I say, wanting to share this joy with those we loved the most.
There was dead silence, and the smile that seemed permanently pasted on Amy's face was suddenly gone.
"No one can know about this. NO ONE!!"
As much as I begged and pleaded, Amy was adamant that THE picture was never going to be seen again by anyone. I even added obvious lies, such as, "I think you look pretty," and "It's really not THAT bad," to get her to loosen the grip she now had on the envelope.
Years later, when mom was helping her move, she found THE picture that only had been discussed in whispers among the other sisters and mom, never including Amy, in hopes to save her the humiliation she feared.
Mom called me later, saying that she appreciated the preparation I had given her, which softened the blow when she slid it out of the envelope.
"I laughed til I cried," she said, "But Amy laughed with me. All is good."
"Where is the picture now?"
"I think she threw it away."
WHAT?! I was flabbergasted! Why would anyone throw away a guaranteed pee-your-pants laugh-a-thon that could, in and of itself, save the world from any sadness?!!?
Amy will never 'fess up to what really happened to THE picture, but I think it's somewhere hidden away in her house.
I'm going there to find it. If I leave now, I will be there at 3:30am. Wish me luck.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
I met the right Mr. while I was taking care of his ill father in the hospital during my fun-filled divorce. He asked me out for coffee (which everyone knows flows rampantly on the med/surg floor of the hospital). So, totally liquored-up on 18 cups of full-strength Folger's, I said in my outside voice, "I have FIVE kids." There, I said it. Run, boy, run. "Yes, I know," he responded oh-so-gaggingly-sweet. Sooo, 10 months later we all married him. Then we all went on our honeymoon to Breckenridge to ski. Except me. I mean I went, but I didn't (and don't) ski. I instead studied for the f'n boards like the good little graduate nurse I was. Then I got trashed and the Mr. and I snuck out and stayed in the next door neighbor's cabin after they told us they were leaving early to beat the snow storm that was rolling in. It was wickedly fun (and loud). We snuck back before sunrise (mainly because I woke up panicking that the maid might come to clean the "empty" cabin at 5am and catch us there) and all 8 were none the wiser that they were without us. HA! SUCKAS!! I had finally found The One that was totally and completely in love with me and thought i was the f'n BOMB. Life is good...