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Back when Hubby and I first got together, he was a skinny guy: over six feet tall and 155 pounds soaking wet. He had a 28-inch waist and a 36-inch inseam and could easily hide behind a drinking straw.

Thanks to years of heavy weight-training, thousands of protein shakes and hundreds of dollars spent on supplements, my man is no longer skinny. Now he weighs 225 lbs.

And we’re not talking about a flabby 225, either, no sirree. We’re talking about a hard, muscley 225 that bears little resemblance to the 155 lbs I dated back in the day.

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m proud of what he’s accomplished. I’m a little relieved, too, because our resemblance to Jack and Mrs. Sprat used to be a little too close for comfort, you know? But there were some unforseen problems about living with 225 pounds of husband that I never could’ve foreseen, like how disruptive it has become to my sleep.

I still love the guy, but sharing a bed with him now is like sleeping with an oak tree: it takes up a lot more area than you could ever imagine, and if you accidentally bump into it in the middle of the night you’re probably going to hurt yourself.

But the worst part of it is when he has a bad night. He tosses and turns and bounces me out of bed, because he still sleeps like he’s 155 pounds. And I’m sorry, but there’s only so much unexpected floor-kissing you can take in the middle of the night before you begin to lose your sunny daytime personality.

So today he claims I am grouchy and out of sorts, and possibly I am because I spent yet another night with Mr. Hyperactive Oak. He even says I swore at him at one point between midnight and 3 am and maybe I did—but I doubt he actually heard what I said from my position on the floor, anyway.

All day I’ve been having little fantasies about sleeping with the tall, skinny guy I used to know, the one who could toss and turn without so much as registering a 0.3 on the Richter Scale. But then I stepped on the bathroom scale and realized perhaps it’s better Hubby weighs what he does right now after all, because I haven’t lost much of my Mrs. Spratlyness.

And then I started reading blogs for Super Sábado and found Continue reading “Super Sabado: Ravelled sleeves, husbandly oak trees and getting bounced out of bed”

I know we’re usually a little more humorous on Super Sábado, but I’m going to talk about something serious today.

My friend Sang is fighting stage 3A breast cancer. She is a tough, tough lady: her husband died suddenly, leaving with her two kids to raise by herself. Ten months later she felt a lump, went to the doctor and received a very scary diagnosis. And yet she’s been holding everything together better than I do on a good day. She constantly amazes me.

But don’t tell her I said any this. She has absolutely no idea I’m writing about her; in fact, she hasn’t told very many people and would probably kill me if she knew I spread it all over my blog, but TOO BAD.

Last September we lost my brother-in-law Mark to cancer. Within the week our neighbor Rachel lost her fight with ovarian cancer. My dad died of bladder cancer 16 years ago. But so what? We all know lots of people who were taken from us by this disease. We all know that CANCER SUCKS.

Thank goodness we know people who have survived cancer, too, or who are fighting it successfully—like Sang is. To me these people are walking, talking miracles; the souls who have been through hell and back while all the rest of us had to worry about was whether or not the repairman showed up when he said he would.

This week Sang finally gave in and got a port for her chemo and was a little sore. I won’t go into detail about this procedure, but let’s just say it’s close to Roto-Rooter Meets Your Carotid Artery and damn! I immediately stopped griping about having to do our taxes.

I shall repeat: damn!

And then Buffy sent me this link to a blog by a gal named Carolynn.

In November 2000, three things happened within a two week period—two of which changed my life forever:
I turned 37 years old.
I found out I was six weeks pregnant.
I was told I had breast cancer.

“My Story,” PinkRibbonMiracle.com

Carolynn’s story is jaw-dropping. The good news is: she is a cancer survivor.

Now she focuses her efforts on behalf of those still fighting the disease. Her site has several resources that will help the newly diagnosed, as well as news and information about her years of involvement with the Avon Breast Cancer Walk. Her motto: YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

You can help her efforts by making out a check to The American Cancer Society, and mailing it to:

Carolynn Johnson
Carolynn’s Crew
PO Box 1551
North Tazewell, VA 24630

Or perhaps you’ve got another way to help the fight against whatever species of cancer has touched you recently. Whether you aim for the target of prevention or cure, I don’t care; whether you believe in donating money or just offering up prayers, I don’t care either.

As long as we all do what we can, because CANCER SUCKS.

It’s Super Sabado AND St. Patrick’s Day! Tonight we’re going to Didi’s house for a St. Paddy’s Day party. On the menu: Italian and Chinese, which apparently are very popular on Irish menus. In Ireland. And…

And, uh…

Um…

Oh! Sorry, but I was distracted by this display of Peeps in my local supermarket. Check it out! The little devils come in purple now.

Just the first of our annual Peeps Invasion, something the Office of Homeland Security has yet to take seriously, the fools. I know firsthand what these diabolical little buggers are up to and believe me, if you’re smart, you’ll keep your microwave at the ready.

All I’m saying is: stay alert. Watch out for the Peeps!

Moving on.

What I originally wanted to tell you about was how I just finished a long assignment of swim team commuting where I would leave the house at 2:30 and not return until 8 pm or so. That was weekdays. On Saturdays, I’d leave at 6:20 and not come home until 11 am.

I couldn’t mention this before because that would be, like BROADCASTING TO THE WHOLE WORLD that our house was totally empty during those hours, except for two snooty cats and a friendly little bulldog who’d let you load anything onto your moving truck as long as you offered him a butt scratch first.

But now that Tiger and Squirt are attending the same swim team practices with Coach Scary, I don’t have to drive anymore, which means both of my eggs travel daily all by themselves at high speeds down the I-5 in a little tin basket.

At first, I still insisted on coming along, because, really, if they are going to go out in a blaze of freeway glory, I’d rather go with them, you know? The better for them that they should enter Eternity with my last words ringing in their ears: “STEP ON THE BRAKES AIEEEEEE!”

But I’ve finally become confident enough in Tiger’s driving skills that I can now wave goodbye to my boys without freaking out too much. I wave goodbye, and then I close the front door and face two snooty cats and a friendly little bulldog who wants his butt scratched.

Hey! It’s safer than facing one of the Peeps Pod People in the supermarket, let me tell you.

Today’s Super Sabado has a lot of Continue reading “Super Sabado: St. Patrick actually drove the PEEPS out of Ireland”