The Lumberjack's Wife

Imagine that.

This is the third post during my blogging “career” in which I have declared that I am starting a diet.

Perhaps this means I have trouble committing?

It’s certainly something to consider.

To catch up:

Because I Started a Diet

Because I Started a Diet . . . the sequel

Folks.

Herein lies the problem:  I don’t really want to change my ways.

And I really, really, really like to eat these:

and also this:

this:

don’t forget this:

this:

and, lastly but not leastly, this:

*sigh*

Such a glorious world full of food that is needing to be consumed.

But, alas.

I weigh no less than I did when I first stated I was on a diet.

And my body is not one bit fitter.

Also, it has been brought to my attention that my cholesterol is high.

So, therefore, from heretohenceforth, I must declare that I am on a diet.

Again.

For reals.

Because I have a dream.

I have a dream that one day, I shall not be ashamed to wear swimsuit.

Not a bikini, of course!

Heavens, no!

But a skirted, full-coverage, tankini.

Yes.

And if they come out with a capri-length tankini, I am so there!

I have a dream that one day, I shall wear a flowy, peasant top and not have innocent bystanders inquire of me if I am expecting my 5th child.

I have a dream that one day, I shall love to exercise.

Ha!

That last one was a joke.

Who really likes to exercise?

I suppose people who look good in swimsuits and don’t get questions as to the current-status-of-their-fertility-while- wearing-flowing-peasant-tops do.

Nevertheless!

Exercise is the devil.

So, some of you expressed interest in joining me on my new mission.

So get ready.

Figure out your goals.  You dreams.  Your aspirations.

Get a post ready or a comment formulated in your head.

We start Tuesday.

PS- Guess what is currently in my oven?

Chocolate chip cookies.

(not a baby)

But, I promise, they are for our camping trip and I shall only eat seven one.

***

Yes!  We are going camping!

Again!

Oh.

Be.

Still.

My.

Heart.

Does anyone ever get to go to the mall on weekends?

Say hello for me.

Before I head off into the vast wilderness, with my shower and generator of course, I must welcome Gladys back to the blog.

Gladys is looking quite fetching today, is she not?

This week’s COW (comment of the week) has to go to Jill.

Jill has now given me the best *unsolicited* homeschool advice to date.

(I am just using the latter half of her comment for today’s purposes)

Secondly, grow your hair out very long, almost to your waist. Wear only homemade clothes. Wear striped knee socks with most outfits and declare your style to be eclectic. (I’m a homeschool mom, so I’m allowed to make fun of them, aren’t I?) : )

Third, since you’re homeschooling, every trip out of Ruralville is a field trip. Count it. If you go to the store, have one of the kids count the number of people in line before you. You’ve just had math class. If you go to the lake, you’ve had physical education. I’m pretty sure that every time you say “Holla!” you’ve had Spanish class. See? It’s not as difficult as you think. : )

Classy, Jill.

Classy.

Go say Holla! to Jill.

I would like to take this moment to remind everyone that no, I am not saying “Hola!,” the Spanish word for hello.

I am saying “Holla!,”a super-fun-friendly-joyous way to greet someone.

Focus, people!

Happy Weekend!

Yesterday was a terribly busy day.

Allow me to elaborate.

I woke up and baked the Darn Good Chocolate Cake to go with Chicken Pot Pie for my dearheart friend, Bimlissa, and her family as sort of a “Dang!  You are moving! I will miss you!  Here’s some dinner!” meal.

Attention Facebook Friends:  You will be relieved to discover that, even though I was planning on making the cake without the instant pudding mix and just hoping for the best, The Lumberjack got a hankering for ice cream, so he went back to the store for ice cream and instant pudding mix.

Holla, Lumberjack!

Holla!

Interruption:  Would you like to be included in thrilling updates, such as my baking woes?  You can!  Just be a Facebook liker.

Or don’t.

I still like you either way.

Anyways.

I crammed all the kids into the tiny, gas-friendly car, sweated like crazy because there is no air conditioning (oh. the. humanity.), and delivered my “Dang!  You are moving! I will miss you!  Here’s some dinner!” meal. 

We then spent some time with Bimlissa and company before saying our final goodbyes.

*tear*

I would like to take this time to dedicate a song to Bimlissa:

“And a friend’s a friend forever, if the Lord’s the Lord of them.  And a friend will not say never . . . “

(Name that Music Artist)

Interruption:  Are you wondering why she is called Bimlissa?  Are you wondering what the point of this blog is?  Are you wondering why you are reading this?

Take heart.

Surely, you are not alone.  I oft wonder the same things myself.

Nextly, I dropped all four of the childrens off with my beloved sister while I ran errands and sweated like crazy in my tiny car.

Then, I went to the doctor. 

Turns out I am a heart attack waiting to happen.

Who knew?!

Ok . . . maybe not that extreme, but my cholesterol is super high and we must now take extreme measures to bring it down.

My doctor said I may not eat any beef.  Ever.  Period.

That is all fine and dandy, seeing as how I prefer chicken, but my husband, in all his handsomeness, purchased an entire COW this winter.

Remember?

Unfortunate, is it not?

I will tell you what else is unfortunate.  I had to move that beef in and out of that darn freezer about 6 times since December, due to my husband needing to move the freezer so often this year.

It was a bad year to buy a cow, Lumberjack.

So, yours truly has to get super strict on the diet and limit all beef and eat only skim/low fat dairy and such.

Goodbye, ice cream!  Goodbye Blizzards! 

I turned 29 and my life is spiraling out of control.

So . . . here is what I am thinking.  When I posted the other day about how I was paying Weight Watchers, yet not following the plan, a few of you commented that you are in similar boats.  My blogging friend, Jaime, suggested a little contest where we sneak our weight loss progress into posts to keep each other accountable.

And, I was thinking if there are others of you out there who would like to participate, that could be kind of fun.  You could either post it in your blog, or post it in a comment.  Let me know if you are interested, and we will work  out the details.  And you don’t have to be doing Weight Watchers.

***

Finally, on a much lighter and less heart-attackish note, shall we all take a moment to wish “Happy Birthday” to a very special birthday boy?

Yes.  Yes, we shall.

(Name that brother-in-law of mine who is turning 26 on this beautiful, blessed morn)

Happy Thursday!

As many of you fellow moms know, there are some days where you simply must knock the socks off of your kids and impress them with your super-rad-mama-skills.

Yesterday was one such day.

Apparently my kids lead a snack-deprived life.

I became aware of this yesterday when I made for them the famous old “ants on a log” snack.

You see, dear readers, Lumberjill rarely has celery on hand, seeing as how The Lumberjack despises celery and all forms of it thereof.

But, as fate would have it, I had to buy celery for a new salad recipe (of which my husband would not even try . . . he is such picky-pants) and I needed to find a use for it.

So, whilst I was feeding my darlings their lunch, I started creating “Ants on a Log.”

Oh!

I am sorry!

Are you not aware of this super-secret recipe?

Allow me to enlighten you:

Celery sticks.

Spread them with peanut butter.

Top with a few raisins.

Tricky stuff.

So, I give my kids this snack.

And this is the conversation that ensued:

Sweet Pea:  Mom!  These are awesome!

Daisy Mae:  Look!  I am eating ants! *chuckle, chuckle, giggle, giggle*

Sweet Pea:  Mom!  I have the bestest idea.  You know those ladies at Walmart that stand at the table and give out snacks.  You should sell these like the ladies at Walmart.

Daisy Mae:  You would be so rich!

Me:  Handsome Dude . . . do you like them?

Yikes!

Are you wondering where Handsome Dude’s glasses are?

Wonder no longer.

Badda-Bing!  Badda-Boom!

That’s right.

Found his glasses in 0.4 seconds.

Look at me my bad self.

Handsome Dude:  No!  These wee yuck!

Handsome Dude:  I no like eat ants.

Me:  Ok.

Handsome Dude:  I want eat grapes.  No ants.

Me:  Ok, dude.

Handsome Dude:  Grapes.

Me:  Ok.

Allow me to interpret:  grapes=raisins.

Me:  Little Dude, do you like your lunch?

Of course Little Dude likes his lunch!

Little Dude:  Mo!  Mo!

Allow me to interpret:  Mo=More.

Keep up, people!

Little Dude did not, however, like ants on a log.

Sweet Pea and Daisy Mae enjoy this snack thoroughly.

So much so, that they made a song for us to all enjoy, in praise of the snack food item.

Sweet Pea and Daisy Mae:  “Ants on a log, ants on a log.  Looking like a fool with your ants on a log!” *giggle, chuckle, giggle, chuckle*

(Name the real song)

Tell me something you make your kids that they sing your praises over . . . or suggest you give out samples of at Walmart?

Happy Wednesday!

Oh-my-goodness-gracious-me.

Should I be posting today?

No.

No, I should not.

Last night, I ingested two Tylenol PMs and a couple of swigs straight from the Nyquil bottle.

I feel sickly, cloudy, groggy, and goopy.

Yet, post I shall!

***

This morning I was awakened by one Handsome Dude who climbed in bed with me at 7:40am.

Hold the phone!

7:40am!

That’s insane!

This leads me to fear that either:

A)  The universe has collapsed, pigs now fly, and my son sleeps past 6am.

or

B)  My son had full reign of his casa without any supervision.

I’m going with Option B.

You go with your gut.

So, at 7:40am, Handsome Dude crawled into bed with me.

And . . . he was silent!

Luring me into a false sense of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could go back to sleep.

Not so, dear readers.

Not.

So.

Out of nowhere, he starts loudly singing a song that I can proudly tell you he made up himself.

It went something like this:

“Ribber, Ribber, Riiiibbbbeeerrr!

Ribber, Ribber, Garage Sale!”

Allow me to interpret, if I may.

Ribber=River.

We are going camping at the river this weekend.

My mother, as foolish as she is, informed Handsome Dude of this yesterday, so he is constantly talking about it and looking to see if Grams and Pops are coming with their “tray-wer.”

Again.

Allow me to interpret.

Tray-wer=Trailer.

Oh.

And garage sale=garage.

Focus, people!

Shall I continue?

Handsome Dude is also constantly putting on his “big-kocks” so he can look at our “tray-wer.”

No.

I do not have a potty mouth.

Big-kocks=Flip Flops

Get your minds out of the gutter!

***

Last night, Handsome Dude picked out jammies for himself and for his little brother.

Raise your hand if you think Sir Handsome Dude got confused and put on Little Dude’s jammies instead.

He is looking quite svelte, is he not?

Now, we must discuss Little Dude.

I cannot help but observe that every time I see this Little Dude, he tries to smooch me.

Quite frankly, it’s almost embarrassing.

Aaaaaaaaannnnnnnndddddd . . . I love him.

***

Attention all peoples who do not yet have children:

When you become sick . . . savor it.

Buy your favorite ice cream . . . rent some movies . . . put on your comfiest of clothes.

Lay in bed.

Relax.

Recover.

Recoop.

For when you have children, this shall never happen again.

Takes all the fun out of being sick.

And, for the record, NO, I am not pregnant.

Dorks.

Yes, I have pink eye.

And a sore throat.  And a headache.  And a lot of tummy flab.

The End.

Today’s post was going to be titled something more like, “Oh, Crap!,” but I decided that sounded slightly questionable in nature.

Besides.

Can I say “crap” on this blog?

I think I just did.

Nevertheless!

I have deemed it a questionable word and shall change it to “Oh, Snap!” seeing as how I feel that is much more fitting and noble in nature.

The past few days have had several, “Oh, Snap!” moments.

Allow me to expand on that thought.

Oh, Snap!

I am homeschooling this year.  Yet, I haven’t done anything to prepare and I know not what I am doing.

Oh, Snap!

Everytime I meet someone who does, in fact, home school, they tell me everything that they and their mothers do and how the way they do it is the best way to do it in the whole entire universe of the home school world.

Folks.

I am drowning here.

Drowning in a sea of words such as Synapore, Saxon, Classical, Abeka, Well-Trained Mind, Hands-on, Hands-off, kinesthetic, Bob Jones, and the like.

Do you homeschool?

Stand down, good reader!

I kid!  I jest!

But, really.  I have got to get this figured out.

Soon.

Oh, Snap!

I signed up for Weight Watchers 2 weeks ago and seemed to have completely forgotten to enter in any points into the handy Points calculator since the day I paid that fateful $17.95.

Spoiler Alert:  I have not lost any weight.

And I am out $17.95

Oh, Snap!

I am sick.

This morning it took me 10 minutes to pry open my eyes.

100 (meaningless) points to anyone who can diagnose me.

Oh, Snap!

I live in Ruralville!

How did I get out here?

What is my purpose?

“Are you there, God?  It’s me.  Margaret.”

(Name that author)

Local readers understand. 

Nobody moves to Ruralville.

Ruralville is south of town.

Most people move north.

Fact:  This is the only way we could afford to buy land.  Because no one else moves south.

Attention Local Readers:  The Lumberjack and I, seeing as how we are uber cool, are clearly trend setters.  So . . . . tell your friends!  South is the way to go!

Oh, Snap!

My baby is 2!

Oh, the humanity!

Oh, Snap!

We have 2 house payments!

What were we not thinking?

Oh, Snap!

My dearheart friend Bimlissa is moving far, far away this weekend.

I would like to announce that for the first time during the existence of our friendship, I currently weigh less than Bimlissa.

Holla!

Lest any of you are confused, this is only because she is 7 months pregnant.

Bimlissa and I get along great!  We have a lot in common.

There is only one thing that separates us . . .

She is on Team Edward.

And, sadly, I am on Team “Why on earth do you like that nonsense?”

100 (meaningless) points to anyone who doesn’t know the book series of which I speak.

Seriously, though.

Edward needs a tan.

***

And now, good readers, I would like to share with you the biggest, “Oh, Snap!” moment of all.

It happened many, many years ago.

7 . . . to be exact.

I had just had my first baby.

After I had the baby, weight started dropping off like crazy those first few days.

My old maternity clothes were becoming . . . loose.

And even though I still had 35 pounds to lose, I knew I looked good.

I looked dang good with my loose fitting maternity-jeans-with-the-panel-that-went-up-to-my-chest.

One day, when baby was about 4 weeks old, I decided to try on some jeans with zippers, seeing as how I clearly looked good and was obviously ready to get back in the game.

Allow me to bring this story into deeper illustration, if I may.

Let’s say that before I had baby, I was a size zero.

You know.

For kicks and grins.

Fact:  Lumberjill has never been anywhere near or around the vicinity of a size zero.

I just picked that size for illustration purposes only.

And to make myself feel good, even if it is in pretense.

Well, when I went to try on jeans, there was no way my stomach was cramming into my regular size.

So I went up to a size 2.

Nope.

I went up another size . . . size 4.

Nope.

Again . . . I went up.

Size 6.

Yes!  It took a lot of effort and sucking in, but yes!

I could technically zip them.

And only a few sizes bigger than my normal size!

Look at me and my bad self!

So I strutted around in those jeans for weeks.

True.

I had to lay flat on the bed, suck in my tummy, and zip with all my might in order to get them on.

But I was wearing pants with zippers.

One day, about 3 weeks later, I was doing laundry.

And the truth, the horrid truth lay right inside those large pants.

No.

They were not a size 6.

They were, in fact, a size 8.

Oh, Snap!

It was that darn exterior sticker tag that led me astray!

You know . . . the one that says:

“6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6,6”

Honestly.

Why do they have to repeat it so many times?

Would not one “6” suffice?

Sadly, the wrong exterior tag had been placed on my large pants.

And they were still too tight.

So, naturally, I signed up for Weight Watchers and forgot to follow the plan.

Which is unlike me.

Happy Monday!