How to put the "fun" in funeral

Earlier this month I had to go to a funeral. One of my relatives had passed away, and being post pregnancy (huge), I had nothing to wear. This is when I realized that funerals suck for more than just one reason. Granted, It is hard to lose someone you care about, someone who has been an integral part of your life since you were teeny tiny. Everyone knows that is the hardest part, the worst part of having a death in the family. Ah, but there is more. Shame and humilliation and degradation are also involved. When you have to take your giant, post-baby, saggy skinned, bubble butt to the dressing room to find something dignified to wear, you realize immediately that nothing good can come of this.

So here I stood for the first time in over 8 months, staring at my hippoesque body in a full length mirror. The pre-pregnancy me was long gone. I must have gained about a million pounds. I know I have no one to blame but myself, because I constantly ate ice cream, cheetos and BBQ ribs. The woman looking back at me in the mirror was just a hot mess. My hair was all long and frizzy, split end city. I should never leave the house without makeup ever again because the hormone shift did crazy things to my skin. I've seen apartments smaller than some of the pores on my nose. My butt, oh it needed a zipcode all it's own. Somehow I missed out on the whole booby thing because those are still super tiny and really don't balance out the big giant hips I've managed to acquire. The big giant hips perched atop thighs that look like they have been hit with a bag of freaking nickels. I stared, for the very first time at the huge purple c-section scar across my belly. The giant scar that I couldn't avoid, but hadn't had to face until now. Needless to say I cried, right there in the dressing room, surrounded by the multifaceted reflection of myself.

I knew I hadn't taken the best care of my figure while I was pregnant. I never should have treated it like a license to eat, but I did. So I found myself a giant skirt with a stretchy elastic waist and a big giant sweater to help hide the fat rolls that made me feel like the Michelin man. I did my walk of shame to the register and paid for my giant clothes. My eyes still red and puffy from my little snot-fest in the dressing room.

Since funerals are one of the few times you usually get to see extended family, and since I had my Lil Guy in tow, I spent a lot of time playing hide and seek with anyone who might possibly try to take a picture of me/the baby. I want absolutely no photographic evidence that I have ended up looking like a giant albino walrus in a sweater.

I suppose I need to start trying to lose all this baby weight. I guess I need to swear off all the tasty food and get up off my lardy to exercize. I've always hated exercize, and I've always loved tasty food. This is really gonna suck.

Waylon, Willie and my Baby Boy

A recent source of laughter in my home is my Lil Guy's love of music. He's 4 months old, and he is already a clown. I never expected that there would be ramifications for Bubby singing "I'm Gonna Hire a Wino" to my giant pregnant belly, but I was wrong. My Lil Guy has developed a love for old cheesey country music. He gets so excited. He bobs his head first, then he starts kicking his feet like a wild man. If you hold him so he can stand, he even shakes his booty. Needless to say, Slacker Radio is his friend. He is apparently a connoisseur of country moldy oldies. He seems to like Jerry Reed the best, of all things. We get high pitched squeals and laughter every single time he hears "When you're hot, you're hot", "Amos Moses", or "Eastbound and Down". Maybe I watched Smokey and the Bandit one too many times during pregnacy. He also likes Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. He cries when "The Highwaymen" is over. Last night I discovered he also *loves* Patsy Cline, but who doesn't? He was jabbering away, like he was trying to sing along, and then he drooled on my Blackberry. I'm just wondering if there is some genetic link to someones taste in music, or if it really is because he was exposed to too much crap in utero! Either way, the poor kid is screwed. With Bubby's love of twangy southern gospel *gag*, I can just hope and pray it isn't inherited. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with songs of praise, but I prefer mine without the twang! If we notice the Lil Guy rocking out to Steve Miller then I know it's all my fault.

How Jack felt when he needed to potty at the top of the beanstalk

I live in a too small house with too tall everything. Especially too tall potties. I haven't been able to poop without having my feet go numb from dangling in about a year. I feel like a little bitty kid trying to "make do" with the grown up potty. I never realized that a toilet could be a luxury,but it is. When my Lil Guy is out of diapers, I may revolt and just go get a standard potty and install that sucker for him. Ok, mostly for me, I'm selfish like that. Really, who wants to sit 3 freaking feet off the ground to do your business? I feel like I'm trying to poop in the sink! Not that I could reach those to try that. My sinks, counters, stove, and even the built in ironing board are all up high too! All because Bubby (My hubby) built the house to fit him, after he decided he was never going to find "the one", and get married. Well, SURPRISE!!! He did find me, all 5'2" of me, and married me,and even fathered a child with me. Then he brought me home to live in a house that makes me feel like freaking Thumbelina, but not in a dainty cute way.In a OMG this house is to F-ing tall for me and ihavetostandonmytippytoestobushmyteeth way. It is so bad that he got tired of worrying about me possibly getting 3rd degree burns from taking things out of our under cabinet microwave (Seriously, the bottom of that thing is at least 6 feet high), so he got me a countertop model. I barely broke the 5 foot mark and I live in a house made for Sasquatch. It is so disheartening. I hate my house. It kinda came as a package deal when I got my husband, when we said the whole "With all that I have, and all that I am..." line at our wedding. Needless to say, I am trapped there by a mortgage now. I know how the Roloff's feel.It really sucks to need a step ladder to use the back burners on your stove.

And in the beginning...

Ok, so the whole blogging thing is new to me. I am just hoping to use this as a place to voice the strange inner monologue that runs through my head. Call it venting, or stress relief, or insane, whatever. I realize that Iam often crude, and very blunt. I am stressed, often to the breaking point. Hopefully, this will provide an escape. It has also dawned on me that I have forgotten how to spell, in the many moons since graduation. So pardon my spelling, my grammar, my insanely bad attitude. Feel free to follow me if you so desire. Enjoy the ride, or get carsick and puke. It is up to you.