SPF 50 and Sweat-Soaked Shorts

To say that I let myself go is really an understatement. But I did.

I have viewed my move to a new state/city/climate as a new start. Also, I wholly admit that my copious use of powder to alleviate chaffing is quite gross. It isn't quite as effective in a climate in which the minute I step outside the combination of cornstarch and sweat causes a type of paste to develop and fall out of places that are a little embarrassing.

So, adequately lubed up with sunblock, I began taking the kids out in the morning before the sun got hot enough to cause too much of a heat rash or sunstroke. I would push the baby in the stroller and the 8 year old would ride his bike. "This will be a fantastic family activity," I thought as I mentally patted myself on the back. W likes to ride his bike, M likes to watch the animals/birds/cars from her stroller. I'm sweating the poundage off. Win, win, win.

Surprisingly, it was fun for the 1 year old. In our neighborhood, there are many dog walkers, bunnies, stray cats and interesting garbage lying along side the street (the garbage pick up day is interesting; they'll pick up anything. ANYTHING. This is a story for later).

The one who had the problem with the entire situation was the 8 year old who immediately turned into a whiny baby on his bicycle. Following are some of his protestations that I listened to for about two weeks before, armed with instructions, a phone, an open Facebook page (to talk to Dad) and a questionable guard dog, I finally left him at home as I trudged off on my twenty minute walk around our neighborhood.

"My helmet is too tight." He unstraps the helmet. I yell. He cries, then straps the helmet back up.

"I need a new bike!" Upon which I explain there are many other things that will be purchased before he gets a new bicycle.

"I'm hoooooooottttttttt!" Upon which I tell him to ride a bit faster to catch a breeze.

"Why do I have to wear a helmet?" I explain the reason, which seems to be a waste of my breath as he has surely heard this hundreds of times. Also, I am panting and uncomfortably sweating my fat ass off.

"How much longer?" Upon which I explain that we are out for at least twenty minutes, and that we have only been going at this for five minutes; therefore, he must endure fifteen more, so shut the hell up and keep going (I didn't really say that).

Tears were a daily occurrence, and I pondered ways to toughen this kid up all of which surely would have elicited calls to Department of Human Services.

So, my jogs began occurring a little earlier when the husband could be with him. Or the precautions were repeated and the warnings were were laid out as he plopped down in front of the Drake and Josh episode he had seen four hundred times before.

Because, as you notice as you read the verbage, the walk had turned into a jog. I dare to call it a jog, as it is more like a slow, laborious shuffle. My husband went out for a "run" with me exactly one time and I could see him silently mocking me as I shuffled and he walked just a little bit faster.

The pounds haven't come off as fast as they did when I stopped eating a bag of chips every night, but the endurance has gotten better and I am continuing to push the wee one around our neighborhood in her regular stroller ~I am holding out on the jog stroller thing until I can look the part of a real jogger and wear actual shorts without having them ride up in between my thighs.

The elastic waist capri workout pants gradually were phased out in lieu of longish shorts technically should be called bermudas. The following picture is what I envision a "real jogger" to look like; I am definitely not there.

Yesterday, I tentitively tried out the shorts ~ really cute hot pink ones that were too big pre-pregnancy, but at this time had to be stretched in several different places to acheive the illusion that they actually fit.

The husband assured me that my butt wasn't hanging out the back several times before I set out. However, I realized very quickly that I would be digging them out of my crotch for my entire two mile loop.

The two miles has turned into 2.5, although the whole process is slow, sweaty and elicits stares at the dripping fat girl from the lawn maitenance people every morning. I know that they are wondering, "does she need help?" But I force a smile, wave and keep on going.

I shuffle on, toward a 5K, 150 pounds, a half marathon....or whatever comes first.

Diet Pills and Roadkill

Due to a monumental, cross-country job change, we have found ourselves residents Florida.

Specifically, "I" have found myself in Florida for now~ unpacking, arranging, weeding, mopping, cleaning and pretty much everything that goes along with occupying a house that has been vacant for who-knows-how-long. Two-thirds of my children have joined me, making the afore-mentioned tasks just that much more difficult, seeing as one of them has to be watched constantly because, unsupervised, she is two minutes away from electrocution, drowning or falling into the freshwater canal that is our backyard. The other one, although seven years older, has regressed to wetting the bed, dragging his blankey around the house 24/7 and flopping over in tantrum-like rages when told "no," he can't purchase the entire DVD series of ICarly at Target for $24.99.

I made it to Florida, the Tallahassee area specifically, in less than 24 hours thanks to my two wonderful friends (the Katy's) and a blatant abuse of diet pills prescribed just before my departure from Iowa. I lured the younger Kaat into accompanying me to Florida with flowery promises of the Great Smokey Mountains, beautiful scenery and Asheville, home of the Biltmore Estate. A recent high school graduate, a road trip that included all of this, plus some time on the beach in Florida, must have been pretty alluring.

She saw little of the beauty promised due to a monumental change of driving plans that occurred in the general vicinity of ~ I don't know ~ Indiana. I blame this on the diet pills and my brother, who downright begged me to stop by his home south of Tallahassee, in a place so remote I didn't have cell phone service 3/4 of the time. This was also where the other "Katy" and I gleefully stomped on a furry, red ant the size of my big toe. It didn't die easily, mind you ~ it obviously had a great will to live. Upon further future investigation , this critter was called a cow-killer. We probably shouldn't have trifled with a critter with a nickname of "cow-killer," but we are from the midwest. We didn't know any better.

Due to financial reasons, my other half convinced me to drive our pint-sized Toyota Corolla. I swapped the use of my SUV because at the time, 38 miles per gallon sounded pretty damn good.

It wasn't so good when the Corolla was loaded with three grown women, a one year old, and our dog, the Cairn Terrier named Sven. It was possibly some of the hottest weather of the year in the south, further complicating our close quarters. I watched as the thermometer on the car reached 102 and 103 degrees, and we practically puddled the second we stepped outside the air conditioning of the car.

The dog innocently put a wrench in our breaks and we stopped and ate at only one restaurant, because even with the windows wide open, one can't possibly leave a dog in a car in 103 degree weather. We chanced it at a Chick-Fil-A in Alabama. We circled the parking lot until a spot with partial shade opened up and periodically checked on him from inside the restaurant ~ his leash hooked to the door handle of the car with a bowl of water next to him. His woeful eyes never left the entrance of the restaurant and was probably wondering what he had done to endure such cruelty.

I feel immensely guilty about the drive, as I didn't let anyone else behind the wheel. I have a thing about driving that is a little manic and nutso, understood only by my husband who is the same way. When setting forth upon the open road with a destination in mind, we will practically kill ourselves to get there in record time. There are so many stories, but I won't bore you with the lurid details. Just trust me on this one.

This trip, I was proud to say, was definitely made in record time; I don't think that I have made it to Florida that quickly. Ever. My passengers are still probably rueing the day that they agreed to make the trip with me, as one didn't make it out of the backseat ONCE, but I couldn't have done it without them.

I think it was gracious of me (because if I was by myself, I would have sped by the following) that we stopped at a small peninsula called Alligator Point on the Gulf of Mexico in which we, including the dog, about died of heatstroke walking from the car to the beach and back to the car again.

I also turned around and retraced our tracks at one point to stop to gawk at roadkill. Alligator roadkill, to be exact. I still feel as if we should have poked it with a stick to get a better lookey-loo, but the others were much wiser and more cautious when they pointed out the gator could have just been "stunned" and lying there on its back for a short spell, only to wake up and scurry off once it regained consciousness . We also did the touristy thing in Daytona Beach and walked the pier in which a shark was held by Kaat, providing a fabulous non-Iowalike photo opportunity.

Alas, the friends are gone and the kids aren't. There is cleaning and babyproofing to be done in our new home. The road trip is over and reality has set in.

Although it is crazy and my passengers most likely wouldn't agree, I wouldn't mind doing it again. There was more laughter experienced for me during this short time than the entire past year. I have come to the conclusion that I am much too serious ~ perhaps this should be something I should work on now that I live in Florida. Pastel houses, flamingos and the ocean three miles from my house might help me lighten up a wee bit.

Potato Bars and Skinny Little Imps

I sat across from a skinny chick at church dinner tonight.

I watched her, venomously, as she ate her baked potato covered in chili. I observed her two small children and her tiny, size zero pants and her flat stomach. I had never met her before and I am certain the vibe that she got from me was "psycho, psycho, psycho."

Every Wednesday we have dinner at our church. This is very welcome to me, as I don't have to plan a dinner for my children and my husband, who annoyingly prefers a meat and some sort of noodle/potato/bread with each of his meals.

I anticipate these meals. Freakishly so, I'm afraid. I experience glee when I find out what they are serving and revel in happiness if it is something I think is particularly tasty. Like tonight's potato bar.

What a wonderful thing: One starts off with a plain baked potato and if the heart delights so, s/he may add chili, sour cream, cheese whiz, bacon bits and other fantastic variations of "foods-that-make-a-plain-baked-potato-completely-kick-ass."

I try to hide the said glee, as I am horribly fearful of judgment by others as being the "fat girl that is enthusiastically piling her plate high full of food" and "oh, wow...she looks unnaturally excited standing in line at a potato bar."

I have a picture saved on my computer with a girl looking at a piece of cake with a psychotic look on her face, the caption reads "True Happiness: Easier for Fat People." I totally get this. And sadly, it is true.

This said glee was not hidden well several weeks ago. We had arrived at church after a long day of flying back from Florida ~ my only thing to eat since breakfast had been a package of Jack Link's which I paid, like, six bucks for on the airplane.

I bounded out of the car and into the church, excited to see what was for dinner...which happened to be tater tot casserole. My heart leapt with joy at the anticipation. I think back to the aftermath of my eating this casserole and I am shameful. I vaguely remembered the little boy sitting next to me looking at me with awed fascination as I shoveled it in. I'm sure I was a sight.

So, tonight as I sat across from this adorable, tiny little IMP, I couldn't help it: I was green with envy. She didn't look like a crazed maniac as she ate and I longed.....LONGED, I tell you....to ask her if I could accompany her home to see what was in her refrigerator. Or at the very least, if the refrigerator thing was too nutty, to come with her to grocery store and see what she puts in her cart.

Because I am SURE it isn't chips, French onion dip and frozen eggrolls to eat at 9pm at night.

Damn the super taste buds...they are making me fat.

Super Taste Buds and the Renal Artery

I haven't blogged in a long time, I know. I have a belief that if I truly have nothing to say, I should just not speak; therefore, I go long periods without writing. That goes for my everyday life, too...sometimes I just don't have too much to say and would prefer not to say anything.

This is unlike my husband who is uncomfortable with silence and who prattles on and on. This is useful when I don't feel like talking..because it is a sheer certainty that he will. All that it takes to encourage him are grunts and appropriate noises. We could go on for hours this way. It works for us.

I have been spending a lot of the time at the gym. We joined a new one and it has free child care, so I am all over it. The free child care comes with a catch though...the catch being that I have to work out. I wish I had free child care that I could drop the baby off and do something that doesn't require sweating and exertion. I want to drop her off and go get a pedicure, or my hair done, or watch a movie by myself.

But no, I take her and leave her in the nursery, her face beet red from panic and seperation anxiety , to go do my time on the elliptical machine and treadmill.

Which, in all honesty I don't mind. I don't mind the exercise. It is the deprivation of food that I have the problem with. Once I heard of a phenomenon of "super taste buds." People with "super taste buds" taste things more acutely, thus they enjoy food so much more than those without "super taste buds." That is totally me. Damn my super taste buds, they are making me fat.

But I have to get serious now that apparently my life depends on it...which sucks. I mean this quite literally.

This week I started my third blood pressure medication ~ the heavy duty one (apparently) that slows the heart rate down. I have given up on the optimism I once felt that this will work, so perhaps my attitude is self-fulfilling. The doctor is talking about renal artery disease and wants to do a doppler procedure on my renal artery to see if there is some blockage that is causing my blood pressure to stay high and to be unresponsive to medication.

Reading up on renal arterial disease is a little bit horrifying (words like congenital heart failure, death) and the treatment is difficult. It leads me to believe there will be pain involved, something I desperately try to avoid. After 10 months, I still am supremely bitter towards the anesthesiologist who administered my epidural that stopped working at 9 centimeters. Damn him.

So, the realization of this has made my quest of diet and exercise take on a different tone ~ a much more serious tone. Salads are no longer an option; exercise is no longer a novelty. They have morphed into necessity and reality.

It is a reality that I will grudgingly have to accept...after I eat my birthday cake tomorrow.

ChaChee and the Grinch

While waiting for my tardy husband to return from work today, Wesley and I have been watching Man Vs. Wild on the Discovery Channel.

Wesley has also been trying to engage me in a conversation about how we would, if necessary, decapitate a snake. He said that, as Bear Grylls did, he would bite the head off. I told him that there would be no way in HELL I would get my ass into a situation where decapitating a snake would be something I would HAVE to do. Okay, so I didn't use those exact words, but it was what I was thinking..

I have also been singing "My Dreidel" to myself. It has been stuck in my head for TWO days now. I only know the first line of the chorus which goes like this: "Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel. I made it out of clay. Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, with my dreidel I will play." I think. I guess I have not had a good reason to learn the remainder of the song as I am a Lutheran, but geez. It would be handy to know it at this moment because it is driving me bananas.

Our holidays were nice...although I am not a holiday person. They require too much planning, preparation and decorating; all activities at which I am inept. The decorating part is the worst for me, though, as it all needs to be taken down and put away...and "putting things away" is a sub-category of "cleaning." Something I really detest. Go ahead...call me a Grinch. I know it; I own it.

We spent a week with my family in Florida. Each time I visit, I wonder why I live somewhere that it snows and is cold and I cry when I have to come home. I just love palm trees too much...oh, and of course I love my family.

The week worked well for me: Chris and I took walks twice a day and my blood pressure returned (pretty much) to normal after nine months of stage two hypertension. Another reason Florida is good for me.

The "highlight" of our daily walks wasn't really a highlight at all. As we were walking up to the entrance of my parents' neighborhood, we saw a little animal lying on the street. "Oh," Chris said. "A opossum!" But no...it was a dog. A little dog. I could tell it was a Pomeranian mix as it looked like my mother-in-law's deceased dog, Biscuit. I thought of all the times that Sven, our Cairn Terrier, had gotten out and how I would want to know if something happened to him. After pestering Chris, he got the nametag off and called the owners, who didn't take the news well at all. We got a towel and got "Chachee" off the road and waited for the owners to arrive. It was on New Year's Eve and I kept thinking that having your dog tragically run over was a lousy way to ring in the new year.

So, upon returning to Iowa, we have been welcomed by and ice storm, a snow storm and now a blizzard is being predicted for tomorrow. We have been home a whole week already. I wonder if it too presumptuous to look into Florida real estate when one doesn't have a job there? But now, as I think of the topography and the critters native to tropical regions, I think the odds would be better there to find myself in a position where I would need to decapitate, or at least dispose of, a snake.

Perhaps the upper Midwest is the place for me.

Move Over Dante! This is my Tenth Circle.

I would say I am basically a good person, although I am pretty noisy with the spiteful hate I spit at slow, stupid drivers.

So...not to get into a theological debate about this, but I hope St. Peter will be stepping aside for me to stumble through those pearly gates when I kick the can. If not, well...there is the other place.

The other place of which I am certain I experienced a little bit of this afternoon. I attended my son's junior high band concert. I did so in a foul mood because my pants were tight and I believe my stomach is now the same size as it was when I was five months pregnant. I very meanly took this foulness out on my poor, unsuspecting and startled husband.

My observation du jour was this: my own version of hell will be me, chained to a bench that provides no back support and I will be forced to listen to "The Final Countdown," "20 Christmas Carols in 2 minutes," and "Aria and Arietta" played by uninspired, jaded 8th graders.

Satan will add a little more salt to my bleeding ears by having the band teacher, who is conducting this malfeasance, stop between every song and give the background on the song, why he chose the song for this particular group of children, and other little nuggets of information he deems useful for our benefit in attaining the full appreciation for each of these pieces.

I will smile as my child comes towards me and, although I could not locate him in the greasy mass of preteen angst, tell him (with a smile plastered on my pained face) that he did a wonderful job and will ask him polite and appropriate questions.

My feet will be asleep and my back will ache to the point I am **this** close to feeling a tad bit crippled.

Then, the whole scene will reverse and I will be sitting on the bench again and the concert will start to replay.

Over and over and over and over. Throughout all eternity.

I have learned my lesson. My next child will play a string, not a brass, instrument. The sound will be pleasing to my ears and he will play only Handel and Vivaldi.

Publish Post

Pickles, the Color Pink, and Iran

On the way to church the other week, my seven-year-old informed me that one of their assignments that week was to write a list of things that they were afraid of.

"What did you write on your list, honey?" (I'm trying to add "honey" and "sweetie" to questions and orders lately because Chris tells me I sound too irascible when I speak to the children.)

He gazes out the window, deep in thought.

"I wrote pickles," he said.

"Oh, okay," I said. "What else?"

"The color pink," he continued.

"And Iran," he said matter-of-factly.

"Iran?" I asked, truly flabbergasted and honestly, pretty darn amused. "What did your teacher say when you told her you were afraid of Iran?"

"She didn't say anything," he said. That was surprising to me because I would surely have a lot of questions for a 7 year old who said he was afraid of Iran.

"She asked why I was afraid of pickles."

What a hell of a missed opportunity on her part. I guess that discussions about Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the Ayatollah Ali Khamenei and the Middle Eastern country's strained relationship with the United States might be a little over the heads of second graders.

The Martha Stewart Show Exacerbates My Sense of Inadequacy

Every morning, I wake up, make a pot of decaf coffee, turn on Good Morning America and check my e-mail.

I watch GMA and the local news updates. I muse at how cheery Diane, Robin, Sam and Chris are and wonder if they go home and kick their dogs and verbally abuse their spouses. If I had to put in that much effort to be happy in the morning, I think I might be guilty of those offenses at a MINIMUM.

After the two hours is up, I participate in the phenomenon that network television stations have probably spent countless hours and money researching: I am too lazy to turn the channel so I get sucked into the next television show ~ The Martha Stewart Show.

Instead of turning the channel, I watch her mad skills of the likes I could never aspire to. Today she made a Menorah out of some driftwood. She makes cookies that would probably make me weep out of frustration if I tried to make them myself. She decorates cupcakes which reminds me that it has been 1 hour since I had breakfast and I am suddenly starving and would love a cupcake. I might add a boxed cake mix and canned frosting to my grocery list.

While talking to Emeril as they were brining the turkey for Thanksgiving, she mentioned that she used to be a chemist...and from what I know of her, she used to be a stock broker, too. Here is a woman who can presumably butcher her own turkeys; yet can speak intelligently about the molecular modulation as it pertains to the brining of a turkey and can also tell us, probably with a bit of authority and a lot of arrogance, more than a little about economics and the stock market.

Yes, I suck.

I still make my family Hamburger Helper. Once, as a side dish, I made ramen noodles with cheese (which was actually quite tasty). Wesley had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner the other night. My coffee pot overflowed this morning and there are coffee grounds on the counter. My decorations are minimalist and unoriginal. My cookies are undecorated lumps. I'm not Jewish, but even if I was, I would go out and buy a Menorah rather than forage for the perfect stick to put the little candles on and spray paint silver. I don't know anything about economics, or turkeys, and honestly? From what I remember, I just about killed myself to get out of taking a chemistry class. I chose journalism because it required the least amount of math.

Maybe I am just going through a phase and a creativity bug will hit me. Maybe I will become more well rounded and informed as I become older and wiser. The only part of Martha Stewart I can identify with at this point in my life is that she is supposedly a raging bitch. If you ask my family they would probably tell you the same thing about me on any given weekday morning.

At least it is something...

The Rooster and Boba Fett

Today is Halloween.

Because our city is weird, Trick or Treat was last night on October 30th. I don't know why it is on the 30th and is called "Beggar's Night."

The build-up in our house has been positively fierce, particularly for 7-year-old Wesley, who declared in July that he was to be Boba Fett. We put off buying the costume as long as possible because the price on the thing was outrageous and, unlike other families who enthusiastically embrace Halloween and all of its spookiness, I see money spent on costumes equivalent to money flushed down the crapper.

The only time I can say that this wasn't the case was when Wesley was four and he went as Spiderman. Like every other four year old boy, Spiderman was his obsession, and was egged on by the rapid-fire releases of the Spiderman trilogy.

"Spiderman" was one of those polyester, highly flammable jobs that tied up the back and had the fake, fluffy muscles in the front to intimate the massive strength of the pint sized Spidey . Wesley wore the thing for four weeks leading up to Halloween (even to bed), and throughout that winter. I think he might have continued to wear it into the summer, but by that time it was too tight, specifically in the crotch area, and created a frontal wedgie that would be deemed, by any reasonable person, highly inappropriate to wear in public .

Unfortunately, unlike the Spiderman of yore, Boba Fett's novelty wore off after the first day or so. By the time October 30th rolled around, he wouldn't even put on the helmet. I made him carry the helmet around the neighborhood so folks could AT LEAST get the gist of the costume and would satisfy my own concern with getting my money's worth out of the over-priced ensemble.

The baby's costume was bought on Ebay because I felt I had to, pressured by the endless questions about "what Maggie was going to be for Halloween" and the fear of reproach if I said she wasn't dressing up. Sadly at thirty-something, I am highly affected by peer pressure (in a thirty year old's sort of way). But by this age, peer pressure no longer occurs in the areas of beer and bongs... it moves onto things that bring out fundamental issues of guilt. In this case, depriving a child of the experience, even if only through photos later in life, of participating in holidays of which the importance is grossly inflated and driven by retail sales.

The baby's costume was .99 and shipping was a mere 3.00. I felt that this was very reasonable. It was a costume of a chicken, although Chris pointed out that the comb on top of the hood technically made it a rooster, thus all wrong for a baby girl. But it was cozy for a chilly October night. I couldn't have anticipated that Beggar's Night this year would be unusually mild and the minute I put the stifling costume on her she would flip out.

We set her in the stroller and she cried even harder.

We started walking and the freak-out was impressive in its ferocity and intensity.

By the end of the block, we had to pick her up and carry her.

My trick or treat experience was souring by the minute and as we made our way up the hill one block over, I had experienced enough of it already. The dirtballs were out en masse and we were walking through plumes of cigarette smoke and dodging doggies dressed in costumes (which is no simple feat with an SUV sized stroller). The parents yelling and dragging their children around reminded me very much like the last time I visited the east side Kmart.

I had Chris plunk her down in the stroller and, the as the ferocity of the flipping out reared its ugly head once again, I half walked/half jogged the rest of the way to our house where our oldest son was sitting on the porch handing out candy, trying to look cool and uninterested, and receiving positive attention from girls. At least he had a good night.

Which leads to today, October 31st,the actual "holiday." I will probably fire up more tea lights and put them in our jack-o-lanterns outside (we went all out this year). It will feel very anticlimactic until I see the 75% off sale on seasonal items at the local Target, my highlight of every holiday season.

The Firm Butt and Red Velvet Cake

Lots of things happened since I blogged last:

I have my very first ever niece! Sweet lil Isabella is now almost 3 weeks old.

I stopped nursing due to a medication change in my PIH (Pregnancy Induced Hypertension) saga.

I decided that, after yesterday's turd and spillage, I was no longer the "cloth diapering" type of gal and am throwing in the towel.

We saw Sarah Palin today at a rally, and I am convinced I am never going to have her butt. You can bounce not one, not two, but I'm sure AT LEAST three quarters off of it. It is a butt I will never have, considering I had a burger and fries for dinner and there is a piece of red velvet cake waiting for me in the fridge (hellooooo, lovaahhhh).

I comment on her butt because that was the view we had, and that is, quite literally, all I saw.

A friend of ours delivered early on her "pastor's appreciation month" obligation and got us onstage for the Sarah Palin rally. She was wearing her hooker boots and trotted lil Piper out to tell us to "vote for her mom."

Before the rally started, a staffer handed out hand painted signs to us. Since we were directly behind Palin, we were to part of the "Iowa ***hearts***Palin" message. I was the heart, so I considered this to be an uber important job. Hubby was the "S." Our 7 year old also standing with us, was slighted and quite pissy for not getting a letter, and our 13 year old's job was to cuddle the six month old and to keep her from crying. For his efforts, he was pissed on when the diaper failed (which, due to the reaction to the leakage, could have been the worst possible thing to happen to a 13 year old. Ever. In the history of mankind.).

The "coolness" of holding the letters wore off in about, oh, sixty seconds. Because, not only were we obligated to hold them up above our heads when Palin came out, we had to hold them before she came out, as she walked out on stage, during her speech, and as she exited the stage. Needless to say, by then end of the deal, I felt as if I was holding an anvil. Of lead. My cheerfulness about the whole endeavor had worn off, not only due to the challenge of holding these things up for so long and so often, but also due to the comments of the people behind us, which went something like this:

"Put the signs down!"

"Signs down, please!" (Not said in the polite manner as it appears in print.)

"Put the damn signs down."

"How rude! Put those signs down!"

I wanted to turn around and point out the effeminate guy in the front row in the pink bow tie who was DIRECTING us to hold the "damn" signs up, that this wasn't an all out effort to block the views of Sarah Palin's ass to the unfortunates behind us.

Besides getting yelled at, a raging headache from the lights and the realization that I shouldn't have worn that white t-shirt under that black sweater because all I could see were **boobs, boobs, boobs** on television, it was a pretty good day.

At the end of this good day and as I was contemplating Sarah Palin's ass, I proceeded through the drive through of a local burger joint and ordered a burger with everything on it, a large french fry and a large (diet) Pepsi.