{The Hare Brain Scheme of the Week is how Marmot and my Dad refer to our ideas. In other words, just wait it out because it will be something totally different next week!}

House Hunters International. A hilariously scripted show where people pick up and move to different countries – for a variety of reasons – and this is them pretending to choose where they live. I usually skip the ones where they move to Asia or Central America, but the European ones always suck me in.

This time Queen B. was over, and they were moving to France – right up our alley! As we watched (and drooled over the architecture), we realized that the wife of the couple was a blogger – so we hit up Google, and found her website. She had a blog, the tagline was Practical Adventure-ology, for Busy People Who Want a Break from the Rat Race to Live Your Adventure + To Do What You Love from Anywhere in the World.

We practically giggled over how this was perfect for us! We wanted a break from the rat race!! Never mind that I work part-time in a hospital which really isn’t a rat race, and Queen B.’s rat race is making dinner every night. Ok so we don’t actually run in the rat race, more like a guinea pig 5K actually, but we still wanted out!

So we decide that we are going to look into this. Annie Andre is moving to France for awhile, why can’t we?

Still giggling, we tell ourselves that we will be bloggers and write amazing blogs (lets just pretend that our blog isn’t practically dusty from lack of posts), and make lots of money, and live somewhere gorgeous.

Oh yeah, we’re totally doing this. Yes we are. Its the Latest Hare Brain Scheme of the Week!

You know that saying – “Just to add insult to injury…” Well that is exactly what this video is – adding insult to my injury. Don’t worry yourself Honey, I am just fine!

I’m telling you girls, living in the Godforsaken Arctic Tundra is not for sissies – we fall a lot here. There are basically three main types of falls – let me explain.

The first is the one that throws you up in the air and the first thing to hit the ground is your shoulders, neck, or head. I always thought that one made you look like you had just been tackled by one of those TV wrestlers so I call that one ‘the Take Down’.

Then there is the ‘Two-Fer’. That is where you go down and you take someone with you, quite often the husband who is helping you to your car. You don’t have to be a couple to do a Two-Fer though. One day my friend and I were walking up to her house from the car – WHAM – I went down so fast that my arms shot up and clocked her in the nose. By the time we made it to the door I was hunched over dragging my left leg, and she had a bloody Kleenex stuffed up her nose.

Lastly, we have the ‘Song and Dance’. This one starts with the knowledge that there is something amiss. Your front food lands on something other than solid ground – or you realize that your back leg is heading off to the side under its own mysterious power. So you compensate. You start a series of jerking maneuvers that make you look as if you are trying unsuccessfully to dance, or possibly having some sort of seizure. You hunch, swing, and lunge. There is where the vocals come in – grunting, swearing, and small screams. Men pull groin and back muscles, women wet their pants…and then you’re down…lying on the ground, gasping and groping like a fish because the wind has been knocked out of you. Its exhausting and embarrassing. Young people jump right up, look around to see who witnessed the dance, and then tell everyone they are OK no matter what the damage is. They could look as if their leg was put on backwards by a drunk dollmaker, and they would still say “Fine man, I’m fine”. Honey did a Take Down one winter, jumped right up in case anyone was watching, and went to work – she didn’t realize it for a couple of hours, but she had broken her arm! Moron. Sweet child of mine.

The rest of us lay there for a bit and take stock of things. Can I feel my feet? Anything going on in the neck or back region? Is the snow turning yellow under me? Actually, we would be better off just letting ourselves fall right off the bat. But we fight it, with some sort of Northern instinct that tells us if you go down you will never get up.

We also number our falls when we talk about them to others: “I took my first fall this year at the Kwik-Trip gas pump – lost my footing and ended up under my car.” “Oh yah, my third one last year had my skirt up over my head in the parking lot of the Lutheran church.”

We even have our own winter vocabulary as well, for example:

Snirt – snow with a dusting of dirt on top. In town, along streets and piled up in parking lots. Usually starts sometime in February when the snow slows, the bone-chilling cold sets in, and ugly takes over the landscape.

Snoil – a farming term for snow with a layer of top soil on it. The plague of farmers, the previous black topsoil blows off the huge prairie fields and becomes snoil in the ditches.

Wice – wet ice. You see it, and before it registers, you are on your back in the road trying to remember the name of your chiropractor.

Crackers – a piece of ice on the lake (that you may or may not be currently standing on) that is too thin and about to fall into the frigid lake.  You hear a dull cracking noise, coming from below and getting closer. “Yep, that dumb@$$ drove his new truck right onto the lake and parked on a cracker. Got out, walked about ten feet, and turned just in time to see the last taillight and bubbles.”

This particular fall was a classic ‘Take Down on Wice’. As you can see, there was no serious damage. With no help from my darling Honey, I managed to get up, and go inside to change my pants. Next, a cup of tea with a shot of brandy (medicinal, it’s a muscle relaxant!) and a hot pack on my bruised hip. Voila! All is well again in my wintery and wicy world.

Love from your mother,

Queen B.

Umm yah, I omitted another weight loss win…hello, what is wrong with me? In the five months we’ve been gone – Queen B. has lost a cool 25lbs, and maintained it.

We are going to be so smoking hot – before too long, Queen B’s gas trail on our header is going to have to be changed to flames. Seriously.

I mean geez, our last post was in August. But we’ve got lots of exciting things to share with you!! Yep, lots of exciting things. I mean just tons of great things, really. SO many things.

…

Ok, not a damn thing in the exciting category. Has anything changed in the last five months? Well lets see.

• Honey B. still not pregnant? Check.
• Queen B. and Honey B. still fat? Double check (one for each chin).
• Still griping at Marmot and Left Brain for the same old things? Ok I hate this depressing game.

But in other news, here are the only mildly exciting things that have happened in our five month hiatus:

• Queen B. has moved just around the corner from my house. Or as Marmot says, one dysfunctional block away. We love it! Brewer and I walk down there to visit ‘Gramma’ (oh, she loves it when he calls her that) and we drink tea and gripe about our husbands.
• Marmot and I crossed a couple more Baby Bucket List items – we paid off credit card #2 and had an amazing trip to Europe this fall.
• And kind of a light pencil line through another BBL item – while I’m not at my ideal weight, I’m almost 50lbs lighter which is definitely a better weight than where I was! I still have another 50lbs to go, but I’m at least at the halfway point – I’ll take it.
• We’ve started a more serious approach to blogging, with some other ventures (to be disclosed in future) in process. And by more serious, that really just means that we bring notebooks to the aforementioned gripe sessions.
• Below is proof that we’re alive – taken in a name-since-forgotten piazza in Rome.

But long story short, we’re back! And we can’t wait to tell you about our new (brilliant) ideas…

QB: So, speaking of shit we shouldn’t have bought – lets talk about memberships.

HB: Or as we like to call them, Our Philanthropic Endeavors, supporting skinny people everywhere.

QB: You know me, I can’t pass up a deal. When your father started his job nine years ago, they gave discount memberships to the Healthy Living Center. Normally I wouldn’t ever admit this, but they send a yearly update as to how you’re doing. Turns out I’ve gone one time per year, for nine years running.

HB: So the tag on your car for the Healthy Living Center parking lot – thats really just for show.

QB: Well I am supportive. I go in once a year, do a lap around all the workout equipment, get a massage, and then leave.

HB: Its like the politician visiting the homeless shelter every year. Thumbs up in the air – great job everybody, keep up the good work! Nice Mom.

QB: Yeah well, how is that Y membership working out for you?

HB: Great! I go every month for cycle class, so I’m not really sure why that is relevant to this conversation.

QB: You don’t go every month, you go once a month. Once a month. Which means the one cycle class you go to a month is costing $45, per class.

HB: Interesting. Shall we calculate how much you’ve spent on Weight Watchers online memberships?

QB: My brain seizes up from lack of sugar and carbohydrates, and then I can’t remember my password.

HB: But they remember your credit card number.

QB: I’m so enthusiastic about signing up because I’m focused – on looking like Cindy Crawford – that the discount on paying ahead for 3 months online is just too good of a deal to pass up. In fact if you consider how much money I’ve saved by doing this over the years, it really adds up to a lot of money. Its hundreds, maybe even thousands.

HB: But Mom, you still weigh the same.

Random picture found on the Internet – any resemblance to my kitchen and QB’s favorite snack is totally coincidental.

QB: Actually I weigh more, but that is beside the point – tell me about Extreme Bodyshaping, dearest daughter.

HB: The grown-up-fat-lady version of the walk of shame. It was just bad timing, my first term of grad school and a high stress job.

QB: Five in the morning is always bad timing – thats not just the crack of dawn, its the buttcrack of dawn. And six days a week – really? Who does that??

HB: Well I did! For two days.

QB: Well $400 isn’t that much anyway sweetie, I’ve paid more than that for Weight Watchers styrofoam packaged as granola bars.

HB: When I was hobbling to my car after my second 5am workout, I would have paid an additional $400 just to not have to ever go again.

QB: Bummer about that return policy.

HB: Jackasses. Preying on chubby girls with an inflated sense of their own fitness. But that $400 was nothing compared to the therapy I required after the unfortunate issue of mistaken identity.

QB: What are you talking about, mistaken identity?

HB: I was just trying to make myself feel better during the warmup, I decided to pick out someone in the class that was fatter than me. Well I spotted her. She was across the room from me, already sweating like a pig and we were only five minutes into the 55 minute class. I totally felt better – until I realized she was wearing a 2008 Old Navy tshirt, same as me. And the yoga pants with green waistband, same as me. In fact she had the same nose ring too. And earrings. I realized holy frick, I was looking at myself in the mirror!

QB: Oh Honey, its ok. I’ll take you to Walmart and we can look at some really fat people.

HB: And we can pick up some cookies.

QB: Good idea, get in the car!

{And we wonder why we’re fat…}

So here’s how it went down. I went over to a friend’s house, and she is a ‘Minimalist’. She has no crap. No piles sitting anywhere. No doors that are closed, blocking off rooms that should not be seen. Nothing. She also doesn’t believe in ‘consuming’, because its not green to consume vast quantities of say, kitchen gadgets, whose production puts toxins into the environment and enslaves small children in China. And she says the packaging alone is an environmental travesty. But I digress – I got home and immediately called Queen B. and told her to come over, I need therapy because I just discovered that I’ve destroyed a rainforest by being a total consumerism-whore.

QB:  Oh Honey let me make you feel better about yourself. Everybody does this, we all have shit we shouldn’t have bought.

Let me tell you about the shower head. As a result of drinking a margarita the size of a fish bowl, I got totally plowed and your sister Nelly had to drive me home – she had to stop at Walmart, so while we were there I bought a banana cream pie and a massaging shower head. Your Dad installed it while I was sleeping off the margarita, and the next morning my hungover self decided to take a shower. It turns out it was a power pulse shower head, and it started beating me in the head. I fought it off the best I could, using the giant bottle of conditioner as a shield, but I didn’t have my glasses on and couldn’t see the dial. I ended up crying in the corner of the shower and your father had to rescue me.

HB: Well apparently its hereditary. I bought a juicer and $80 worth of organic vegetables. I came home and took it out of the box, turned the vegetables into an $80 glass of green slime that looked like science fiction leaking out of the bottom of the juicer, and tasted like a cigarette butt. I added a pound of fresh fruit and 4 pounds of non-organic white sugar, the result was so repulsive that I boxed up the leaking piece of shit juicer up and dropped it into the trash. Unfortunately the story didn’t end there, I poured the congealed green slime down the drain and clogged the kitchen plumbing. The plumber was not prepared when he unclogged it, it let loose and the kitchen looked like a scene from the Exorcist.

QB: There was the time I bought the waffle iron because it was on sale, and who doesn’t love waffles. I was so excited about it, I made a giant bowl of waffle batter. The first waffle cooks up like a dream, golden and delicious. I tell your Dad that I am a waffle genius and this is what we’re having for dinner for the next month. Waffle #2 was fabulous, and waffle #3 to die for. Unfortunately, somewhere between waffles # 11 and 12, I forget to spray the waffle iron with Pam. Waffle #13 (not a lucky waffle) gets stuck to the waffle iron and ripped in half, some on the top and some on the bottom. I immediately take a butter knife and start hacking away like a prospector, which extricates some of the waffle from the top but takes a large portion of the non-stick lining as well. In the meantime the bottom part of the waffle has started to smoke, and the smoke detector alerted your father who came into the kitchen to fan the smoke detector with a paper plate, and started screaming at me to unplug the damn waffle iron. The last straw was the spark that flew out of the side where apparently a tiny amount of wet waffle batter makes the whole thing unusable. I marched out onto the deck with the smoking sparking piece of shit and threw it in the yard. I hate waffles.

HB: Yoga clothing. I think we’ve said enough about that already.

QB: There was the Ab Shaker. I was using it in front of the bathroom mirror to watch my biceps develop before my eyes, but the momentum got away from me and I smashed the bathroom mirror. I think that counts as two – one for the Ab Shaker which went directly to the trash, and the other for the mirror which took a half hour to sweep up and $30 to replace.

HB: I bought that electric staple gun for my upholstery project. I plugged it in and realized it had some sort of trigger malfunction and went off like a machine gun. Thankfully the damage was minimal, the ceiling had a few holes and I always hated those mini blinds anyway.

QB: And lets not forget the time that I went to Macy’s when I decided I was going ‘sporty’, and bought $300 worth of Columbia cargo pants and Merrells sandals with 83 straps on each foot. Do you think a woman that weighs over 200lbs can be sporty?

HB: Oh Mom. Only if you’re a competitive eater or sumo wrestler. But in the spirit of full disclosure, I have to admit that I’ve been getting Shape magazine for two years. It was from one of those door-to-door salespeople who tell you that you buying a subscription is the only thing standing between them and a life of crime. Since getting Shape magazine, I have gained 40lbs and my exercise consists mostly of my monthly sprint to the mailbox to get the magazine and hide it from Marmot and the cleaning lady.

QB: Every time we go to the As-Is department at Ikea, we buy shit that we not only don’t need, but is already broken – or will be by the time we smash it into the back of the car or drag it across the cement driveway and up the steps into the house. We might as well walk it straight through the house and out the back into the dumpster, or better yet just pitch it out the window into the ditch on the way home.

HB: Thanks Mom, I no longer feel like a consumerism whore, I’m just the daughter of one.

QB: No problem. Want to go shopping?

Dear Honey, this is your mother speaking.

Did you know that at our local Barnes and Noble, there are no less than 12 different books on how to grow marijuana? I wouldn’t have normally even taken notice, but I was perusing the shelves for a book on heirloom gardening. Its actually Natalie’s fault, I was reading her blog about how she started a garden project and ended up going into some sort of ‘alternative agricultural store’ which we all know is a front. Now she says she’s growing ‘tomatoes’ in her garden. Right.

Natalie's Tomato Plants

So, coincidentally that nights movie was Saving Grace on Netflix.  A lovely woman, my general age and great taste in furniture (which is really beside the point). Anyway, her husband passes away and leaves her destitute, in a lovely English garden estate – so to support her previous level of living, she grows pot. I was relating to this woman.  I actually got mad at Left Brain after watching this movie – just on principle (because he has neither died nor had an affair or left me on the threshold of debtor’s prison). But I have been concerned about the state of our retirement lately – so I am thinking about starting a ‘garden’. So as I see it, I have only two workable possibilities for retirement – either grow pot or move in with you dear. {I’ve always thought you would be great at growing pot Mom, you’ve got such a green thumb. And I can totally see you with the munchies, the last time you were here you ate all the semi-sweet chocolate chips from my baking cupboard.}

Truthfully, I think the growing would be the easy part of the process, as a 50-something woman who has several decades of gardening under her belt. The puzzling part this venture is {jail time?} –  distribution. Where would I sell my high-quality organic marijuana? {Pot-Mart Mom, its right next to Wal-Mart.} I don’t hang around with the right friends, there isn’t a lot of call for it at the Mission Committee at church, and I don’t have the right clothes for selling pot. I had a fringed halter top once, but I am just going to guess that it wouldn’t look quite as good on me now as it did in 1974. So my only realistic option is a staff of salespeople. Also, quite possibly a specialist for quality control, because at my weight the munchies could be a complete wardrobe disaster. Do you think I would have to pay someone for that, or is the actual job benefit enough? I refuse to have them hanging out at my house either – if I wanted a bunch of people acting stoned and eat everything in the fridge I’d have had more kids. I think I should be a wholesaler, at my age I can’t be responsible for a bunch of stoned sales associates. And I can’t afford to offer health insurance either.

You know Honey if we did this together we could go larger – we could buy land. Several little pieces of land actually, satellite farms under assumed names like Duane ‘Moon Head’ Schmidt and Misty Meadows. Because if your father finds out about this, it will be a marital moment with aftershocks that will be felt for months.

So what do you think Honey, new business venture?

Love from your Mother, Queen B.

Happy Mother's Day - here is some 'POT'ting soil!

{Just so you all know – I’m 89% certain that she’s kidding.}

Many pounds years ago, I did yoga. It was at the Y and probably more like Yoga Lite, but it was a nice workout and I only farted once.  I put Building Up the Yoga Habit on the Baby Bucket List.

(I’m down to three things left on the Baby Bucket List – the other two were Reach a Good Weight and Go to Europe – and I don’t want to be the only fat-ass in Europe, so Yoga was it.)

The first thing I needed was a partner – so the next time Queen B. came over, I told her she had a fat ass and I had the cure – yoga. It would be quick and effortless, she’s a sucker for quick and effortless.

HB: Ok, the Y has yoga and we’re going. Do you have sweatpants?

QB: I don’t wear sweatpants, it makes my ass look fat. 

HB: Your ass is already fat, but yoga will help. Let’s shop. 

So we immediately sat down on the couch, pulled out the laptop and did some online shopping. Hello Old Navy yoga pants (we’re on a budget). Three days and $100 later (budget my ass), we have a lovely package from Old Navy bearing eight items of yogawear. We were so excited that we started stripping down in the kitchen to try everything on.

QB: *holding up a tank top* This is tiny, did you order children’s wear?

HB: Its yogawear, its supposed to be tight – and its Spandex so it will stretch – and Old Navy runs big, its fine.

QB:  *halfway into the tank top* Was this made in China by very little Chinese people? Because this would only fit a tiny Chinese woman. 

HB: Yeah Mom, thats why we wear 2X, it means the size of two Chinese ladies whose names start with X. Xing and Xiong.

QB: They need to make this stuff bigger. Obviously if you’re doing yoga its because you’re fat. Skinny people don’t need yoga, and if they show up at yoga in clothes that fit, they’re just showing off. Its like a self-esteem class for them. 

HB: Quit acting like you’ve ever been to a yoga class. You don’t even know how to spell yoga.

Since we were in the kitchen, there were no mirrors – so we pour ourselves  into our first ensembles, electric coral racerback tank top and yoga capris, then turn around to model to each other. And great, one of the pants can’t be returned now because SOMEONE laughed too hard and wet her pants.

QB: Your thighs look like a couple of homemade bratwurst in those pants. 

HB: What is that coming out of the back of your racerback tank top – OMG Mom, you have C cups, facing backwards. 

There's been a security breach at Las Camisas!

HB: Mom! You’re not supposed to wear your bra, it has a bra in it!

QB: Its so small it wouldn’t support one boob of mine, get this thing off me, I can’t breathe! Pull on it, quick – but not too hard, the seams are Chinese, they’re not made for this kind of tension!

Ok, next ensemble – electric green v-neck workout shirt and black yoga pants (because black is slimming).

QB: Oh Honey, did you know that those pants had Old Navy stamped on the ass? It looks like a billboard!

Free Billboard Advertising

HB: Oh shut up, your upper arm fat is eating your cap sleeves. 

Queen B. started digging through the bag, “Isn’t there anything larger than 2T in this bag? We need some woman clothes, do they have yoga burqas?”

We put on the least offensive of the purchases, and decide to try out some yoga moves.

Yoga Pose: Downward Facing Dog (or Dropped Donut Under Couch)

QB: We have to do this here, because if this Chinese spandex is going to let loose, it should be in the privacy of home. 

HB: Agreed. No one should witness this. 

Yoga Pose: Warrior Pose (or Will Fight For Food)

QB: We are going to rock this yogi class thing!

HB: Mom, its yoga, not yogi! Next time take your socks off. 

Next Up: Yoga Class! Stay tuned…

Queen B. taught me to share, so I went in today to give blood for Team B Hive. The truth is, I’ll do anything for a cookie. First time blood donor, whole blood, I am the savior of the world – or anyone with O negative bleeding out in the Godforsaken Arctic Tundra. Work up went great – I have a Hemoglobin of 14 so I am definitely not anemic – vital signs are good – and Lord knows I’m fat enough to donate. And they have cookies as a reward? I’m in.

They poke me, I spurt out some blood, and its finally time to have some cookies. But I stand up and whammo, my ears are ringing and I’ve been struck blind. The elderly lady in the chair next to me and the 90lb Chinese lab tech have to drag my fat ass back to the chair and put my head between my knees. They plop a wet napkin over my neck and fan me, while I lay there sweating and groaning.

So after a few minutes I start feeling better, and I get up to head towards the cookies again – and no, I collapse back onto the recliner. My stupid lycra fat sucker inner has risen OVER my gut and is cutting into my diaphragm, I can’t breathe, my arms are numb…those better be some frickin awesome cookies.

I finally fake that I am feeling fine, shove two cookies in my mouth and three in my pocket, and lumber back to my work with no eyesight and my ears ringing in my head. I make it to the break room on the unit and look in the mirror to discover that the water from the wet napkin has mixed with my hairspray, and I now look like I should be in a punk rock band. Not to mention, apparently my mascara is NOT waterproof and has run down my cheeks. I go into the bathroom and because I’m still half blind, I’m unable to figure out how to lock the door. I don’t care, I put one foot in front of the door and start stripping. Think Kramer in Seinfeld, I am whipping off my clothes and tearing off the Lycra. And I’m still so dizzy that once I get my clothes off, I end up laying on the bathroom floor in my bra, just praying that none of my coworkers come in and call a code on me.

I am still dizzy, but go Team B. Hive!!

Dear Honey, this is your Mother speaking.

Thank you so much for the delicious dinner you made for your father and I last night. It was also so thoughtful of you to call me at 6:30 this morning to enquire about the state of our gastrointestinal health.  You went on to share that there may have been something in the food because your husband was suffering from the gastrointestinal version of Hiroshima. I immediately grabbed your father and woke him up screaming, “Dear God we’ve been poisoned”! He jumped out of bed in his whitie-tighties, hair standing on end, screaming Where?! Where?!?

I got your father calmed down, poor nervous soul that he is, and started a full morning of second guessing my every intestinal twinge for symptoms.

Your text message later in the morning: “Poor Marmot – he threw up so hard he had to go directly to the shower”.  A lengthy phone conversation followed discussing where to buy new bath mats and hand towels. Somehow I ended up on the phone with Marmot, advising him to exchange his boxer shorts for briefs stuffed with paper towels, for increased absorbency, in an effort to save the remainder of the bath linens his parents gave them for a wedding present.

Then your call few hours later- asking about the medicinal properties of  7-Up vs. Gatorade? I had to ask. “Really Honey, why are you calling me for this? Aren’t you invested by about $50k into a nurse practitioner program?” And my darling Honey informs me ….  “Well yes Mom, but it’s in women’s health – I specialize in crotches, not assholes”. 

By afternoon you too were home from work and spending quality time on the toilet. The next phone call … well I can’t even describe the phone call.  Please, just note: Aloe needs to be completely peeled before being applied to any irritated orifices.

The last text of the afternoon: “Code Brown, send reinforcements!” So being the loving mother that I am, I dispatched Left Brain to deliver a bag of Flushable Moist Wipes and Gatorade – but with strict instructions – “Do not go in, do not slow down, do not even make eye contact! We can still be infected”.

Your father called me after “the drop”.  He had thrown the bag of supplies into the snow drift in the front yard from his moving car.  “It looked like a hunched over bow-legged troll shuffled out into the yard to get the bag as I was driving away, is there some homeless person staying with them?”

I love you darling, but next time I’ll cook.

Queen B.