I totally forgot!

Oops! I can't believe I forgot to pay homage to one of my favorite chocolates of all time: Crispy M&M's. I've never like M&M's that much, but when these babies came out, I was all over them...one king size bag at a time.

I'm a BIG fan of those rice krunchy things. You know, the things that are in Nestle Crunch bars. 'Cept when they name came in M&M form, it was even better because you never knew what color or shape the krunchy chocolatey goodness would come in. Even better, I loved the brilliant blue color of the bag!

(One time, a king size bag of those babies saved me from a 2-week bout of constipation. Yep.)

However, those Mars bastards duped me. A year or two after their introduction, they were taken off the shelves. WHY, Mars people, WHY?! To make room for your "mega" M&M's? That's TWO strikes, people. I'm tempted to count your M-mazing bars as your third strike. Chocolate inside chocolate? Please. That's not m-mazing. That's just bumpy chocolate.

Smart Chocolate.

Someone in Kit Kat headquarters finally got wise. This bag has it all. Kit Kat's dipped not only in milk chocolate, but also dark and white chocolate! Mmmm! And they come in miniature sizes so you can eat more than one without feeling guilty. (In the 8th grade, my idea of heaven was a Kit Kat that ran on for eternity. No lie.) Some other twist-offs, in my opinion, are not so successful... Twix? SO GOOD. Twix with peanut butter? Not so good. It needs caramel, not peanut butter. The peanut butter makes it taste like you're eating a glorified peanut bar. As Mollie succinctly stated, "Mega my ass." From the look of the bag, you'd think these M&M's are the size of your head. The size of your hand, at the very least! But in reality, they're really about 2 mm larger in circumference than the original. "Mega my ass", indeed. These are good. But still not as good as... This. Peanut butter with chocolate inside? Sign me up. The chocolate is gooey, too.

I know it ain't chocolate, but it's awesome enough that it might as well be. This is my ultimate favorite gum. Bubblicious Grape. I could chew this forever. However, some idiot decided that all the new, more glamorous candies need more attention, because this gum is near impossible to find in grocers and convenience stores. I have to ask Jason to pick some up for me at his drive-thru. That's crap.
For sensuous, close-your-eyes-and-melt-away chocolate, skip Hershey's and go straight to Dove's dark chocolate. It's just as good as Godiva and won't break the bank. Plus, each chocolate is wrapped in tin foil that has a cute, clever quip to make you smile.

What's YOUR favorite chocolate or candy?

Gettin' Old.

I used to fear getting old. For a lot of reasons. Physically, I wanted to hang on to my virility, my perky breasts, my long hair, and my smooth skin. Since my grandmothers spent their days confined to small spaces playing board games, I also associated being old with solitary confinement. I wanted to always be able to walk when I want, travel where I want, and eat whatever I want. Plus, since I used to be plagued with all kinds of diseases (no more now, thank you Jesus), I thought my future had no other alternative than for me to be a athritic, pained, senile old woman.

Since then I've learned to let go of that fear. I hang on to the conviction that I will be a lovely, graceful old woman with salt and pepper hair, a spring in her step, and a fire in her gut. I'm not sure Jason believes me, but that's okay. I'll show him. In 50 years, I'll be so sexy that he'll swallow a bottle of Cialis just to keep up with me. =)

* * * *

Jason, my mother, and I visited my grandpa in the hospital on Sunday. He's 94. He was just days away from moving to Houston when he came down with pneumonia which, at his age, led to kidney failure and heart failure.

When I saw him, I was a little taken aback. I know he's 94, but I still wasn't totally ready for the thin, frail old man I saw lying there on the hospital bed. It took him a while for him to recognize me. It didn't really bother me; hell, when you're 94, you can remember whatever you want.

Apparently old age gives you the right to talk to whoever you want too. The nurses told us that throughout the week, he hadn't paid any attention to them. No talking, not even a smile. They wondered if it was the language barrier. It wouldn't have been such a problem, but it's their job to know how he's feeling and what he needs.

So we asked him if he understood the nurses. Slowly but surely, all he said was, "Understanding them is enough." In other words, "I don't talk to them not because I can't, but because I don't feel like it. As long as I understand them, who cares what they're thinking."

I guess stubborness can be as strong as ever, even when you're 94 and lying in a hospital bed!

Anyway, I'm not sure if I want to live for a century, but to live long enough to raise a few generations, to still be in love with my husband, to still be praising God...I think that would be a worthy life accomplishment.

On my period. Period.

I just worked out at the gym for 1 hour. As soon as I got home, I ate an entire pint of cookies n' cream ice cream with NO breath, NO reduced calories, and NO regrets.

Happy 10th Anniversary, Chris!

On this exact day 10 years ago, I met a lanky, freckle-faced redhead at an 8th grade Valentine's Day party. Ironically, I don't remember the day at all. But he does. He remember's the date, the circumstances, the fact that it was a Friday, and the corny mug he received that said "I'm too hot to handle."

However terrible I am at remembering first days, I AM rather good at remembering beginnings. Chris, darling, we've now been bestfriends for 10 years. Thank you...

• For making me laugh every day.
• For listening to me cry the day my first boyfriend broke up with me.
• For listening to me cry all the other times a boy broke my heart and bluntly telling me what jerks I was dealing with
• For telling me I'm beautiful every day...no matter how I felt or whether I agreed
• For confirming my parents' insanity and thus keeping my sanity intact
• For believing that I could achieve my dreams and helping with every step of the way
• For offering your heart freely every time I was rejected =)
• For knowing me so well that you can remind me who I am when I forget
  

We've been through a lot together in 10 years, haven't we? But we've always made it, a little worn, but still in one piece. Here's to another 10, 20, 30, 40 years...'til we're old and grey, but always friends, always laughing.

Thanks, Christopher. Happy 10th Anniversary! *muah*

Aren't you supposed to love someone EVERY day?

Ah, Valentine's Day. The day of love. The day of flowers. The day chocolate factory employees receive their bonuses. The day largely blamed for an increase in suicide.

I've never quite understood the purpose of Valentine's Day. When I was in grade school, Valentine's Day meant filling out little tear-out cards for your schoolmates and then taking extra care to make that one special card for the one special little person. It meant lots of yucky candy with meaningless sayings. It meant seeing who received the most cards on their desk. In high school, Valentine's Day meant candy grams, the secret hope that you're going to get one, and the disappointment when you don't. I completely ignored Valentine's Day in college altogether.

Now that I'm an "adult", so to speak, I appreciate Valentine's Day for the gallant effort by corporations to turn every candy into sparkling hearts wrapped in tin foil. My theory is that the yummier it looks, the yummier it is when you gobble it up. (Same goes for people, mind you.)

Still, one can't help but notice that this day polarizes people into two groups: those who love the day and those who hate it. So in order to appease both parties, I've decided to dedicate today's post to something that anyone can easily attain, no strings attached: Infectious Mononucleosis.

Or Mono. Or affectionately dubbed "the kissing disease". I had the misfortune of having it for the SECOND time last Fall, and let me tell you, having Mono is like dying slowly, bit by bit. It is THAT fun.

Mono is caused by the Epstein-Barr Virus or EBV. It is generally transmitted through saliva and once you get it, you will have the virus for life. Despite the horrible symptoms of the virus, doctors do not advise quarantine because most people have the EBV already.

I first got Mono as a freshman in college. I wish I could say that it was the result of a passionate rendevouz in dark corners, but alas, since I didn't kiss anyone while in college, the truth is probably closer to poorly washed dishes in the cafeteria. Not exactly Harlequin material, is it.

And now I leave with a little anecdote from today:

As I was walking out of Walgreen's, I walked to what I thought was my car. It was my first day outside since I'd quarantined myself inside 5 days ago, so naturally I was a bit confused. I realized my mistake, then walked and coughed to my car.

"Wrong car?" I turned around to see what must have been the owner of the car. He was tall, carrying an armload of Valentine's Day gifts, and wore a grin from ear to ear.

"Yes" I smiled.

He laughed. "That's okay! You can come on in anyway. I'll take you home forever!"

I laughed, which made me cough even harder, and jumped inside my car just in case he was serious.

The End.

Love's Healing Powers.

When Clara had emerged from her mother's womb, Nana had cradled and washed her, and from that time on she had felt a desperate love for this fragile creature whose lungs were always full of phlegm, who was always on the verge of losing her breth and turning purple, and whom she had had to revive so many times with the warmth of her huge breasts because she knew that this was the only cure for asthma, much more effective than Dr. Cuevas's fortified syrups.
~ The House of Spirits by Isabelle Allende

Do you believe love has healing powers? (The quote is taken from my favorite book of all time. If I were to take a book with me to the grave, this would be the one.)

By the time Jason showed up on my doorstep yesterday morning, I was ready to topple over. My fever had lifted, I had enough energy to walk around, and I was finally eating, but the violent thrusts of a never-ending cough had kept me awake and desperate for 9 hours. Optimistic, he handed me a bag of McDonald's for breakfast, but I climbed back into bed with no intention of getting back up.

Never one to turn town sleep, he slid into bed without a word (after finishing his McGriddle, of course). As is his ritual, he coaxed me into his arms where I slid into the perfect sleeping crook - my head on the soft spot of his underarms, my belly lining his side, my arm across his chest.

We slept until dinner time without interruption, at which point he woke up and declared himself hungry. We rented "Deuce Bigalow: European Jigalow" and "Bad News Bears", ate linguini alfredo, and laughed at all the bad jokes until calling it a night at 11:30.

It wasn't until he left this morning that I realized how much better I felt when he was here. Emotionally, of course, but also physically. There's power in a kiss, in skin against skin, in a loving glance, in shared laughter, in peaceful slumber.

Makes me wonder...where was he the first FIVE days I was sick?!

(Just kidding, honey.)

P.S. Thanks to everyone's sympathy and well wishes. You kept me going when I wanted to keel over!

The Flu-Nasty.

Do you know what sucks about having the flu?

EVERYTHING.

Well okay, it's a tie between my snot free-flowing Niagara nose or my throat that's as raw and inflamed as an open blister. And between those two, I'd say the latter is the worst, only because it prevents me from doing what I love most: laughing, talking, and EATING.

It's already been 3 days, so I'm past the point where I can sleep away my misery. Thank goodness I discovered Dr. Phil. Unlike other talk shows that make you watch their show to see what happened, his staff updates his site with full details of every story and show...just for sickies like me. At best, it's a great place to glean relationship advice. At the least, you discover that, "Hey, I'm not nearly as screwed up as I thought I was!"

I even took Dr. Phil's Relationship Health Profile test. I scored an 11, exactly as I predicted I would. Anyone else want to make a go?

A few observations about being sick:

1. People are way nicer to you when you're sick. And I admit, it's nice to be petted like a puppy when you feel like cow dung.
2. Soup is God's gift to sickies.
3. So is hot tea.
4. Cough syrup is NASTY.
5. It is practically a crime that sicknesses don't come with full-service waiters. You don't actually think I'm going to cook and feed myself, do you?
   

Jesus Loves Pornstars.

I just bought this Tee for Jason and myself today. It'll be our first "same shirt" - not because we want to be cute, but (to both of our annoyance), we wanted the same one.

I got it from xxxchurch, the self-proclaimed #1 Christian porn site on the web. It's been all over talk shows and national news for years, but if you haven't heard of them, they're a funky, hipped out group of Christians who are speaking out against pornography in the funniest, slickest, most creative way possible. And they're not Bible thumpers, either. Their arms are as open as their minds; their goal is to restore healing to people's lives that have been destroyed by porn.

Frankly, it's bloody brilliant. I'm frickin' in love with the two pastors who started this and I can't BELIEVE I didn't think of this myself.

Now Jason and I only have one problem: How are we going to take turns wearing this bloody awesome shirt?

I can just see us now, staring at the T-shirts right before we're getting dressed, wondering who will get to emblazon their chest with the rudy slogan that day.

"AIGHT. Who's wearing Jesus porn today?!"

The Fatty Funhouse

Okay, you've got to see something. I've been chuckling to myself all morning so I want to share. Ready?

Look at me.
Now look at me.
Oh man...
Hahahaha!

So why am I showing you these pictures? 'Cuz they're funny? No, they're not funny. (Well, with the exception of the last one.)

See, recently a lot of people have been exclaiming how "small" and "tiny" I am. And for the first time in my life, they're not referring to my height. Even size 2, cute little blondes are saying it...WHILE I'm wearing baggy jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. And every time they say it, I'm always surprised. Me? Small? Tiny?! I turn around to see if they're talking to someone else, but there's no one behind me.

Ever since I hit puberty, I was big. Not medically obese, but never skinny. I never wore a bikini and at one point I was wearing size 14 jeans. I was deeply depressed over it for 5 years, but once I went to college, all that melted away. No, not the fat, but my depression. As a college student, every time I looked in the mirror, I thought I was pretty good looking. I mean, I was realistic enough to realize that I wasn't about to win a wet T-shirt contest, but honestly, there were occasions that I strutted into a room thinking I was hot stuff. And because of that, I was hot stuff. Besides, no one ever told me any different.

Then last spring, I started to mysteriously lose weight. No diet, no exercising, no eating better...I guess my body just decided on its own, because within 6-9 months, I was about 25 lbs lighter. I honestly would have never noticed had it not been for all my pants falling off. And why WOULD I have noticed? I'd been slightly overweight for 10 years. Why would I expect anything to change?

But I did change. Before I knew it, I'd dropped 3 or 4 pants sizes and every shirt I wore was a size Small. And then everyone started to hail me as "tiny". Huh?!

Now before ya'll go rolling your eyes, thinking that this is some subliminal way for me to brag about myself and rub it into the noses of those overweight, hang on a sec. 'Cuz it's not.

I look back at my old pictures, and when I see that I was a little overweight, I don't think, "Wow, thank GOD I'm skinny now!" What I do think is, "Wow, I was a little overweight, yet I never knew it. I thought I was hot stuff and because of that, I WAS. I'm proud of myself for being confident in myself, no matter what weight I am or what size my pants are."

Now that I'm skinnier, not a whole lot has changed. I'm giving more consideration to wearing a bikini this summer, but that's about it. And just so you know, Jason met me BEFORE I lost any weight, and he was snagged from the beginning. In fact, I don't think he noticed me losing any weight, and I doubt he'd notice if I gained any.

So to all those gals out there, I say: Be confident! Be healthy! And be damn sexy, no matter what size you are!

Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!

Do you have a list of things you want to do before you die?

I do.

Among other things: Hang out naked in public, give birth naturally without medication, dye my hair pink, and conquer a third language.

But there's only one #1. If I could only pick one thing, this is what I would do.

Kick. ass.

Only people who deserve it, of course, including but not restricted to: bratty Beverly Hill girls, narcissistic chauvinistic guys, 99% of all teens, and everyone who's ever cut me off on the road.

I don't know where this itch comes from. I don't come from a violent family and I've never been in a physical fight. Yet every time I see an injustice, every time I watch Jerry Springer, my skin tingles and I want to feel my fist hitting flesh, my foot hitting bone. (Springer, by the way, is incredibly unsatisfying. What is the deal with all the pansy-ass hair pulling and slapping? Just punch them, already! Damn.)

Normally if I really want something that has not yet happened, I'll dream about it. But in this case, that's no good. In my dreams, my legs move as if I'm walking in water. My arms are equally weighed down. Because of that, I've always wondered if I'm capable of packing the perfect punch. And I'm still wondering.

All I need is some random person to call me something awful and then say, "Ya wanna hit me?" I won't even bother to say, "Hell yes."