I'm A Loser...

Yes, it's true. I am a loser.

Now, before anyone starts lecturing me about saying self-depreciating things about myself, let me explain. For the last 9 weeks, I have been participating in Small Town's version of The Biggest Loser. Teams of 4 people competed against other teams to see who could lose the largest percentage of body fat. My team was called the B'Walkin' O'Mamas... could we have been any cutesier with our name? I think not. After all, we were looking for a little... change. (sorry... couldn't resist...)

Unlike the network TV version, there were no cameras following us around (thank heaven for that) and there were no trainers calling us wimps if we decided to just lounge around on our living room couches instead of working out (again, thank heavens). And, while the local newspaper published the team names and how they were collectively losing, no one knew who lost (or gained) as individuals. Amen.

Another refreshing difference is we didn't have to vote off other teams. What. A. Relief. I have to be honest, that is one part of the TV version I just don't like. I can't help it. I have struggled with my weight since the tender age of 6-weeks old. Seriously. My mom has often talked of how well I ate as a baby, and how the doctor put me on a diet at 6 weeks old. Six freakin' weeks old... and on a diet? How depressing is that? It's no wonder I think all the people on that show should just be allowed to stay and lose, and lose... and LOSE... without worrying about interpersonal politics, or clicks, or anything else besides getting healthy. In fact, I think it would be heartwarming if they could sit around a campfire and sing Kumbaya every night... minus the s'mores, of course. But that wouldn't make for Must See TV. Yet another reason I'm not a high-powered TV exec, right?

But I digress.

My own triumph during the last 9 weeks... 17 pounds lost. Okay, I'll admit it... it was 18 as of last week, but then there were these little white cupcakes, you see... and... and... well, I'm sure you can figure out the rest. *sigh*

I'm not complaining. Seventeen pounds is a huge achievement, especially in such a short amount of time. And, just because the last official weigh-in was today doesn't mean I'm done... I'm going to keep on going. One of my teammates is going to keep up the weight loss and exercise with me, too. Yay for us!

So, yeah... I'm a loser. And dadgum proud of it, too.

Amazon to the Rescue!

Maybe it's karma.

Maybe it's fate.

Or maybe Amazon has spies watching me. Uhhh... looking over my shoulder*... that's kind of a creepy thought, so let's hope that's not the case...

I just find it ironic that after all the back and forth these past 4 months between me and Kasbahouse, that all it took was Amazon to knock them up alongside the head. SMACK! BAM! Out of the blue today we are receiving a full refund for the broken pasta machine. AND they don't even want the darn thing back. Why they wouldn't do this back in January before Amazon had to kick their you-know-what for me, I don't know. But I sure am thankful they finally they did it now.

Amazon is a powerful, powerful being and must be revered. At least, that's what I tell myself when the credit card bill comes....

*wink*

Lucky, Lucky Woman...

I am a very lucky woman. I married a man who cooks. And when I say he cooks, I don't mean occasionally grilling a steak or microwaving some popcorn. I'm tellin' you, my man can C-O-O-K cook! He has specialities, like chocolate mousse pie and honey-oatmeal bread (which are both to die for, thankyouverymuch). And, more incredibly, he even has secret recipes. It's true. The meatballs and marinara he makes that are absolutely second to none? That's right... they are Top Secret.

And I'll admit it... I like to show him off. I tease other women, it's true. What can I say, I have a lot to show off about. Case and point: When DD participated in a fundraising bake sale last spring, DH whipped out a bunch of loaves of his honey-oatmeal bread. Can you believe that most people gave $20 a loaf for them? They not only gladly handed over the cash... they even asked if he'd make more. What a guy.

Last night our DD was involved in yet another community fundraiser, but this time they were cooking a pancake supper. Guess who stopped in and gave the girls Pancake Making 101? That's right... my hubby. What a man.

On his nights off, he cooks dinner. Everything from pork loins cooked all day in the smoker to basil pesto pasta to deer burgers. What's more is he enjoys cooking. He misses it when he's too busy to cook. What a stud.

But... best of all... when I or our DD have had a bad day... when we are feeling down, or blue, or depressed in the slightest... he sneaks in the kitchen and whips up a batch of cookies without being prompted. What a hero.

Yes... it's true. I am a very lucky, lucky woman.

Rock the Kasbah... But Stone the Kasbahouse

For Christmas last year I thought I'd surprise DH with a pasta maker. He's mentioned eleventy-seven times how he'd love to have one, and let's face it - giving him a pasta maker means him making pasta that I get to enjoy. HELLO brilliant idea!

Now, the difficult part was finding one. Keep in mind we live in the middle of nowhere. There are no specialty kitchen shops to go poking around in, no large department store that could possibly have one... nada. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

Enter the internet.

Ahhhhh... I love the internet. I would wrap it in bacon and eat it if I could. I swear it. A day without the internet for me is... is... well, I don't want to even talk about such a tragedy. Anyhoo, me and my beloved internet did some searchin' and researchin' to find just the right pasta maker for DH. I probably knew every pro and con there was to know about pasta makers before I stumbled across a specialty shop on Amazon called Kasbahouse. They import all sorts of items directly from Italy. I had a light bulb moment: Heyyyy... don't they make pasta in Italy? Ding! Ding! I think we found our winner! After dancing around in my nightgown and throwing out my shoulder from patting myself on the back, I placed an order for an Imperial Pasta Maker. It just sounded so... so... imperial. I was impressed with myself. And, by gosh, I just knew DH was going to be impressed with me, too.

And you know what? I was right! DH was so excited he hardly waited before he started cranking out his very first batch of lingui-SNAP! What the....?! It. Broke.

*sobbing at the memory*

Now, I've never had a lick of trouble from anything I've ever bought off Amazon. Not even an iota. But I'd say this qualified as a doozy. After sobbing uncontrollably (who wouldn't after being denied pasta, folks) I contacted Kasbahouse.

*crickets chirping*

Either Kasbahouse didn't understand the vastness of our pasta-making tragedy, or they were inundated with hundreds (millions?!) of other customer concerns the same as ours. Turns out it was a little of both. When they finally got back to me, you won't believe the reason they gave me for the defective item. Are ya sittin' down? Because they blamed Italy. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's Italy's fault there is a problem with my pasta machine.

Who knew? Who knew Italy was that vindictive. That they will stop at no costs to ruin any non-Italy-visitin' pasta dinner. What a bunch of...

Now waitaminute. *scrolling up* Yeah, that's what I thought. Those Kasbahouse people reeled me in with the "it's from Italy" sales line in the first place. And now they are using 'it's from Italy' as a scapegoat. I don't know about you, but they can't have it both ways. No way. Nuh-uh. Not in my book, folks.

Well, that was three months ago. Still no replacement pasta maker. When they said they'd send one, the time frame they gave was, "We aren't sure. You know it has to come from Italy, right?" (muttering) The sum-bastages. And, since I was gullible enough to give Kasbahouse the benefit of the doubt, there is no longer any recourse through Amazon. All because I was suckered in by one slick line: It's from Italy.

blogger's note: I want to clarify that I still love, love, love Amazon and they have in no way let me down... all my angst and hatred is directed at Kasbahouse. So if you are ever in the market for anything pasta-ish or Italian-esque, steer clear of purchasing from Kasbahouse. Like the title of my post today says: Rock the Kasbah... but stone the Kasbahouse.

It's All About Relating

I'm all about relating to people. It's a huge part of my job. HUGE. In fact, my job wouldn't exist without helping people, and to do that, I have to relate. I'm a relate-er-er, if you will (my own word... isn't it purrrdy?).

Considering no two people are exactly the same, isn't it obvious that one couldn't necessarily relate to everyone in the exact same way? Seems logical to me. So, I change things up depending on who I'm relating to. Some people like to be treated very efficiently with little to no unnecessary chit-chat. No problem, I can do that. Some people like to talk about their kids, grand kids, dogs, cats, motorcycles, the weather... whatever makes them tick. Gotcha... I'll do my best to bring it up and listen with rapt attention. And some people are just plain ornery and like to give me a hard time. And what I've learned is those people really, really like it best when I dish it right back to them with a smile on my face. Whatever trips their trigger is what I try to do... to relate to them as individuals.

Today I got in a bit of a pickle at work by relating to someone in what management deemed an 'unprofessional' manner. Oops. You see, it was someone I know pretty darn well, and he definitely falls into the 'ornery' category. Most definitely ornery. With a side of pain-in-the-you-know-what. In fact, I'm not sure we've ever had a conversation that didn't involve barbs going both directions. And we both love it. We just get each other. It's our thing. Know what I mean? Anyway, in the course of 'relating' to my customer-slash-friend this morning, one of the Uppity-Ups overheard me say "Damn it!" to him. What they didn't see was the grin on both of our faces or the twinkle in his eye when he knew he'd riled me up to that point. What can I say... it was just our thing in action. Unfortunately, Uppity-Up didn't see it that way.

Oh, well. So, I'll try to be a bit more professional for Uppity-Up from now on.

Professional, but in an ornery kind of way, that is...

*wink*

It Just Gets My Goat...!

Warning: This blogger is about to go on a bit of a rant... proceed at your own risk!

To put it mildly, it really gets my goat when parents forget to be parents and try to just be friends with their children. I am not talking about all-grown-up children, because in my mind being able to be friends with your parents once you reach adulthood is one of the greatest perks in life. That's something completely different than what I'm talking about.

It's ridiculous when a parent forgets they have a responsibility to raise a functioning member of society. When they believe it's okay to be their child's buddy all the time. Kids are kids, for crying out loud, not little adults in disguise. They need someone to teach them right from wrong. Someone to show them life has rules and consequences and that it's damn hard sometimes, but perseverance pays off in the end. Not everyone always makes the ball team, or gets a trophy when they lose.

That's life, honey, so you better get used to it.

This has been a bit of a hot topic around our household for the last few weeks. We have a family member who has allowed the line between parenting and friendship to blur (that is if it's ever really existed - which is another debate altogether) with her own child. They are now getting a taste of what Teenager-ville is going to be like when there hasn't been true parenting present for... well, for forever.

We had the privilege of hosting a visit to this teenager-quickly-filling-with-angst during spring break and saw a child craving attention. We believe it's not too late to get things back on track, but DH and I are afraid that won't happen unless the visit becomes permanent. And, trust me, we'll do it in a heartbeat if given the opportunity. But the gloves come off in our home. We don't pull too many punches and believe in parenting first and foremost.

Aren't we just so Ozzie and Harriet with a little bit of holier-than-thou sprinkled in for good measure...?

We aren't perfect by any means. Heck, just ask our own DD and she'll tell you! She'll probably even give you an itemized list of our faults if you want. Then again, so will we. We aren't perfect, and we teach our DD that no one is perfect, but it's okay to strive for perfection and that falling short is okay... as long as you try. In short, we parent her.

It's our job.

It's our responsibility.

And it's our honor to parent our DD.

We just wish everyone felt the same way about being a parent.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled reading...

Rabbit-Rabbit!

This is embarrassing to admit, but I have been saying 'rabbit-rabbit' as my first words every month since I was in the sixth grade. I hope my DH doesn't read this post and start wondering if he should just go ahead and have me committed now. You see, my math teacher back then was a very superstitious Greek woman who happened to mention one day that the first words you are supposed to utter before any others on the first day of every month are 'rabbit-rabbit'. Now, while I clearly remember these very important instructions... I have absolutely no memory as to why. What did she say would happen if I didn't? What? WHAT?! [insert industrious, super-thinking look here] Nope. No recollection whatsoever.

Considering that little tidbit of advice came to me nearly thirty years ago now, I am quite certain I've messed up and said something as useless as 'good morning' before remembering to say the magical, mystical... and, let's face it, nonsensical... words 'rabbit-rabbit' at some point during those years. And, as far as I can tell, I am still alive to talk about it. But I'm no needless risk taker, so...

RABBIT! RABBIT!

Ahhhhhhh... safe for another month!