As promised...

I knew it wouldn't take me long to find something to bitch about.

Male species:

We will never, ever understand your obsession with video games/golf/sportscenter (enter your annoying obsession here).

The same way you tune out and hear "blah, blah, blah" when we start talking about purses or shoes or our mothers? Yeah, we do that when you start talking about MLB the Show or what an amazing round of golf you played. AND YES we will pout and (on one particularly over-the-top occasion) hide the controller to your PS3 (golf clubs, whatever) if the ratio of time spent on your annoying obsession to time spent doing whatever it is we want to do starts tipping in your direction. So, expect it, embrace it, plan accordingly.

You have been warned....and you don't want me to have to address this again. Ask the skinny bitches.

Bucket List

Phone call around 1:30 yesterday afternoon confirmed that I have a little more time to work on my bucket list (i.e. no cancer):

1. Go on a trip to a place I cannot reach via Kia Spectra or Carnival Cruise Lines

2. See my son graduate, get married, have a child of his own

3. Graduate law school, Pass bar exam, Practice law

4. Own a home

5. Get something published

6. Learn a second language

7. Meet someone I have admired from a distance

8. Celebrate my fifty year wedding anniversary

10. See all the touristy landmarks I have never seen (that means every touristy landmark period)

11. Take a vacation with my best friends

12. Learn to play piano

13. Take more literature classes

14. Surf

15. Live on a beach

16. Throw a really great party

17. Own my own business

18. See the Cowboys win the super bowl

19. Watch my son achieve something he has worked hard for

20. Drive a standard without sweating bullets

Obviously I was scared for no reason, but I want to achieve my goals more than ever now. Better late than never.

P.S. I promise to cut out the emotional crap and return to bitchy commentary and humorous child-rearing anecdotes.

Yeah, maybe I am scared

Let me start by saying I still don't know anything.

Perhaps my last post came off as flippant or me making light of the situation, or perhaps you saw it for the masked fear it really was.

If I give the thing the gravity it may deserve, the fear wins, and I spend my days and nights worrying about something that may never be. So, yes, I'm going to joke about jinxing myself via the annoying duck insurance, and I'm going to keep on waking up and telling myself I don't have cancer until someone shows me a pathology report proving otherwise.

I do my best to tell the tales of my life in a way that I hope brings a smile to your face, but I'm human and scary stuff happens. So, sit tight while I pretend not to be scared to death and humor me until I get that phone call that gives me permission to drink to my good health.

Afff-Lac

While I'm trying to be all motivated and conquer the world, my doctor is doing her best to diagnose me with something scary.

This morning, I went for a physical. Just routine business. Until doc started asking a bunch of questions all suspicious like and then said the word "cancer." No one has diagnosed me with cancer. They tried three years ago, but they did a biopsy and came back with "dysplasia" instead. Not cancer. Just pre-cancer. Just keep an eye on it so it doesn't turn into cancer.

So, I know there's some weird stuff floating around in my body that could take on a mind of its own and turn into cancer. I just operate under the assumption that it never will. However, this doctor decided that my symptoms warrant checking to see if it has. I'm not sure why she felt the need to tell me. Especially since I'm all, "everything happens for a reason" and I bought a cancer policy last week on the off chance that my "weird stuff" did turn into cancer. My gut reaction when she said (like she was ordering lunch), "we're just going to do some testing for ovarian cancer and h pylori (which I totally googled and found out that it can cause ulcers and/or......stomach cancer)" was, "Oh God, did I jinx myself via Aflac?"

Because I said so!

J (step-daughter) upon seeing me put her 3T clothes in a bag: Hey! What are you doing with those clothes?!

Me (being logical adult): The clothes are too small for you now. So, we're going to give them to a little girl who can wear them.

J (being three and unphased by logic): No! Those are my clothes!

Me (trying new tack, i.e. bribery): I know, but they don't fit, and they're taking up room in your closet. We need to make room to go buy you new clothes.

J (thinking her authoratative hierarchy is also mine): But MY MOM SAID they still fit me. (She has also told me I have to give her cookies because Pappi said I have to).

Me (growing tired of this conversation): your mom hasn't seen you in these clothes in a while, so she doesn't know they're too small yet.

J (crying now): Uh huh! My mom bought me those clothes, and you can't give them to anyone else!

Me (officially done with the coversation now): The clothes your mom bought you are in the dryer. They're going home with you. Brooke gave us these clothes, and we're giving them to Kate now.

J (not done with the conversation): why?! They're mine!

Me (officially turning into my mother) Because I said so.

J: Stops crying, leaves kitchen and resumes toddler activities.

The reason "because I said so" was invented: its sheer power to end unwinnable arguments with toddlers.

I'mma a survivor

If you don't know all the crazy stuff that has happened to me in my life then you've probably also never done Jager shots with me until 3 a.m. Suffice it to say, I have a unique story (yes, I know you do too, but this isn't about you.)

People (mostly my friends Christen and Natalie) have been encouraging me to tell my tale for years. However, I am lazy, and I fear failure (reason I am a paralegal and not a lawyer), so I come up with every excuse in the book to not write a book.

Yesterday I spent an hour reading the blog of a real writer (www.jennsylvania.com you should read it too) and decided that it was time to either write the damn book or shut up talking about writing the book "someday." This morning, I prayed for a sign while I flat-ironed my hair. Something like this: "Dear God, if you really think me telling my story will help people, please give me (another) sign. Love, Michelle."

Driving to work, I checked Facebook (he who is without sin, let him cast the first stone. I know you've done it too, so shut it), and I saw the following post from someone who it never occurred to me would read my blog:

I love your blog, by the way! Stumbled across it yesterday; already have it in my RSS reader. :)

Now, I won't even pretend to know what an RSS reader is, but I know that God is saying (through Nick), enough already with the procrastinating....I gave you the story and the desire to write it, now do it.

So, this is my way of forcing myself to start. An announcement on the blog means the pressure is officially on.

P.S. I have no delusions of grandeur, and I'm not daydreaming of being a best seller, and I'm not saying it won't take me two years to write the book. I'm saying, my story will inspire people who need inspiration. It's just a fact.

Michelle for Mayor of Mommyville

Qualifications:

• My wardrobe choices are becoming: wear same three outfits over and over OR wear spit-up stained clothing.
• My backseat has two carseats and no room for anyone but pint-sized passengers.
• I have had occasion to look down into my (ridiculously expensive) purse and see teething toys.
• Three people have told me they love my "mom 'do" or "soccer mom hair-cut." (Um, 1. that is NOT a compliment, and 2. my then-single, childless friend had a similar haircut a year ago, thank you very much.)
• I can talk on the phone, fold laundry, and hold a bottle at the same time.
• It feels like Christmas every time I leave work to head home and see my little boy.
• The "camera roll" on my phone has 431 photos and 15 videos. I can count on one hand the ones that are non Silas-related.
• Phrases I have uttered in the last 24 hours: "Did he poop today?" and "Hold the baby while I get this spit up out of my bra."