Week in Brief

This is day 21 on the HCG diet. I've lost all interest in food.

Yeah, whatevah.

If that were even remotely possible, I wouldn't be in the sorry shape that I am. Knock, knock, knocking on twenty pounds lost. I am totally cheesed with myself for giving in last weekend. Even though it was a little cheat and I only went up half a pound, I didn't lose Saturday, Sunday or Monday. I could have been at twenty today if I'd shown a whisper of restraint. GAH! Ah well, I've been back in the saddle all week and results are good. I'll update you Monday. In the event that I don't hit the goal, I may be cranky and will be forced to blog about something I despise, like the current administration or taxes or young, hefty people riding around in those electric shopping carts at Wal-Mart because they are too lazy to walk.

I was a wedding planning goddess this week. Of course, you know that last weekend was kind of a breakthrough for me and now that I've drunk from the bridezilla goblet, I have become militant in my need to cross items off of the "list". This week I:
-Ordered the wedding favours.
-Ordered a little something something for the brave women who have agreed to stand up there with me
-Reserved the limo BUS. Yes, BUS.
-Got pricing on the flowers.
-Decided on the table centerpieces (did not have to put head between legs and breathe deeply)
-Organized the logistics of the wedding day with a specific timeline.
-Organized rehearsal dinner.
If I was allowed, I'd reward myself with a dark chocolate truffle and a glass of merlot.
*Sigh*

My daughters, all three of them, have been sent from someplace fiery to torment me. Eldest, the one who made me a grandmother, phoned very late one night, repeatedly, until I answered. I don't usually pick up the phone after 9pm because I wear bifocals now and beauty rest is no longer a joke. I answered this time because I'm a grandmother and for goodness sakes, it could concern the baby.

Nope.

It was daughter crying incoherently because her tooth hurt. Apparently a strawberry seed was lodged in the wrong place.

Threats of the emergency room.

Ice pick in the head stuff.

HIGH DRAMA.

And then it passed. I suggested that she might want to get a sitter every now and then and get a full eight hours. Or perhaps a psychiatrist with a liberal prescription pad. Jesus.

Teenage daughter got herself a new boyfriend. He is the same age, clean cut, polite and generally delightful. He's also the lead singer in a death metal band. I'm told this type of music is an acquired taste, like jazz or rap. Hmmm...Since they seem to be spending nearly every waking moment together, the birth control issue is bound to rear it's controversial head again because abstinence is a fairy tale. I dread the conversation but I'm going to take another run at it anyway. So everything is all good. She's babysitting Olivia for the summer. We think that perhaps the boyfriend might be a distraction, though. He comes over most days that he doesn't work and "helps" teenage daughter with Olivia. I'm not sure it's working out so well. Yesterday, I came home to this:

Oh listen, I know she looks peaceful enough. You need to look a little closer.


See it now? She's missing a bloody EYEBROW! Apparently, while teenage daughter was otherwise engaged, Olivia took a pair of scissors to her eyebrow. And this, thirty five days before she is scheduled to pose in about a million wedding pictures. I'll be damned before I DRAW one on. Then she'd likely do the whole Norma Desmond, "All right, Mr DeMille, I'm ready for my close up" thing.
I am praying for a quick regrowth.

And this is why good chocolate and alcohol are part of my vernacular. It's called COPING.