Go ahead..Shrink Me.

Its almost hard to fathom that until this week, I was a therapy virgin, given factors including, but not limited to :

1. Fear of being murdered in public bathrooms

2. need to acquire and dispose of domesticated animals

3. lack of need for physical contact from other human beings

4. intense need for cosmetic changes....curtains, paint, bedding, body parts

5. Unnatural use of laughter in inappropriate circumstances (ie: the injuring of an person, even children and elderly, in my presence

6. Child rearing strategies (ok, these I stand by....but they are often unconventional)

This list could go on...and on...and on.

At any rate, I knew I may need assistance sorting out this oddities within my own mind. I have known for a while (4 years) that it may be a logical step in the natural progression of my growing as a woman, mother, wife, and human being in general.

Not to mention that it is extremely "in fashion" to see a therapist. I mean really, I am one of the few people I know NOT taking any sort of mood altering medication. (unless you count the few doses of xanax I occasionally "borrow" in emergency situations)

I had always put it off. I'm not going to lie. I truly believe, that in most cases, I know everything and am mostly always right. Not to mention that while most people have "opinions", I mostly have "factual statements". It's an asshole quality, I know. But I cant help it.

Going along with this, I cannot not imagine someone telling me something about myself, or offering advice about MY LIFE that I could not do myself. I am not an idiot. I know the difference between right and wrong. I can see what is healthy and unhealthy behavior, and I am pretty sure I know why I choose to react that way i do in certain situations.

I decided, however, that maybe, if anything, I could get some "help" in dealing with my issues in a more normal way. That maybe there are ways of eliminating some of the behaviors I have developed which make myself.....and..... others miserable and/or uncomfortable.

It has also been 3 years and 8 months since I have been a stay at home mom. If that is not a reason to be therapized.....or medicated, I don't know what is (no offense to those who enjoy this lifestyle choice)

It is no secret that to me....staying home and raising my children has been a bit of a sacrifice. Selfish, bratty, whatever. Sorry. I enjoyed being a working mother. It was difficult, yes, but it was who I was and what I loved. (If I were a mom in the 50's with no real choice of having a career outside the home, I think I definitely would've have been an alcoholic, a swinger, or hanging from a coat hanger in the closet) This statement alone proves I may need to talk to someone.

So, over the past several weeks and a few attempted interventions by my close friends, I decided to give it a whirl. I booked an appointment with a therapist who came highly recommended by a good friend of mine.

My appointment was at 1pm. I arrived at Dr.K's office promptly at 12:59pm. (i am a firm believer in showing up earlier rather than being late)

of course, my main focus was to thoroughly size up each and every person in the waiting room. I knew they weren't all there to see her. There were several other therapists within this building. So naturally, I was trying to decipher what the fuck was wrong with each one of them.

As I was in the middle of deducing that Jane Doe #2 was a substance abusing kleptomaniac with a history of sleeping with strange men, Dr. K came to retrieve me.

I walked into the office and just as I had expected, saw the "couch". I was confused by the other four cushy chairs however. One of which was an over sized queen anne armchair upholstered in a black and cream toile. I wanted to sit there...if only for the fact that the crazy shit I was about to tell her may seem more sophisticated if backgrounded by this old english garden motiff. It seemed perfectly logical to me.

However, she directed me to the couch. I was uncomfortable for a brief moment...wondering if I should lay down and make myself comfortable....like they do on TV....or would that be too cliche (?).

I didn't want to look foolish if that really wasn't what you were supposed to do. So I sat. She looked at me. I nervously looked her in the eyes, and like an innocent high school girl would say to her older college boyfriend... I uttered "Ive never done this before"

She chuckled and told me to give her a little background. I didn't know where to start. So I started at the beginning. "When I was 10, this city kid exchange student made me shoot a bunny with a bibi gun".

She thought that maybe I should fast forward a bit. So I did. Within one hour I covered 18 years of crazy. Literally. She often looked confused. Maybe because after each little bone I threw her, I covered my eyes, shook my head, and uttered "but wait...there's more".

This was the easiest $120 this lady ever made. Not only did I divulge each issue I had, i immediately followed with the 'why i did it', 'how to fix it', 'what I'm going to do about it', 'how it made others feel'...etc. So basically, I did her job as well. Just as i thought.

I left there thinking I should have made HER pay ME.....if for nothing else than the shear entertainment she received over the past 60 minutes. She did conclude a couple of important things. She told me I needed to get a job. (duh). She also told me that I am a type A personality who ultimately, is going to do what I want (again..... duh) Oh, and its very possible I am in the midst of a midlife crisis. (ya think?)

I made another appointment

I left feeling exhausted, mentally drained, and with an odd sense of relief in some way....not what I had expected.

I got in my car. Drove about 2 miles and something strange began to occur. What the hell? What is this salty liquid dripping down my face and into my mouth? Yes....it was like the fucking Johnstown Flood of 1889. (the worst dam failure in the US)

I was crying. I had no idea why. Maybe the crazy needed another place to live.....like all my wacky thoughts living together within the confines of my brain were acting as a dam...and with each idea/thought/problem I divulged to this woman, a piece was broken off...causing this flood.

Thank God it only lasted about a minute. She didn't totally break me. After it was over, I had no need to hug a loved one, or anything. We'll see how she does next week.

Bye bye, banana. HELLO MELONS!

Its been several months since I last posted. I have been in a funk I guess. However, after a long and busy summer I figured I needed to do some updating. If for nothing else than if my great grandchildren ever google me, they will have a plethora of knowledge of who I was. (and more than enough information to help them complete the family history-mental health section at their doctors office)

My banana penis (aka my inguinal hernia) is gone. It had decided that one night during a wedding where my dress was amazing and my shoes were fabulous, it was going to ensure that I have no fun. It popped out for good, and I ended up with emergency surgery two days later.

In hindsight, I am grateful. The gods were with me, and as history has proven....

weddings =sammartino babies. I took a knife...BUT dodged a bullet.

Now that the whole looking like a transvestite in my underwear and bikinis was behind me, it was time time that the final phase of my woman-like transformation was to be completed.

Everyone knows my boobs. Mostly everyone has seen them, talked about them, made fun of them at some time or another. I am both proud and ashamed that I nursed my Emma for 29.5 months. Twenty nine and one half months of pure mammary demolition.

They were basically gone. During the summer, I had resorted to stacking several cup paddings from various bikini tops to insert into the one I was wearing. I would also shove water filled fake boobs (walmart....$20) into the linings just to make the tops fit. It consumed an entire morning just to get ready for the beach.

"You know have the body of a 12 year old boy" was a phrase that I heard on more than one occasion. And, as I lost more weight, and spent more time in the gym, things went from bad to worse. It was official. I was fast becoming a candidate for National Geographics Nude Centerfold. All I needed was a bone ring hanging from my lower lip, and I was a sure thing.

That was it. I had worked to hard to lose the baby fat (that I actually put on AFTER the baby was born) and get me ass into shape. No matter what i did, however, there was no way I was going to grow boobs. That ship sailed. So, in true desperate housewife fashion....I decided to pay for them.

I made an appointment and went to my consult.

The doctor came in, shook my hands. The first question he asked. "what size were you thinking?" "small. well, bigger than what I have now, but relatively small" I didn't want to require wearing skis to remain upright. I just wanted to look normal. I told him I wasn't interested in looking like a stripper or a porn star. (not that theres anything wrong with that), it just wasn't my intent. I didn't want it to be blatantly obvious that I had them done either.

I also had to prepare Emma that the doctor was going to fix my boobs. I had told her on many occasions that she had broken them. I also told her that the NEW ones did not come prefilled with any kind of beverage. (and even if they had.....I would've chosen an alcoholic one)

I felt it beneficial to advise her what was to happen to her source of comfort and nutrition. I hadn't, however, anticipated that she would exclaim to everyone and their sister that "doctor gonna fix Mommy's boobs"

After a few days, I called and set my date. Now, I had to research what exactly I was going to put in there.

At first, I thought you went in there and said "A, B, C, D, etc". I had no idea that there was an actual and mathematical component to choosing breast implants. I studied, and researched, and studied some more. It went by "cc's".

I fashioned tester boobs from panty hose and rice, which I had learned about online. We referred to them as "RICE BOOBS. Oh, of course I had all three of my daughters completely involved. They (the rice boobs) actually ended up providing a good deal of fun. We played dodge ball with them daily. (I had made several sets in different cc amounts) We would hide them behind our back, and ambush the unsuspecting target whilst yelling RIIIIIIIICE BOOOOOBS!

In addition to cc's, there were three different projection styles. The first was wider, and gave more side boob. The next...a little bit more narrow and more front projection, and the third, very narrow and in your face.

You had to make sure that you chose the right dimension and projection for your body width.

I was so afraid I would make the wrong decision. This wasn't like paint or curtains. I couldn't just change them after they were in. I had to dedicate my full self in making this decision.

The time came for me to put in my order. It was two weeks pre op and they were coming from across the country. Even after I had made my decision, I questioned it every day.

The night before surgery, I posted on facebook for a ride home from the hospital. I had arranged to stay at my friends house for a couple of days while recuperating. I had actually been looking forward to this aspect more than anything else. I couldn't imagine anything better, than being forced to lay on a couch, completely stoned on pain medication, with no children in sight for at least 48 hours and doing nothing more than feeling myself up.

That night, I went to my friends house to take a couple of "before pictures"

I was a bit nervous as I began to take my shirt off. I turned to face her, with nothing on from the waist up. The look on her face said it all. But that was not to be....she had something to say.

She tilts her head..

"thats awful"

OK, I know. Take the picture.

"if anyones a candidate, you are"

I know. Take the damn picture

"Insurance should pay for that"

TAKE THE FUCKING PICTURE

Finally the day arrived.

As I was being wheeled into the operating room, the last thing i remember saying is please don't kill me. After what seemed like only minutes I awoke, cupped my new breasts, and mumbled...."I have boobs....and Im not dead"

I called my ride and away I went...it was approximately 5 hours after I had arrived.

It only took a couple of days before I was back on my feet again. The bigger girls had come to visit and had seen the twins. They approved.

When I finally came home, I had to reveal to emma my new boobs. When I lifted my shirt to show her, she simply said "OH....MY....GOD". I was like, " I know...nice, huh?"

I was immediately obsessed and in love. Scarred, swollen, and scary, they were the most perfect boobs I had ever seen. I constantly touched them, squeezed them and looked at them. I could hardly believe they were mine. Of course, I began trying on things I could never wear before.

I am the classic boob job person. I have no problem flashing them to whomever wants a peak. Its almost obnoxious. More people have gotten to second base with me over the past two weeks then in my entire high school career.

I also find it funny that people who maybe hadn't heard, will say to me that I look good...and ask if i have lost weight, been working out more, or ask me what I have being doing? I am perfectly honest and tell them no to all of those things....I have just gotten new boobs. Thus far, 3 woman have made appointments with my doctor.

I also found it important to tell my girls WHY i did this, and that it was for me...and no one else. I asked my oldest if she thought that this was a bad example...because some people think it is. She said no....my old boobs were a worse example. Further validating my decision.

It has been nearly 3 weeks, and I continue to appreciate my new additions. I no longer need to wear training bras or nursing bras.

I continue to support the art of cosmetic surgery. And maybe someday, if someone can explain the what the hell vaginal rejuvenation is.......well, no...maybe I'll draw the line at breasts....

Run, Forrest, Run

I have recently began to run. I had always thought I hated running. Long distance, anyway. In high school, I had a brief stint on the track team, however, could only manage to sprint. I think it was the fact that I was mostly hung over, and my lungs were tarred tight from all the marlboros.

Anyway, the "new" , older and wiser Jen doesn't really drink, and hasn't had a cigarette since September 13, 2008. (although, every day I think I am going to start having 2 every Sunday night as a reward for whatever...and a diet coke)

During my fist run, I was concerned that I wouldn't make it to the end of a long street in my neighborhood. My husband and girls rode their bikes with me. My neighbor was getting ready for his run at the same time and offered to coach me along.

I did very well. I managed to get three miles in with no cramping, or shortness of breath. It was nice....even though Emma, with her minimal language skills, managed to continually to turn to me from her bike seat and proclaim "mom...you get hit by car?" every 5 minutes or so.

After that run, I was anxious to do it again. However, the weather has not been optimal, and I have been forced to use the treadmill at the gym....which stunts my training as my ADD doesn't not allow me to be stationary for more than 15 minutes or so...which is equal to about 1.5 miles.

Last night, it was fairly warm. I had texted a few people whom I know run to see if they wanted to join me. This proved unsuccessful. As such, I was forced to run a solo mission.

I geared up, tucked my ipod securely in my sports bra, and off I went. (at least something was in my bra)

I was to run the same route that I ran during the first run. At about the ten minute minute mark, it was time turn cross the main street, and veer off into the first major neighborhood.

What I hadn't realized during my first run on this route, was that prior to hitting the suburban section of the neighborhood, there was a super long stretch of woods.

In case you were not aware, I have an incredible fear of being murdered. I had always thought, since very young, that this was my fate. I am sure it is a direct result of all the horror films I watched as a preteen. I seriously cannot be in a public restroom alone due to the fear of "candyman".

At first, I wasn't thinking about it....and actually, was a little glad. I had made the mistake of wearing a thong that was a tinge too big. A too big thong caused drooping, bunching, and moving in the crotch, in case you didn't know this. I was giving considerable thought to ducking into the woods to remove and bury it. Really, I was. Then I began to think a dog would dig it up and bring it home. DNA test would be run, and the news would report my murder. ironic, I know.

As I was thinking this, I noticed that I was running past a historical cemetery. I began to think that spirits were going to come an haunt me. Not two minutes later, my IPOD broke. Right in the middle of "Once Bitten Twice Shy". A continuous, loud buzzing of the song....it could not be fixed...and I couldn't stop running to give it my full attention.

By this time, I was in deep fear mode. I was now alone with myself and my own irrational thoughts. No music to distract my mind. All I could think about now, was that a rapist/murder was going to dart out of the woods and drag me into the hollows of the brush. I began running a little faster, and like a wild animal that puffs out is chest in order to look a bit more threatening, a made fists with both of my hangs and flexed my arms a bit. Like, maybe the murderer would be afraid he wouldn't win my :fight-back"

Next, I started visualizing the fanny pack I would wear next time I ran alone (if there were a next time) It would look something like this:

1. Mace

2. A knife

3. An extra ipod

4. A cell phone

5. An extra pair of underwear

I also decided that I would wear brass knuckles too. I could kill two birds with one stone....give my arms a little more of a workout, and knock the shit out of whomever was stupid enough to attack me.

All of this distracted me enough that I managed to make it to the first house in the neighborhood...alive.

Another 15 or 20 minutes or so through this area, and I was again, found my self running alongside a wooded area.

This time, it was a bit worse. There was a body of water. A body of water, surrounded by woods can only mean one thing. Wild animals. Specifically, the black water moccasin was at the forefront of my mind.

I jumped to the middle of the road. I knew that if I had stayed on the sidewalk this snake would dart out and inject me with a venomous bite. Well, even if it wasn't venomous, there is no way I would be able to continue running with a snake bite...this I was sure.

After I passed the water, I remember a facebook post from a friend who was just running in the same area...and she mentioned a wild turkey. For some reason, I wasn't afraid of the wild turkeys. I was however, afraid of that these were victims of prey....prey that were hiding in the woods awaiting there next meal. Coyotes, Fox, you name it. I sped up, and began cheering myself on to persevere. "run, forrest, run" was all I could hear in my head. I wasn't far from houses once again.

I couldn't wait to get home. I almost wished someone I knew would drive by and pick me up. I wasn't physically tired, but I WAS mentally exhausted.

Luckily, I made it home.....unscathed by my adventure. The first thing I did was take off my underwear...and throw them in the garbage. The second thing I did was round up my girls and give a lesson as to why you never walk/run/or ride your bikes alone.

Today, I will be mapping out a new route for my next run....and purchasing a fanny pack.

Jeans and Bikinis and Dressing Rooms, Oh my.

Let me begin by saying, there is absolutely nothing worse for damaging your self esteem as a dressing room.

I hate trying on clothing. 99% of the time, I purchase the clothes that I think will fit and try them on at home. 98.5% of THAT time, I end up needing to return what I had purchased.
I haven't quite figured out why no one in clothing store corporate America has figured out that if a women looks good in the clothes she is trying on, she is more likely to purchase. Seems easy enough.

Two days ago I was at one of my favorite stomping grounds...TJ Maxx. I came directly from the gym so was feeling pretty good about myself. After perusing the isles for a good 45 minutes, I had managed to fill my cart with six bikinis, three pairs of jeans and two dresses. ( I'm the only one who shops here and gets the max for the max)

I have learned, that, unless absolutely necessary, you DO NOT look into the mirror until the clothes are completely on your body. (I'll explain why shortly) I don't need to try the dresses on, but jeans and bathing suits are pretty tough to fit.

I start off with the jeans. I turn my back to the mirror, slip off my workout stretch pants, and thank the lord that I decided to wear underwear this day. (jeans do not normally come with the plastic undercarriage protection sticker). I had grabbed this pair from the juniors department.

(side note: Pants from the Juniors department is cut much differently than women's. I think prior to turning 2o, they assume your "down there" is shorter. I say this because the crotch rise is completely out of kilter. Aside from the most insane camel toe EVER, the top of the zipper is about 1.7 inches long. "jean people.....even juniors have pubic hair. Come on.....lengthen the zipper so the top of our girls pants don't look like zoomed picture of Tony Soprano's chest. )
Also, young girls have higher and firmer rear ends. So apparently, it doesn't matter that the jeans are designed with a super taught backside. For someone like me however, this jeans do nothing but pancake my ass.

Anyway, I wasn't sure what size I would be in Juniors. The real issue, which I learned quickly, is that I don't belong shopping in Juniors...unless is stretchwear. I grabbed a size which I thought reasonable. (You know me well enough to know that I actually grabbed a size that was unreasonable.)

Every woman, at some point...at many points, has tried on jeans that are too small. This I am certain of. I am no exception to this rule. What I did learn about myself, is that at this point in my life, if I try just a tinge to hard to pull up jeans, the urine release gadget within my body is activated. Yes. With one hard yank, I peed my pants just a little. (in my defense, I had just guzzled a small bottle of water before getting into the store) Luckily, it was not enough to penetrate my underwear, and therefore, there was no need for me to panic, or rush into the ladies room to dry off the crotch with the hand dryer....not this time. I did get them up and managed somehow to get them buttoned. It was and ugly scene. Gangster in the front, Ihop in the back.

Five minutes later, I was out of this dreadful pair of pants. I decided to waive my right to try on the next two pairs.

Now onto the what could be the most damaging dressing room trauma. Not much tops the stress of jeans shopping...only swimwear is worse.

First of all, getting into something that for some, is more revealing than your underwear and bra and is made for the public to internally judge you.

Secondly, the majority of the time, swimwear shopping is done pre-beach season. As such, chances are you are at one of your most untan of the year.

Thirdly, you cannot avoid looking in the dressing room mirror unclothed.

I turn as I put on the bottoms. I always put the bottoms on because they are the number one deal breaker. If the bottoms fit and look good enough, you can pretty much make the top fit (with me, too small is not an issue...too big can be cutlet'ed up, or straps can be severely tightened)

I don't think the bottoms fit properly, and were clearly designed by the same asshole who fashioned the pee jeans I tried on just minutes before. They may have been lower in the front than the jeans. And the backside, i firmly believed, was designed using a cabbage patch doll as a model.

I hold my breath and turn to the mirror. Now, here goes my issue with dressing rooms.

The size of the dressing room. Where you need to stand in relation to the actual mirror. No one is going to look proportionate when trying to look at themselves close range. Maybe its because your eyes go a little cross eyed.(?)

Next, its the lights. I think they use the same lights that the dermatologist uses to scare the melanoma out of your face. I mean really. I see things in this mirror that would give freddy kruegar nightmares. Granted, I assume there will never again be anyone eyeballs this close to my ass who isn't starting off with the phrase "this is going to feel cold". But still. Its scary.

Needless to say, I couldn't even get an accurate depiction of what I actually looked like in the suit because of the two negative factors mentioned above. Unless, however, I ventured out of my box -o- horror, and walked to the three way mirror at the end of the dressing room. (Clearly, the dressing room construction genius decided that the most flattering mirror in the dressing room should be located at the end of a green mile aisle.) I guess I could throw one of the sundresses on and give a quick flash once I get to the mirror. I had never before ventured out in the hall before.

So that's what I do. I get down to the mirror (of course my dressing room was closest to the exit, and therefore furthest from the public mirror) I position myself so as to have the perfect view of all sides. I lift the dress.

What the hell was I thinking. Why did I think I needed a rear eyed view of my ass in a too small bathing suit? I quickly rushed back to my closet, turned my back to the mirror and put my own clothes back on.

In that instance I learned a valuable lesson. Maybe the dressing room design team was not that stupid afterall. I went in there, saw a fuzzy and bad image of myself in their swimwear, and blamed it on the dressing room mirror and lighting.

In the past, I would buy the suit, put it on at home, and assume that my severely slanted mirror covered in nasty little handprints and hot breath finger painted pictures was giving me an accurate look of myself. And I was perfectly happy with this. (also, the lighting in my room is very poor)

I mean....I'm not really complaining about my body. All I'm saying is let a girl walk out of a dressing room feeling good. Get some good fun house mirrors and dim lighting....maybe an attendant serving up shots.

At any rate, ill go back to my old ways of bringing clothes home to try on. If I am going to have a body dismorphic issue, Id rather it be a positive one.

Is that a Banana in your Bikini?

Several few weeks ago, after chasing a bunch of two year olds around at a birthday party, I noticed a lump in my groin area. I immediately thought is was a swollen lymph node, and within seconds, had myself diagnosed with giardia. (giardia is a parasite that lives within your intestines...our new puppy had been diagnosed with it just a week prior).

I got extremely dizzy...and sweaty at the thought. ONE, because the vet told me that it would only be transmitted through the puppy's feces to mouth. TWO, because I thought if I called the doctor, he would make me poop in a jar.

I quickly called my bff nurse practitioner. She had lovingly replaced WEBMD several months ago as my "go to" medical source. Granted, she deals with primarily vaginas, but to me...that qualified her to handle almost any and all medical issues I might have.

She agreed to come over and give me the once over. I layed on the couch and raised my shirt....I had lowered my pants, and thankfully, had chosen to wear undies that day. (unfortunately, this day was NOT lawn maintenance day (sorry T) ) Anyway, she rubbed, pushed, prodded. She had me lay flat, sit up, etc. It was the most action I had seen in weeks...and frankly, if I hadn't thought I was acting as host body for thousands of parasitic creatures, I may have enjoyed it (more) )

'Well, Jenny, its not a lymph node..I think its an "in -gwin-nal" hernia". "A what? What the heck is that? " I couldn't even pronounce that word. At first, I wasn't sure if that was better, or worse than a parasitic micro worm. I would later discover that for me it was worse...much worse.

When I finally made it to my bed later that night, I opened that lap top, and googled "inguinal" (that is the proper spelling) The first thing I did was learn how to pronounce it. The second thing I did was google images, so I could determine for sure that that was what is was.

After perusing the photos for 10 minutes or so, I noticed that all the photos were that of men. I decided that maybe I should be reading...and not just looking at the pictures. (afterall....this wasn't the newspaper...it was my health)

After further reading, I discovered that inguinal hernias are very common in MEN. In MEN. Very uncommon in women. Of course they are, if there is a small margin of occurrence for anything , I will fall into that category. I am a a statistical wonder.

Panic set in...panic that I would be unable to resume my intense workout schedule. I had finally sculpted my once soft physique into a lean (er) and muscular frame...just in time for summer...and for the fist time since June, 1999.

I couldn't bare the thought of letting up on my routine. The next morning, I awoke to find the lump has dissipated. The wandering intestine that busted through my muscle wall had sunken back into the inguinal canal. I ignorantly convinced myself that it had gone away, and I was fine.

I took this one day off from the gym....just in case. Monday rolled around, and I decided to resume working out. I figured I would lay low on lower body exercises, or even standing ones that put undue stress on my lower half. I also laid off any lower ab work. I was in the clear....so I thought.

Not two weeks later, the lump once again reappeared. This time, instead of a golf ball appearance, it was more peanut shaped, and protruded horizontally across my lady front. Once again, it disappeared over night, and I followed the lay low routine.

However, it appeared AGAIN, only several days later. The recurrence was becoming more frequent....and my peanut was growing larger. As I look at the bulge, a light bulb went off in my head. "What must this look like to others...wait...its almost bathing suit time!"

I whipped my pants off and slipped on one of my new bikini bottoms. What I feared was so. It looked as if I had a penis...hanging to the left. I ran down to show Dave, who for once in his life, took a page out of my book. He laughed. He found it amusing that I was ranting that I looked like a transvestite. Oh my God. I am going to look like a man on the beach. With my new muscles, no boobs, and penis.

Even the girls got in on it. Ava is old enough to know (damn TLC) that there are people who are transgendered and asked what they are called. Not realizing she is half my DNA, I told her. "hermaphrodite". She then proceeded to call me this for the remainder of the night.

I went to the Doctor. As he felt around the area, he instructed me to do something I myself had made jokes about to my male friends. " Ok Jen, turn your head to the left and cough. Ok, again, Ok, cough again". Is this a hernia or a testicle? Maybe I am a hermaphrodite.(?)

I was informed that surgery is the only option in repairing the hernia. This has left me with a conflict that I cannot seem to resolve. (Both of which are narcissistic, I realize.)

1. Have the Surgery Within the next few weeks

Pros: 1. "Penis" is gone; 2.Probably get a small supply of Pain Killers; 3. Might be able to save on anesthesia and get a tandem boob job in time for summer

Cons: 1. Out of commission for 4 weeks...that means NO GYM. 2.Risk losing the muscle tone I have worked so hard for to get ready for the summer; No pain killers.

2. Have the Surgery POST Summer

Pro: 1. I can continue to maintaining my summer physique

Con: 1. I risk looking like a he/she on the beach, ...or resort back to my skirted bikinis.

I guess I will give it a few more weeks and gauge the size of my peanut when it gets closer to beach time. Until then, I will endure the family ridicule, and welcome the curious gropers. (hey, gotta take it when you can get it, right?)

How to NOT get a job.

Since switching jobs from full time office slave, to fuller time mommy slave, I have gone back and forth as to whether I should, in fact, get a paying job. Mostly, when the weather is cold and wet or when I am shackled to the boob sucker do I most feel as if I need to get out and get a life.

For the most part, it has been a matter of want, and not need. Recently, however, the mortgage business has slowed, and financially, things have gotten a bit tight. As such, and so my husband literally does not die of a heart attack due to stress, I feel as if I should at least see what is out there.

As I perused the want ads on monster.com, I got increasingly light headed, and at one point I think I passed out due to anxiety. I have grown comfortable in my current position, especially since I began "working" at the gym. When I wanted a job, and not needed a job, I didn't have this feeling of angst.

After an hour or so of searching, I was having little luck finding something that tickled my fancy. It wasn't long after that did I realize that maybe I was being a bit to picky. I love to tell people that "beggars cant be chooser's". I am admittedly one of the worlds biggest hypocrites.

The only job that half way interested me was in pharmaceutical sales. I envisioned a job where I could wear sexy little suits, pretty makeup and flirt with doctors on my own schedule. And as a bonus, I could possibly write off my pending boob job as a business expense. I would schmooze and bullshit my way to success. I'm still waiting for the call back.

Next, and per the employment good fortune of a friend of mine, I decided to give craigslist a go. I specifically searched for "work at home" or "part time".

The first group of jobs were nothing but fast food, 3rd shift jobs. I remember back in the day being jealous of the burger king girl.as i drove up and paid for my burger and fries kids meal on my lunch break....and thinking her life must be so stress free. And just the other day, as I was driving though a dunkin donuts, a young employee was coming out the back door with a garbage can and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, and for a fleeting second, I was jealous of even her. No. I cannot go from waiting on four spoiled kids to waiting on hundreds of teenagers, stressed out moms, and business people who don't have time for a decent sit down meal at Olive Garden. Next.

Hmm.....looks interesting... a spa job. I like spas.

"PART TIME: New massage and spa seeking woman between the ages of 18 and 25 for all male clientele" (followed by a disclaimer that no sexual acts, or illegal or illicit behavior is allowed or expected at the establishment).

I missed the age cutoff on that one by a few years. Next.

AS I read on, I was ill qualified for almost every job

"PART TIME" Local animal shelter looking for responsible person to assist in daily operations.

NOPE. I need diversity and I basically live in an animal shelter.

"PART TIME" DAYCARE working for children ages 1 - 5.

Are you fucking kidding me? Have you not read half my blogs? I'd end up in prison for sure.

Then, I found something I think I really WOULD do. Egg donation. At 10 grand a pop I could make a killing and wouldn't have to change my life hardly at all. I mean, what would be more satisfying than getting paid to help create a bunch of little JENs? It would be like a cruel little joke on all the future husbands of the world, not to mention all the eventual little JEN offspring.

Then, the fine print. Maximum age : 30. No exceptions.

That's two jobs that exclude me due to my age. What the hell happened to the age discrimination law?

After that discouraging hour, I have decided to try and put off the job search.......all I really want is to try and stall through he summer, anyway. I can liquidate some assets if things get really financially difficult. (ie return the dozens of shit you people make fun of me for leaving tags on), and I can start making my own coffee....and I can stop the incessant shopping.

I am not above sacrifice. Hell, I can sell my milk to third world countries if It comes down to it. (wait, they buy it right...it isn't something they expect donated??)

Lastly, if anyone is purchasing home, or wants to refinance, message me.

"REFINANCE WITH DAVE, AND SAVE ME FROM THE WORLD OF THE GAINFULLY EMPLOYED.....PLEASE"

Goodbye Sally and Brittney

Do you ever wonder if your kids are weird? I know, I know, seems harsh. Maybe weird is an inappropriate word to be used...especially coming from a mother. Different. Different seems better. (ok, lets be realistic. "Different" just sounds nicer than saying weird.

One of my children, to me, is a little "different". She has an imaginary friend named Sally. At first, I thought she was just playing around for the day...then I realized, after a couple of weeks, that "Sally" was here for the duration.

We have all seen how imaginary friends are portrayed on TV. You always take the side of the poor child who is lacking something in his or her life to feel the need to "create" an imaginary friend. We feel for the child, and want desperately to reach out to the tv parents and tell them why little Suzy feels she needs to make up friends.

I don't know why MY child needs Sally. She has friends, siblings, pets.....a life. Maybe its my fault for not liking to administer physical affection. Or my all to often use of the F word. Either way, Sally was here.

At first, it was annoying, as she insisted Sally be included and "spoken" to as she were, in fact, in the home. I even had to make her a plate of food at mealtime. After a couple of days, however, I figured out how I could use Sally to my benefit...and make her leave. (I have enough kids...I really didnt need another one)

I mean, I could basically do and say all the things I wanted to "Sally" without any DCYF ramification, right? Soon, poor Sally became the recipient of a little bit of child abuse. Sally had gotten sat on, pillow smothered, her hands caught in door jams, etc. It was mean, but eventually, caused Sally to run away. ( I'm assuming she ended up in a shelter.)

More importantly, she proved to be a good poster child for subservient behavior.

Not long after Sally "went away", Brittney entered the picture. I heard my daughter speak Brittney's name on several occasions, however, out of fear of feeding the fire, I ignored it...and refused to ask who "Brittney" was.

Of course, I couldn't go on....I had to ask. Despite the annoyance of another imaginary friend, I had to find out if Sally had been replaced. It was worse than I thought. Even though I had thought imaginary friends were weird, at least I knew they were a bit normal. But this, this DEFINITELY constituted being referred to as "weird".

You see, "Brittney" is a wart on the upper right portion of my daughters forearm. Yes...she has a wart, and named her Brittney. She likes her.

I explained that she could NEVER EVER tell anyone that she named her wart. It was too late. Apparently, she has introduced Brittney to all of her friends. This, for sure, would get her a lonely spot in the lunchroom.

I told my daughter that we had to make Brittney go away, and gave her the choice of freezing, or a good old fashion lancing. (I would've let it go for a while....but she began drawing a body around Brittney. So you see, I am trying to save my daughter from being beaten in the school yard....or in her own home)

This caused much dismay. There have been tears, name calling, and tantrums over the inevitable demise of Brittney.

I had to pull out my best mothering tactics for this one. Two nights ago, when my daughter and Brittney slept soundly in bed, I swiftly, and stealthily sneaked in to deliver a note:

"Dear Brittney, you must leave immediately. I know that you are evil and will soon begin to multiply....and love to have your sisters live on faces rather than arms. I don't want my best friend covered in little Brittney's. Even though it is safer for me to live where I live, I still love my bestest friend. Let the mom take you to a dr or I will come and get you myself....and It will hurt!

Love, SALLY"

I'm a genius. We have a dermatologist appointment next week. (and a therapist appointment the following week)