However, there is my upbringing, and there is THE PRESENT.

The following pictures were taken within five days of each other.

Let’s start with the game of “what’s on my pants.”

And end with the game of “what’s on my…”  Well, you get the idea.

In my current life, you can dress me up, but you can’t take me anywhere.  Sorry Mom and Dad.  You did the best you could.

Not only was there no internet, but my Verizon signal often left me with no data whatsoever.  In other words, I was completely and unexpectedly unplugged!

We slept in, hit the beach twice a day, ate my brother’s amazing food and of course enjoyed an adult beverage or two each night.  Our after dinner activity?  An afterthought of mine that turned out to be a nightly event – polymer clay.

I don’t have a creative bone in my body.   No, let me rephrase that.  I have many ideas in my mind, but no artistic ability to carry them out.   Fortunately, polymer clay is forgiving and fun even if your creations look nothing like what you had in mind.

After dinner each night, I set up our tools and the girls and I began.  We talked, we molded, we cut, we talked.  There was nothing electronic about it and I loved every single moment.

Would you believe “Miss Uncreativity” (that would be ME) actually made something FUNCTIONAL?!

*WARNING!*  If you make polymer clay beads, do not continue reading.  Because these babies are…well… oh so totally novice.  I like to think of them as rustic.  Yea, that’s the word… RUSTIC! <cough cough>

My first beads began with this:

And then turned in to this:

From which I made this:

My second batch of beads are my favorite:


The one thing I missed these last two weeks?  Your BLOGS!  I will be by this weekend, with my deepest apologies for being so behind.  Following my visits will be a completely emotional meltdown post about Saturday’s big event.  Who will I be sending on a plane and where?

It wasn’t me who put you on the floor.  And it wasn’t me who stepped on you.  But I was there when it all went down.  I heard the crack.  Was that your beautiful brush feature, or was it my heart?

Every day for the last two years, my hair has been glossy.  Smooth.  Instyled.  I have loved you from the moment I first set eyes on you.

I have not had the strength to throw you away yet.  So there you lie on my bathroom floor, a shell of what you once were.

And me?  I am but a shell of what I once was.   Never again will I have shiny, soft and beautifully controlled locks.  I cannot replace you, my dear Instyler, for my children need food more than I need good hair.

Today, I am now known as “The Woman With Bad Hair.”

Goodbye, my love.  Goodbye.

Dear Family, Friends and Co-Workers:

For this, I am truly sorry.

Dear Lush,

Hi Lush, remember me?  It’s Katherine, your number one fan.  I’m the one who will give up her last piece of chocolate for a Godiva Shampoo Bar.  I’m the one who went to Vegas and skipped it all, just to visit her first and only Lush store.  And when asked what I want for my birthday I replied with one word.  Lush.

So about that whole birthday thing.  Guess what I got?  A check.  To spend.  On me.  At Lush online.  SWEET.

I decided it was time to try out your conditioners.  If you look at my picture, you will see I should have tried this long ago.  Curly.  Frizzy.  Dry.  Bleh.  After two hours of debating, I chose three.  Jungle, Retread and R & B.  I must have read every review at least three times.  Sad, I know.

To my AMAZEMENT, I have found the ultimate conditioner for curly hair.  Lush R & B.  Holy HAT does this stuff work.  Defined.  Soft. Sexy.  My hair has never looked better.  I believe the angels came down from heaven to mix this miracle conditioner.

Except for one tiny, little, eensy weensy thing.  It stinks.

No.  You don’t get it.  It really REALLY stinks.

When I first opened the jar my daughter exclaimed, “Ewww what is that SMELL!”  I turned to the dog, but then realized it was R & B.  Oh Man!

But this was Lush, after all.  I had to try it.  The next morning I held my nose (this time the dog looked at me), closed my eyes and put it on.  This was so not going to work.  My nose began to run.  My head began to ache.  I couldn’t stand it and pulled my hair back away from my face.  And went to work.

It was there that someone noticed my “scent.”

“Ummmm… Katherine… what IS that?!”

“It’s my Lush Fail.  I can’t talk about it.  But doesn’t my hair look GREAT?”

“But it smells!”

“I know.  But I look great!”

“Did you bring your dog to work?”

“No.”

Two others walked up.  “Let ME smell!”  “I want to smell!”  Sheepishly, I lowered my head and offered myself up.

“Eww!”

“Blahhhh!”

“Well, it isn’t SO bad…”

And finally?

“Sniff.”  “Sniff.”  “You Smell Like Old Lady.”

And there it was.  I smelled like Old Lady.

One of my co-workers has renamed your product.  As he flew out the door he called, “R & B?  More like Raunchy and Blech!”  Oh ha ha.

I’ve got three pennies, an expired coupon and half a pack of gum I’ll trade you if you make your R & B smell like Godiva.  Or Noubar.  Or a younger lady.

Because I am your biggest fan.  And this product ROCKS.

Most Sincerely,

Stinky and Beautiful

Would you do this?

I would.  If it really got down to it, I would.  And let me tell you why.

Years ago a gentleman who suffered many hospitalizations a year due to his life-threatening asthma learned about the hookworm and it’s potential in treating asthma and allergies.  His research led him to Africa, where he purposely walked barefoot over feces-infected soil in order to infect himself with hookworms.  The result?  No more hospitalizations.  No more allergy medications.  No more steroids.  All thanks to a little parasite that lives in his intestines.

Still with me?

The science behind this is fairly simple.  We are the host to the hookworm and provide this little guy with blood for food.  In turn, the hookworm causes our histamines to slow, shutting down allergic reactions and asthmatic symptoms.

We live in a sterile society.  Too sterile.  Some bacteria and parasites are good for us.  But we have tried to remove them through antibacterial soaps, hand cleaners and overzealous bathroom sanitizers.  In the meantime, we are getting sicker.  Many say there is a connection.

There is now scientific evidence proving that infecting yourself with hookworms can put your asthma and allergies in to remission.  And even more amazing?  Colitis, IBD, Crohn’s and Multiple Sclerosis have been recorded as going in to remission with the introduction of hookworms.  Personally, I would like to see a study regarding Lyme Disease and hook worms.  Perhaps some day.

Of course there is one tiny little drawback to having hookworms in your intestines.  If they take too much blood you can develop anemia.  But this does not happen overnight, so it can be monitored by a physician.  And if you indeed become anemic, the hookworms can be removed from your system within two days with an inexpensive and common medication.

Now, remember I have bad enough allergies that I get four shots a week.  And I’m on antibiotics many times during the year for my sinus infections.  Furthermore, I have gastroparesis.  That involves the digestive system.  See the light bulb above my head?  Digestive disorder… hook worms… yup, you got the point!

Am I bad enough now that I would want hookworms?  Uhhhh… nooooooo!  But many gastroparesis sufferers are on feeding tubes and near death.  And there are also asthma sufferers who have been near death themselves due to asthma attacks.  So I’ll tell you right now – if I got to the point where I thought I was going to die, I would say, “bring ‘em on!”  And if I suffered from Multiple Sclerosis, as a mother of three, you BET I would try me some worms.

Did I mention you can get rid of them with medication?  JUST IN CASE YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND?

Now it’s your turn.  You have MS.  You can’t walk anymore.  You have children you have to take care of.  Or suppose you can’t leave the house anymore for fear of being away from a bathroom.  Or you are constantly in pain due to Crohn’s disease.  Or you had an asthma attack and almost didn’t get to your epipen on time.  Would you try hookworms?  Just how bad would you have to be in order to try them?

Day three with a sinus infection.  The last two days have resulted in a permanent butt mark in my couch.  And missed workouts.  And tons of snot.  Oh, are you still here?  I haven’t scared you off with images of my butt and boogers?  EXCELLENT.

The highlight of my sickness?  My sweet, innocent and not quite politically correct daughter.  Sitting on the couch next to me, enjoying a bit of Mom’s sick television.  I was quietly typing away, writing about my as seen on TV Touch N Brush, when Elizabeth made a joyous discovery and exclamation.

Me: Type type type.

Elizabeth, grinning happily: “MOM!  I just realized!  You have a double chin!”

Me, frozen in mid-type: Sigh.

As much as I love 7-11 coffee…. As much as I REQUIRE a 7-11 coffee immediately after lunch, I will NOT drink one from their paper cups.  So refill is the way – my ONLY way.  And hey, I can say I’m going green this way, right?

As far as the refill cups – I have my favorite.  See if you can pick it out:

If you guess the one that looks like it’s been through a war, you are correct and get a star for the day.  But looking at this picture (count the cups, one, two three, four… and this is just at my desk), I realize I just might have a problem, no?  But I digress.

Today I saw a new coffee mug style at my favorite 7-11.  FANCY.  SHINY.  PRETTY COLORS.  AAHHHHHHHH.  But wait, what is that writing?  CICO.  Is that a corporate name?  Oh wait, there is more underneath.  “Coffee In.  Coffee Out.”

Crickets chirping.

WHAT did that say?  “Coffee In, Coffee Out.”

And they are referring to what?

Now say in a sing-song voice, “Ohhhhhh, I get it!”  Coffee IN the mug, coffee OUT of the mug.  But I’ve had three children, and to me the words mean something entirely different.

Needless to say, I did not purchase the cup.  I don’t need the reminder of my age and bladder size.  Or lack thereof.

Now if you excuse me, there is something I have to take care of….

They were laughing at… wait for it wait for it… farts.  The DJ was playing a video of a city council meeting in which someone lets one go.  The speaker attempts to keep her composure, finally failing as the mad farter strikes a second time.  After playing the video, the DJ talked about men and farts.  He said, “The minute someone rips one, men turn into children immediately.  God made us pass gas to give us a little something to laugh at.  It is His very best practical joke by far.”

Living in a house with two teenage boys, I can vouch for this.  To them, farts are the most hysterical thing in the world.  Be proud of them!  Show them off!  Tell everyone how you did it, where and what it sounded like!  “Hey MOM!  Today I was running in soccer and I had to fart REALLY BAD!  Some came out with every step I ran! It was like Pfft!  Pfft!  Pfft!  Pfft!  It was HYSTERICAL!”

Ahhh and let’s not forget the SMELL!  The nastier the smell, the more manly you are.  ESPECIALLY if you can rip one in the car and stink everyone out.  How many times have I been driving along, minding my own business when it hits.  “OHHHH DAVID!!!”  I look over and he is grinning from ear to ear.  All windows go down and heads are out, desperately searching for fresh air.

I won’t tell you that every member of my family is in the blue flame club.  Look it up.

You can’t escape it.  Farting, pooting, breaking wind, gassing…  everyone does it.  The difference is in how you handle it.  My poor mother – a true lady – is subjected countless times to my children’s gaseous shenanigans.  She is such a lady that at one point she attempted to express, “He who smelt it dealt it,” but came out with, “He who SAYED it LAYED it.”  Oh GRANDMA!!!

So there you go.  My house is the House of Phartz.  I have boys.  It is their way.

Here is the video that started it all.  Watch it and then admit it.  You cracked a smile.  I know you did… I saw it!

I am fortunate enough to sit in front of a window on the second floor of a five story building.  I look out to a parking lot that has three sides. My building (with five floors of windows looking down to the lot), a parking garage full of people and a day care center. 

A few days ago a flash outside the window caught my eye.  It was a nice, shiny sports car speeding into the parking lot.  This is unusual since we are sharing the lot with a daycare.  The car races to a spot, the door opens and a young guy gets out.  As he is exiting, he is pulling down his pants and assumes a squat position. 

Again, if you are squeamish, do not read on. 

I called out to my co-workers, “Oh my GOSH! I think this guy is going poop in the parking lot!”  Everyone rushed to the windows.  WHY do we do that? From our vantage point, all you could see was his head, but I certainly did not miss his hand reaching into the back seat for a sheet of 8 ½ X 11 paper.  Let your imagination roll with that one. 

After a brief moment, he stood up in a motion involving both speed and a quick raise of the pants.  Back in the car he went.  But now the curious part.  He sat there for a minute or two.  The tinted windows kept us from viewing his further actions, which I believe is a blessing.  Finally, he backed up (not before he ran over his own poop) and exited the parking lot. 

Stunned silence. 

As my family will tell you, only I would see something as bizarre and gross as this.  I’m so lucky.  Now, this whole incident raised a very serious question in my mind.  If you had to go.  I mean really REALLY go.  Would you just go in your pants, or would you get out in a crowded parking lot and show your business to the world?  Take a moment to ponder. 

Since then, the emails have been flying.  Yesterday I received one with the subject line, “Parking Notice. Watch Your Step.”  Attached was the picture below.  The real deal, with clever photoshop text editing.  I about busted a gut. 

In response, another coworker replied with the subject line, “I wondered why my email smelled so bad,” and this picture. 

Finally, the reply, “This is the Pooper’s Car”:

At 43 years old, poop can still be funny. 

Now, I ask you.  Would you wait, or throw yourself to the parking lot.  I dare you to answer.  And will respect you greatly if you do!

ADDENDUM:

Now it is getting silly.  The pictures being created are getting more and more bizarre.  This one came with the subject, “There is a dung beetle infestation in the parking lot!”

Then came the challenge to add Big John Stud to the picture:

“What honey?”  … silence… pause from the teenager… then, “Mom! You have old lady hands!” 

*****crickets chirping***** 

OK everyone, I am only 43 years old.  And yes, he is right.  I HAVE OLD LADY HANDS.  But I have a good reason!  I work in a hospital on computers that are touched by every doctor and nurse you can imagine.  Now who were THEY in contact with before the keyboard?  The very sick patients.  And you should see these keyboards. Nasty. 

So I am a Purell addict.  Plain and simple.  We have Purell dispensers on every floor, and if I have touched a mouse or keyboard, my hand goes directly under that sweet bacteria killing foam.  Unfortunately, every addiction has it’s downfall.  Purell addiction = Old Lady Hands. 

You know, maybe a representative from a moisturizing product company  will see this and send me some free samples.  Then I can do a “before” and “after” picture.  That’s great PR!  Oil of Olay, are you out there? 

And P.S.  I gently explained to my son that when he gets married, he needs to be sure he never EVER makes a comment like that to his wife. EVER. 

Check those bad boys out.