Learn to Swerve.

summer lurvin'

To commemorate the onslaught of summer at the Akers household, I felt a top 8 reasons why I "love"

(*read, abhore ,) this usually cherished by most, 3 months out of the year, was in order. So. Without further adieu, because we hate when adieu runs over, I present. Summer Lurvin'.

1. The weather. There are 2 things in life I was born without, breasts that grow, and a tolerance for heat. I grew up in Alaska, and found solace in it's summers that consisted of 3 weeks of weather topping the charts at 85. and the rest, a sultry 65, give or take a few for cloud coverage and snow downfall. We don't like heat. We live there for a reason. Not the male to female ratio, not the superfluous amounts of oil flowing through our pipelines, not our hot governor who has a front porch view of Russia, no, we live there because we like to be cold. Anyone who says otherwise is there on forced military orders, and will leave as soon as doing so isn't a violation of the UCMJ. Tennessee, is hot. There is no other way to put it. When you wake up and the temperature is higher than your last perfect test score. It's time to consider moving. 

2. The clothes. If there's anything I can attest to being a fan of, it's clothing. I pretty much have an addiction to 3 things. the last one being clothes. I buy them in times of stress, in times of pleasure, in times of pain. (literally, when my pants are so small they squish into the pockets of fat on my gut causing blood blisters of sheer agony, I buy new ones. ) My clothing however has never consisted of 2 items. Shorts, and shirts that reveal my arms. I've found pale white extremities, and a fondness for all things caloric, have left me in a state of continuous pants wearage, not to mention lessening the chance of a stray arm reverberation of skin coming back and giving me a black eye. I believe the term "shake what your mama gave you" should be limited to special occasion snow globes, and gifted  magic 8 balls. Not the case with most people in my vicinity. Apparently the fact I wear jeans on the daily leads people to believe I can either not afford shorts, or that I don't have any. Offering to give me yours, is not only going to increase the chances of ending our friendship, it's going to lead me to believe you find my clothing choices an insinuation that I would sport elastic waist band cargo shorts, and mom jeans. I. Would not.

I keep my legs under wraps for a reason. If I wanted to attract starving vampires,  I'd ask Kristen Stewart for tips. 

3. The end of school. Ah. The joys of having children at home ALL day. It's not that I don't love my children. I do. It's not that I don't appreciate their voices in all different areas of screaming capacity. I do. I just don't know how to do it. 24 hours. A DAY> I don't pretend to be a fan of home-school, let me rephrase, I'm a HUGE fan of home-schooling. Just not one where I am the teacher. I enjoy having a few hours of solitude where I can shave a leg, mop a floor, just to take bets on how long it will take to rival the floor of the local taco bell restroom. I knew when I signed up for motherhood. All 4  times, that I was going to have plenty of bonding time with them. I just didn't realize it was going to consist of so much arguing. And cleaning. and the proverbial screams of problems that really, I don't know, seem like problems.? WE're 4 days in, and I can pretty much see now that when they open the doors for school registration, me and my children are going to be at the front of the line. In fact, I may volunteer to head the operation in hopes of them opening a few days earlier. Yes. That's happening.

4. The vacations. Oh that I were a millionaire and family vacations could consist of a 30 minute jet flight to Disney World, with the nanny who would in turn rub my shoulders as I sipped orange juice and other calming liquids out of a straw. But. THEY DON'T. They consist of 4 things. Car sickness. VOmit. CAr sickness. and lots of ARE WE THERE YET??? We've taken one vacation so far. If 6 hours in a car with 4 kids, 1 DVD player the size of a small paperback book, 2 bouts of "I'm gonna be sick", 1 misread TomTom location, and 7 days of an exhilarating game entitled "cornhole" can be considered a vacation. We travel like the beverly hill billies, only they had nicer transportation. At least the empty wal-mart bags make it appear as if we have coordinating luggage.  We're redneck. To the core. We stop at travel plazas, we pee in empty soda bottles headed down the interstate at 95, and we often find it necessary to break the rule, no shirt no shoes no service. I love a good day away from my life, but vacations, in the sense that most people know them, failed to exist at the expulsion of the 4th child from my fertile uterus. For now. Wal-mart is our only destination. Besides. They have cheaper souvenirs. 

5. The ice cream man. YEah I know. What kind of horrible woman doesn't like the ice cream man. Well let's see, the horrible woman that has 4 children who at one listen of that wretched here we go round the mulberry tree lyrical gathering spouting forth from your 12x12 ice box on wheels, sends my children into a frenzy, seen only in times of sheer joy and elation. Now. I'm all for supporting small business, even small businesess on wheels that could very well be just a cover up for your creepy kid obsession, but $4 for an ice cream bar, is not only ridiculous, it's not even good!~ For what it costs me to get all my children a snack from your ice cream parlor on dubs, I could take us to Outback. Twice. I feel horrible telling them no as you drive by ridiculously slow, beeping your la cockroach horn, and waving, trying to entice them into your ice cream flavored clutches, but until you lower your prices, or begin offering samples. I have to say. No spanks.

6. Swimsuits. Need I even broach this subject? Obviously. I do. It's the bane of my fat covered existence. I distinctly remember trying on swimsuits one year as  a 15 year old high school girl thinking, " I am SO gross." Dear sweet mothers milk, I hadn't seen gross. I hadn't yet watch my body go from a slim 125 pounds to the 205 pound mass that was my grotesquely stretched out frame. I had yet to feed small babies with the glorious bososms that I cursed on a daily basis. My arms had yet to reach full fat gathering potential, with stretch marks from my arm pit to my the fat that used to be my collar bone. My lovely curvy once gymnastic abled thighs had yet to collect wonderful patches of varicose veins that seem to sparkle in the noon day sun. I had no idea then, that swimsuit buying was at it's peak of primal perfection. I've yet to find a swimsuit that alters the entire course of my bodies natural lines, and doesn't give the illusion that I'm stuffing a turkey into an empty chicken shell. It's repulsing. And it's about time swimsuit designers knew how to cater to the population who is willing to swim, yet not willing to risk being mistaken for a beached humpback in the process. I haven't found the lucky swimsuit for this summer. The ones at the local bikini rack breathed a collective sigh of relief when I walked past and didn't reach for any of them. But I'm still on the lookout. I'll get one. And when I do. I'll be sure the sun pays homage in the form of non pasty whiteness. I might even take pictures. 

7. The classic hits of summer. We all know them. We've all sang them. We've all called the radio station and requested them, only to wait for the exact moment they came on, and pushed REC/PLAY at the same time to add it to that mixed tape for the boy you gave your heart to, only to discover he was giving it to 3 other girls at the same time, song. One year it was LFO, I like girls who wear abercrombie and fitch. Then it was Ricky Martin, and his risque tune of living la vida loca, Sean Kingston always manages to come out with one, and if you give her 3 minutes, and a chance to throw something that rhymes together, Hannah Montana could pen us the master mix of summers to come. i love these songs. I listen to them. I no  longer call and request them on the radio, but I do download them to my ipod under the folder, songs I love, but if anyone asks, I've never heard or paid good money for them. I really do enjoy them. I just sometimes wish you could turn on the car radio and not have to hear them in a continuous stream. Oh well. Give it 6 months, and you'll be able to hear those same songs sung by prepubescent teenagers with high pitched voices and lyrical changes that make it fit for grade schoolers everywhere. I suppose that's a plus. 

8. The movies. I love the movies. Really. I do. I'd see them all if they were open to the general public and supplied cages with which to place your children in until which time the movie was over, because the chance of them ruining it with screaming or rapid movements that blocked other people from seeing the movie they paid far too much to see, weren't so high. I've always been a fan of the big screen. HEck, I'm a fan of any screen that allows me to get lost in other peoples adventures for a minute, it does however seem like the incentive of making a summer blockbuster leaves us, the general population stuck with the decision of which movie to waste our hard earned cash on. Every movie preview has Mr. Movie voice promising us something we haven't seen before, and something we can't wait to see. Unless it's Channing Tatum proposing marriage and a lifetime supply of diet coke, chances are, I can wait to see it. And I won't have to pay a sitter, or pay $74 plus tax for the popcorn I'm just going to spill as I'm walking up to find a seat in the dark because I waited til the last possible minute to go in, in hopes of saving myself the embarrassment of going to a movie alone. I love the movies. I do. I just wish the summer had less must-see movies, and more must-see movies I could take  my kids to. TErminator cartoon nation perhaps. The kinder, gentler terminator. 

As you all know. I write with a constant sarcastic undertone, and really. I love summer. Even if my definition of summer falls short of what most consider a season worth celebrating. I will always be a snow girl, and chances are, summer will continue to be the one part of the year I am forced to invest in medical strength antiperspirant, and a beach towel large enough to cover the parts not worth of being seen in a swimsuit. My kids love it, and enjoy it, and really, with that. Who really cares what it does to me.

(Those of you here about the scrapbook page I may have created today. come back in a few for the posting) this is almost as good as the season premiere of Jon & Kate plus 8. Ruth scrapbooking surely requires at least a few rogue hits. Thanks for the faithful readership. And for what it's worth. You guys rock :)

this is what it sounds like. when moms cry

For serious. If I were being paid to blog, and reliant upon those paychecks to pay my bills, I'd likely be sitting in a dark room with zero ability to see due to the nature of my power being shut off, and, chances are, 8 sizes smaller because I could not afford food. Somehow I've just convinced myself being poor may very well be the answer to my fat problem... 

Who am I kidding. I'd find something to stuff my face with. Point being, I forget to blog. Occasionally I'll receive a rogue text from a reader, or close friend with the insinuation that the world hinges on me trudging over hear and updating my blog, but we all know that to be a falsehood. Besides,  you could just as easily find my minute by minute updates on twitter, tumblr, facebook or myspace. Because what's a girl without her vast social networks? Probably a skinnier, girl, with a cleaner house, and more time with which to do things because she's not tied up online all day... but that's neither here nor there. 

I however. I am here. I just put the finishing touches up on my last paper for my very first college class since 2001. You realize that means the last time my brain was forced to be graded upon it's contents was about the same time MTv stopped playing music videos. The similarities therein are just mind boggling, but the fact that so far I've managed to maintain an A in my first class, and not have to use bribery or the way I look in a sweater vest to garner it, is HUGE. I've undertaken the task of going back to school. (collective group applause. and.. stop.)

Thank you.

 I'm officially an undergrad in the Visual Communications field with an emphasis in graphic design. I am also--wait for it--still working on that pesky half-marathon, lose 89 pounds before Kirstie Ally thing. So far I'm down $159, and 53 tanks of gas, but my ability to run has INCREASED tri-fold. I used to get winded at the idea of walking into the cardio room. As of last week, I can run 8 miles in 90 minutes, and break only for urination, and the occasional check to make sure my lycra top hasn't risen above fat roll point break, revealing my not so good, goods, to all others in my immediate gazing area. 

For those of you taking note of my progress, a photo, of me. 

It appears I have a measuring cup in the restroom with me, yet another indicator of my lack of culinary skills. my children use them as outside tools. Rarely is one found in the kitchen. 

Speaking of the angels. 

They are almost done with school. I find it heartwarming, and also a little sad that I will be their primary care provider and teacher during the summer months. They are excelling at the current rate that children with my genetic coding could be expected to excel, and are quite possibly, going to surpass me by the time they reach 2nd grade. They've pretty much given up on being available for photography opportunities, which is good, because I've done very little photograph taking. It's all that previous "networking" we discussed. In reality, I've just been busy. But I did manage to take some of her heinous, (no that's not a misspelling, if you knew her you'd come to realize there is NOTHING royal about her, ) she is officially 4 years old, climbs, trees, plays games, enjoys long walks around the yard, and urinating in her diapers. Yes. I said diapers. 

but she's so stinking CUTE. I'm hoping they'll allow for breaks at recess for me to change her in between crossing the monkey bars, and chasing boys. I'm not giving up on her yet, but for reals, it's becoming redonkulous, and I cannot pretend that she's the majority here. 

In non child related accomplishments, which I have very few, I am still subscribing to studio calico, with the intentions of one day crawling back to the scrapbook world. I may or may not be welcomed back in, but I'm over caring about such things. I have bigger fish to fry. Maybe I'll stick to baking them though, I seem to do less damage to my diet that way.

It's been a LONG memorial day weekend. one that saw me in a car for 7 hours with sick children, ( apparently when he says, mom, I'm going to get sick, that's the indication it's time to bypass all cars and oncoming traffic, and head immediately to right side of the road. do not hold out your hand in cup shape and expect him to daintily spit his gum into it. you'd think after 7 years as a mother, I'd be used to this).

we made it home, and I'm certain after I light the seats on fire, and spray them with ammonia we'll be able to breath in the car again. I'm still attempting to take on all facets of the world at one time, and signed up for a comedic stand-up and writing class held locally, that promises to tap into your inner humor. I'm really thinking that writing the book I have my heart set on, would come easier with some professional expertise. That, and it'll be nice to hang out with people who don't wear diapers one night a week. My luck it'll be an all senior audience any my scenery won't be changing at all. 

Long story, still somewhat long. Life trudges on. I am meeting goals, slowly but surely. I have 2 months until my high school reunion, and I'd like to be the one girl with 4 kids who doesn't LOOK like the girl with 4 kids. We'll see. 

Thanks for continuing to read. Or pretending to read. I appreciate all of you. 

I'm off to write that hit song, alone in my principles. 

Until next time. Stay Classy. And remember. Only you can prevent forest fires. 

downward spiral. at least it's not a perm.

eVer notice that the one dude in the cul-de-sac who seems the most likely to help you with your groceries, is the one who's wife hates you the most? 

no thanks. I'll carry in my own butt wipe and string cheese.

I'm not sure if it's my newfound love of just being myself and not trying to please a world of women who will never actually be pleased  with me, or the realization that I'm 27 years old and no amount of judgmental behavior is going to change who I am. Britney said it best when she said, love me hate me say what you want about me. Then again when you sell out the MGM in the first 3 minutes it's a little easier to sing songs about "if you seek amy." 

Thanks for the vent Ruth. Have anything we actually care about to discuss? Why yes. I do. 

I've gone and done something that I dare say I never thought I could do. No. I haven't opened up an edible panty store. Soon though.

I've taken out my weight in student loans, and I've done the necessary paper-work to become an official college student. I thought long and hard about what to wear on my first day of school, and finally decided on some Abercrombie 2 sizes too small sweatpants, and a matching I brake for seals hoodie. AFterall, I will be attending online. NO need to go all  out.  I'll save that for virtual graduation.

I've wanted to go back to college since the first time I stuck my hand down the commode to retrieve something that shouldn't have been there in the first place. I however realized early on that it wasn't going to be an easy task, and back then, when computers were still something you had to have an entire room dedicated to for storage, it just didn't seem plausible. Lucky for me, the introduction of college to the web is about at prevalent as Hannah Montana footwear in an elementary school gym class. Therein making my quest for knowledge, and a higher social standing, that much easier to come by. NOt that being an unfit mother of 4 who's only release is the hourly updates to her facebook and twitter statuses isn't fulfilling. SOmetimes. YOu just need more.

(Speaking of twitter. I'm shamefully plugging my own. I figure with Britney up to 949,000, and Oprah well on her way to matching her followers with her worth on the New York Exchange, I  might as well get my share of the twitter pie. I'll be thrilled to reach 50.  http://twitter.com/mikeruth427)

So. For those of you who don't facebook, and haven't been subjected to the uploading of my current time wasting shenanigans. I'll take this time to update you as quickly as possible.

1. This is me. Now. The beginning of my weight-loss journey.

I'd key some touching theme music, ala Eye of the Tiger, but I'm sadly html retarded, and it might interfere with the rest of the post. 

2. I'm still cleaning the scrapbook room. I've submitted my photos to clean house. They responded with. HA. hahaha. REgretfully yours. Clean house. I'm not giving up. I never do. I may still be searching for red carpet with my pacemaker, but I will finish. 

3. My kids are still adorable. As if that was even a question. 

They find the time once a day to make me take back my utterances  of who are these kids and why are they calling me mom. 

4. I'm still trying to potty train the worlds most feral, adorable 4 year old, and having ZERO success. I'm pretty sure OJ's Lawyer has more chance of getting him out on good behavior than I do of getting this girl to PRe-K sans huggies. I need HELP. I've never had the issues I'm having with her in any of my other children. She's just, how do I put it. Different. Absolutely. Different. She's beautiful. She's funny. She's smart. (she's so my kid) but she has no basis in reality! I realize neither do I, but I'm 27. It's alot more socially acceptable. And I don't have to bring a pull-up for my play dates. She does.

I'm having her seen by the school again this week to see what they can suggest. She has been evaluated so many times, and it all boils down to being stubborn. And having no desire to grow up. I've been there. I'm still there. I can't really fault her for that.

As you can see, my life doesn't change much from day to die. I attempt to cook. I light things on fire. I try to get skinny, I eat my weight in Recess peanut butter cups. I try to accomplish more, I end up signing up for yet another absolute time wasting device and downloading it's comparable application from the app store. I'm pretty much going downhill. Which is fantastic when I'm on skis, not so great when my victory lies at the top. I'm not giving up mind you. That would be redonkulous. I'm just opting for more. Finding balance that doesn't include yoga positions. Finding happiness, that isn't based on another human, and finding the real me. Not the photoshopped version I'm so fond of putting on display.

Thanks to all those who support my blogging, or lack thereof. And those who keep my trudging forward in a time when backwards seems so much easier. 

I dedicate my successes to you. And should I not succeed. I'll need my virtual trophy back. Those things arn't cheap you know.

Like a cow to the slaughter...

This is me. The cow.  

The Slaughter. Would be the scale.  

One might think, but Ruth? Haven't you been dedicating yourself whole heartedly to working out, running like a Jonas Brother being chased by the mother of a 12 year old school girl who didn't get a ticket? 

Why yes readers. I have. So why, one might ask again, are you as down trodden as that same school gir's mother who never did catch that blasted Jonas brother?

BEcause, bloggerites. It's not working! It is in fact, having the very opposite effect. I cannot for any reason, other than God truly hating my very existence, think of a reason that I would be gaining weight? 

Stop right there. I know. Muscle weighs more than fat. But let me assure you. I've seen the Rock. I've Seen JOhn Cena. And what I've got going on down there. Doesn't even come close to resembling muscle. 

I'm fat. 

I'm still fat. so much so, that this conversation was able to transpire one evening during a harmless gathering of friends...

ME: You know what I think is so funny?

Group: Besides Kevin Federline still considering a career as an artist? What?

Me: I never get hit on by guys. EVER. I am not seeking it mind you, but I don't ever get hit on by them? I do however seem to attract females like MC Hammer attracted bad debts. I don't get it?

Group. (Mostly one guy in group): You know why that is don't you? 

Me: No, weird bald guy in group who I really wasn't talking to. Why?

Guy: (notice the lack of group reply) Well, you are kind of sexy, but you're also fat. Girls like personality. Guys like the appearance. Lose some weight. And you'll be set...

ME: (holding iPhone in such a way that should the voices in my head telling me to stab him, don't subside, I can thrust it at his jugular and run without so much as a missed call). Um? Ok. Thanks? I think?

yeah. I know. 

WHAT??? So that's it. I'm fat. I'm not as fat as I once was but apparently, I am still too round to elicit response from males. Were I actively seeking, I might be in trouble.

If I were not so intent on losing this weight before my 10 year reunion, ( I know what you're thinking, and yes, I am only 21. I graduated when I was 11. No worries), I would just say forget it. But I can't. I have to do this. It's that important to me. I will be the girl who looks better at her reunion than she did at her graduation. It helps a lot that the only photo still around of me on my graduation gives me the appearance of a girl who was unable to be in the suns presence during her 17 year stay on the earth, and apparently was also forbidden to use a hair brush? I'm thanking my lucky stars we were required to wear gowns, because there is no telling what ensemble I opted for in order to WOW my 356 other classmates, who could have cared less.

In other news, that isn't weight related, and yes, occasionally I have that. 

I've begun the daunting task of getting settled into my scrapbook room. I took the opportunity to utilize this time when my children are home all day, and the rain sees the need to grace us with it's presence, to put them to work. I've always known my kids were built for hard labor. They have their fathers muscles, and my dedication to excuse making as to why they can't use them. 

Bribery was however on my side. And we lugged 4 more totes into the room. I began the task, by making "piles" placing things of a similar nature, into groups with other things of that same similar nature. And I've come to realize. Alot of scrapbook stuff looks alike. Either that, or I'm just really bad at making piles...

So. THis is what we have. 

 Before. And After. HA. 

Yeah. I'm not funny. I have serious issues with organizing. I try. I mean well. But sadly after 3 days, and 100 trips up the stairs with buckets full of crap. I have this to show for it. Woo hoo. Buttons. I know. BAby steps. That's the same approach I take to all my life's goals I have no intention of ever meeting. I say baby steps, and people assume I'm making progress. Usually. I'm not.

I don't know. I mean well. ASide from the no scrap Zone being in dire straights. The rest of life seems to be, well following suit. I need a career. A serious one. It appears that useless house wife who spends her days filling out myspace and facebook surveys in an attempt to forget about the laundry that is piling up faster than evidence against OJ Simpson, is actually not a very lucrative venture. My college idea was fantastic, but they booed my idea of trading scrapbook paper for tuition, so until which time I find a concrete source to pay for my college. I'm back to square 1. Which would actually imply I had left square zero. 

I have not. So there you have it folks. My happiness was short lived. My pants are still just as tight. My Scrap HQ, or ground zero as I like to call it, is just as messy, and my desire to go on has all  but been squashed. I know. Woe is me. Go eat a twinkie Ruth. Quit lamenting

 

Perhaps I shall. In the mean time. Keep your eyes on the prize. Whatever yours may be. I'm shooting for a size 10. not a size 1( ). That's me. Falling out of my pants. Just in case you wondered. I'm still here. Probably on facebook. If you need me. Feel free to contact me. 

Bloggingly Yours. Ruthimus. 

As if...

Their Blonde hair, blue eyes, amazingly goofy personalities wasn't enough to make them bonded for life...

I'm pretty sure the fact they're all half monkey would be enough. 

I might be waging a small war with myself over what to do with this life of mine. 

But one thing is for certain. I have already accomplished making them. And I'm pretty sure nothing will ever top that...

Swagger.

SOOOOO. My lemmings. My adoring public. Those who come to read my awesome idle prattle hoping I'm falling apart and sharing it with the world wide web. I'm so sorry to disappoint. But I am doing SPLENDID. YEp. You read that correctly. Despite the giant pimple on my chin that makes me look almost like CIndy Crawford, only not hot and fat, and the discovery that my favorite Ed Hardy shirt now smells horribly like BO after wearing it to a 5 mile run at the gym, LIFE. ROCKS.  

I have amazingly cute kids. Who look fantastic in anything. CAse in point. Mullet Mia.  Who we can no longer call mullet mia. Due to the fact that a week ago, I decided Joe dirt wasn't claiming parental rights to my 2'1 27 pound gremlin monkey, and I chopped off her hair with a pair of cutterbees. BEST IDEA EVER. ASide from the one that led me to purchase this tutu for her. I mean Seriously? Even if you arn't a fan of the zebra, (like that's even a reality for anyone. who doesn't dig zebra?) This ensemble alone makes me want at least 2 of her. She's that cute. Oh yeah.  And the second I bust out the camera. She says. Do mia. Do mia. And goes to the tree. Assumes the think pose. And VOILA. If I scrapbooked. THis would be the one I'd do... 

OK. I know. I said I was gonna scrapbook, and I am. I just have. Well. A problem. It's called unpacking. I don't know where to begin? Do I start with the 13 tubs of paper? The 20 of embellishments? The giant tub of nothing but ribbon? Where! I would actually like to hire Laura Vegas, who would probably require an inhaler or 2 if she saw what was happening in there right now, but I just  don't know where to begin. So. I opt for no beginnings.  

SEcondly. I figured out how to use my camera. The new one I purchased 5 months ago? The one that sat in the box begging to be used, the one that cried out every time I reached for my D70 and asked only that give her a chance. I did it. I turned it on. I went for it. I got some cute stuff. I am no Amy Howe, nor will I ever be. But my kids will grow up knowing their mother had an affinity for cute clothes. and posing them in front of trees. I lack creativity. So sue me. 

NExt on my list. I have friends. AMAZING friends. I have known this all along, but sometimes it takes having a breakdown on facebook to cement it. You guys know Cheryl right? The amazingly talented, funny, rockstar channeling mother of the cutest little boy to ever grace the pages of a scrapbook blog? Well. If not. You should. She and I are becoming bosom buds. And it doesn't even bother her that I don't have a bosom! She's that cool. I'm taking one of my "trips" to  her house next month, where we plan to unleash the beasts that have been troubling us all for so long. And maybe I'll even scrapbook. Wha???? I know. It's almost surreal.

SPeaking of Cheryl. She has this cool thing on her blog. One of those Taggy things that I usually try to avoid like fruitcake because my blogging hiatuses usually leave me little time for such things as tag on this vast intranet. But this one. Requires only that you post a photo. Of you. RIght now. I'm pretty sure there were some other rules. No editing. No wearing a towel. no ducking behind a computer screen. Just you. How you are. In the NOW. Well. Here. This is me. In the now.

See the pimple? The one I told you about. AH. It beats me. I cannot stand it. Oh well. Such is the sacrifice one must make. I sweat. Therefore I break out. 

Speaking of sweating. The gym thing? did I mention that I'm actually going? Like. DAILY? I was pretty sure signing a contract at a gym was probably about as pointless as getting birth control, because let's face it. i know me. It's not gonna work. But I was WRONG! It worked. I have been there pretty much everyday. Running. Sweating. Forcing people behind me in the stadium seating to see my cellulite packed cactuses I call thighs rubbing together. And you know what. IT's working! It tends to take me about 15 minutes to put on my pants and button them. as opposed to the usual 25. I didn't even have to lay down today. I'm not sure if that was the weight loss talking or the fact that they had not just come out of the dryer. EIther way. Magic is happening people. 

My kids are thriving in school. I'm talking. Little miss thang, my adorable Aubree who used to say things like. " I don't want to learn my lettahs. I'm pretty. I don't need lettahs"  Is reading. BOOKS. ACTUAL books. Pay no attention to the hair. I'm thinking she too could benefit from the cutterbees. Yikes. either way. they rock. things are starting to fall into place. everytime something happens. I tend to question it to death. And this time. I'm just letting it happen. I don't have to have a reason. Things are going to work somedays. And suck somedays. My face will appear fat in some photos, and dangerously thin in others. (most likely the fat, but you know. just an example).

I will continue to wonder what if about every decision I make. Charity will continue to pretend she has no clue how to pee in the toilet, but can memorize entire sequences of movies after viewing it once. This is life. It's crazy. IT's beautiful. It's mad. It's awesome. It's awful. IT's happy. It's too short. It's not short enough. It's never going to be perfect. And I'm ok with that. For once. In this moment. I. Am ok.

that's all I'm saying...

Hey. Remember me?  The girl with the complex? Yeah. I'm back. Complex as ever. But who's complaining?

Where were we? Besides hell and back? I honestly have no idea. 

November. Wow. That was really awesome of me to stop blogging. And have another nervous breakdown ala Britney Spears, minus the redbull and laxatives. I find redbull makes me vomit, and laxatives, well, they do what they advertise. Neither makes for pretty scenery. AH. Updates. Where should I start...

1. Me. I am back. As back as one can be, when one fights tooth and nail to return. I am living on Fort Campbell again. Accompanied by my 4 lovely children. Remember them? The cute ones, with the hair that appears to house small rodents? The littlest one sports a mullet? At least until I can find the time, and the scissors to cut it. Yeah. We're all here. Dwelling once again in the spider infested houses on this lovely military installation. The good news is, they installed closet bars this time, so we can actually HANG our clothes. I mean, we could. I don't know that I'll  be doing that. I prefer the dig and throw method. Makes getting dressed all that more fun. And I'm convinced it helps my arms. They need all the help they can get...

2. The "scrapbook" situation. Well. Let's see how we can put this. I have to scrapbook. I have no choice. I have invested what could amount to the deficit of a small country into my scrapbook area, and walking away from it, would not only be disastrous in a financial sense. But it would literally take me years to clear it all out. I like scrapbooking. Love it really. It makes me feel like I can do something, besides inspire others to not eat. I get a sense of happiness. A euphoria almost, like that of a diet coke being sipped through a straw, when I create something that I can share. so I'm doing it. as soon as I unpack the 30+ tubs I have sitting in my garage. I'm giving it another go. It doesn't hurt that I subscribed to studio calico, and um.  I think it would inspire Paris to create something publish worthy, and if you've seen Paris scrapbook,  you know that's an amazing feat. 

3. The bangin' body. The one I will have. Come heck or high water. I joined a gym. One that I have to pay for. This alone means I will utilize it's facilities. On a regular basis. That, and they have a movie theater. I never go to the movies. At least I didn't. Now I go 4 times a week. The first 3 days my body revolted and I thought crutches might be necessary. They weren't. 2 days on the couch in the fetal position, and I was immediately returned to my fat, yet feeling fitter shape. I can do this. I will do this. I will keep you all abreast of my situation. Don't you love that word? abreast. Maybe I'm stupid. Most likely, but I fit it into every situation I can. I heart it. 

4. A job. I am currently in the market for one of these. This has nothing to do with my relationship situation, or the economy. It has everything to do with having one kid at home, and feeling the need to bring something to my life. Make me feel like I can bring something to the group. besides the diet products, and love of clothing meant for teenagers half my age. I applied for many postions, one being a security guard. HAHA. Can you see my now? Defending the local gas station in my killer boots and utility belt? It might not pan out, but either way. I tried. And just the thought of it makes me giggle. I need that. Give me that.

5. School. I've enrolled in school. I Ruth Akers, do hereby solemnly swear, to take the classes, the needed classes, to not screw around and waste my tuition. To not find every excuse possible to get out of class, and to finish my degree. I cannot promise straight A's, nor can I promise to not dress like a college freshman who should actually be on her graduate program, I will just do what it takes. I am really excited. I love school. Love people. Love being social. All of it. Fills me with a sensation matched only by a twinkie with no calories. At least it's what I imagine that would feel like, as it has never happened. I'm excited. I'm taking charge of my life. For once. I am doing what I want, because it's what I want. And who can be disappointed by that? 

I would like to thank you all that have checked up on me, bugged me on facebook, ( you know who you are) and kindly prodded me in the direction of keeping my chins up. Yes. I have more than one. I am taking it slow. I don't know what this year holds. I have no clue that I can even do what it takes. But I'm willing to try. And that I'm told is half the battle. 

Forever 27

Call me juvenile. Call me immature, call me the girl with the peter pan complex, heck, call me mom if you want, everyone else in this house does, either way, there is no running from what what I am currently suffering from.

I call it Forever 27. Slighty sloganized from the extremely cute, yet not very well made clothing and accessories store, Forever 21. I will not confirm nor deny shopping at such a place, but let's just say I have a friend, who has a friend, who knows this guy, who's girlfriend shops there. And occasionally, the things she buys, fall apart. Like the hand bag she chose to sport tonight on her million mile march through the golden gates of one awesome establishment, known as Golden Corral.  It was there this friend of a friends purse, decided to give way under the 23 pounds of opposed gravital pull, AKA, CRAP, inside said bag. She was carrying the "bag", and not one, but 2 children, both of whom are more than capable of walking, but know that when I'm wearing the really cute boots, the friend of  a friend may have also purchased at this store, I lose all sense of balance.

So there's me. And 4 kids. And approx. 1034 other military veterans waiting in line for our "free" calorie laden buffet, and the bag, which I will from here on out refer to as, the assailant, falls onto the ground. Revealing the contents, of one woman, who not only needs a purse intervention, but perhaps a coinstar. Included in this droppage, were the following, highly sensitive and classified items:

1.Tampons. LOTS. And LOTS. of tampons. I belive I bought the largest box they had at the gas station, and decided that "you just never know", I might need them. All 36 of them. In the next 24 hours.

2. 1 iPhone. Which at the exact moment of the release of the tampons, decided to ring, playing yet another evidentiary proponent of my refusal to grow up. My theme song. Britney spears. Piece of me. (Let it be known to be said, after seeing all the goodies I own laid out in such a crude manor, NOBODY will be wanting a piece of me.

3. 1 bottle of Alli. As if the fact I had the entire pack of tampons in my bag wasn't back enough, I have now given the crown reason to belive that I might be suffering from severe anal leakage. I mean not to offend, but let's face it, the first thing they thought was, " I wonder if she's having "THOSE" side effects?

4. Diapers.Oh yes. See because not only do I have a 1 year old, who loves to play in the toilet, rather than use it, I have a 3 year old, still deathly afraid of SITTING on the thing, let alone using it for it's intended purposes. Diapers are a must in a bag such as this.

5. 1 bottle of Acai Berry.  Oh yeah squared. Sign number 2 I'm the fat girl trying to lose weight, while standing in line for the worlds largest buffet. 

5. Approx. $134.54, in pennies. I actually had to stop the children from collecting all of them, once the veteran bus arrived, and the nice men begin to turn against the small ones for reaching between their legs in attempts to gather the useless pennies, we called it quits. Times are tough people. Change is a good thing. At least the kind that comes in silver and bronze, but even I have my limits.

6. One pair of cutterbee scissors. The last sign that a scrapbooker once dwelled within my sphere, and that my children have far too many hair brained schemes that involve the stealing of one such pointy pair of scissors, and the attempted smuggle of them into first grade. Apparently the ones in his class are "not sharp enough" to create the cuts needed to make the transformer snow flake he so desired in art class. I'm just glad this isn't the same teacher who was forced to view the "towel" from last years outrageously embarrassing debacle. Small tender mercies.

7. 3 sticks of deodorant. count em. 3. The girl with the leakage, apparently has a severe sweat gland issue as well. I cannot even begin to explain how 3 sticks ended up in my purse. I only know that from now on, I will apply my sweat soaker, BEFORE leaving my house.

8. a razor. As if the rest of the bathroom in  my large bag wasn't more than enough, I had to have a razor too. Heaven knows those people are running for the door by now.

9. 2 bottles of perfume. I'm officially looking for a place to hide with all the odor fighting items in  my bag. There are some who have probably taken this time to assume these are for the aforementioned Alli, and the side effects it may be having.

I would go on, but the novel which would surely result from the rest of the stuff that was blocking the entrance to the veteran salutationm would bore most.

I only offer this up to you, to let you see why it is I am forever 27. As I was picking through this debris, and trying not to cry, it became apparent, that Forever 21, is not for me. Not that they don't have cute stuff, not that I couldn't tease my hair, and pretend to be 21 for another few days, but Forever 21 has proven that they don't have what it takes. A woman with a purse load such as mine, requires a bag that holds far more than just a cell phone, and some lip gloss for the days events.

It was a wake-up call.  Just the kind I needed. I've been through the lowest of lows this past year, I haven't shared most of it with anyone that reads this cobweb covered hootinanny, but it sucked. There are no other words. Suckfest. Right here.

Through it all, the only thing I could count on were my kids. MY kids. These beautiful little kids, who have never once doubted me. In all my shenanigans, in all my attempts to thwart lifes trials with cuteness in the form of matching shoes and tops, THEY loved me. For who I am.

And what exactly am I?

I am 27. I am not old. I am not perfect. I am not a role model for mothers everywhere. I am not a perfect representation of anything. I am out of proportion, I am confusing at times. I have faults. Thousands of them. I don't have all the answers. and I probably never will. 

And that is ok. Who knew? Well I didn't. But I do now. I even made a page about it. I call it, lost and found. The journaling reads:Lost: 1 girl. Brown hair. No clue what she wants. Last seen, on the verge. SIze 12, Answers to Ruth. Found: 1 woman, Streaked hair, Still no clue what she wants, getting much closer though. On the verge, but of bigger things. Size 10, hopefully dropping. Answers to: Nobody.

I also created a few other pages in my desire to break free from the chains of social reclusiveness... 

 It didn't work.

But I did manage to use some cute pictures I had been dying to see on a page. And my dearest Chittyarie, (so dubbed by hers truly) is a feature on both. So cute, that one.

All in all, my day was a bust. I am still 27. I Am still fat. And I still have no desire to ever turn 28. But I do know that being 21 isn't going to fix anything. Not even the strap on my adorable brown bag. I have surrended the mini-van back to the enterprise powers that be, in exchange for a truck, as the van rendered me unable to get to my mountain dwelling, and ended up in a head on collision with a volvo. Who knew soccer mom cars could be so fiesty? So yeah. Life still rocks.

Nothing changes. But I am doing better. I am figuring out where to go from here. And I am making the necessary decisions to be that girl who is happy. Whether she is 21. Or 83. (Mark my words, I will live to be at least 83). At least I will if I can kick the diet coke habit. One thing at a time. That's my motto. I leave you with a photo. A photo of me. turning my back to the days of childish self indulgences,  and chocolate bars, and looking to what lies ahead. Whatever that may be.

I'm ready.

Oh my Stars and Jellyfish.

I'm quite certain several elephants were able to reach full gestation in the time period that I let lapse between blog posts. And I assure you. It's for good reason. I'd claim that I never get the time to do things like blog, and veg out, but frankly, that's a bald faced lie.
Anyone who has me on their myspace can attest to that. I do more than my fair share of time wasting via the world wide web, I just don't always have the wit and wisdom some of you seek when it comes time to begin spouting off at the fingertips. I also hate posting without something in the form of a photo graph, and since my Adobe Photoshop CS2, and my worthless hunk of computer decided to gang up in operation "let's make Ruth curse our very existence and refuse to open so that she in turn has no ability to turn her weak and over exposed photos into something presentable for viewers world-wide", I have been reduced to blogging. With old photos. And run on sentences that my 6th grade teacher would have held me back for even attempting to use. Too bad she now teaches 2nd grade, and run ons happen to be my specialty.

SO. Let's begin. It's been 8 weeks since my last confession. In that time I've managed to not only secure a place in the worlds fastest expanding waist line finals, but I've won gold, and the free t-shirt. It's 100% cotton, there will be shrinkage, I'm sure it's a one time wear item, but I'm not gonna be picky.

 I broke down, and bought me some Alli, in hopes of quelling that inner desire to feast upon anything that sits still and doesn't resemble something I've cleaned up during my 6 year stint as a mother. So far, I've lost 240 hours, $49, and the ability to control my bowels. I kid. I've had no incidents, and from what I can tell, this stuff might actually be what i need to get back into those single digits.

 

Biggest news of all. I turned 27.  This mid-life crisis led me to do things, most would never do unless one still attended a school where lockers are issued, and lunch is served in a line on trays, but I however have always been a fan of things that make me appear crazy and desperate. Despite my overreacting, and desperate attempts to stay young I was shocked to discover: The sun did not cease to rise. Countries did not raise up arms in battle, and there were no bolts of lightening, but it did hurt. I'm kind of past the point of rescue. From here on out, I am officially, a 27 year old mother of 4. And if you count the misplaced son of my father who is in my constant care, I have 5. I cannot tell you how many times a day someone says, "all them kids yours?". No dude, I borrow them to take with me just to see how it would feel to be Angelina Jolie for a day, minus the hot lips, and million dollar bank accounts". They don't laugh. That's ok though. I'm not usually either with all 5 kids in tow. They arn't getting any smaller, and those dang carts arn't getting any bigger. We risk cart overload everytime we stuff them all into one, but until they can learn to shop without breaking jars of pickled pigs feet (Mia), they will remain inside.

 Speaking of the darlings, I know you are dying to see how big they are, and you just happen to be in luck, because I take pictures. Sometimes. And I am here to share them. With you all. I know. You can barely stand it.

 

How sad is it that I have pictures of them in halloween costumes?  And my last post was August. Tragic. But times are a changing. I am back with a vengence. Or at least a little anger, maybe not vengence. That's a strong word. Without further adieu, my offspring.    

 

You'll notice a pattern in the girls' costumes. Old Navy serves more than it's necessary purpose when it comes around to Halloween time. Warm costumes mean 20 below weather won't stop us from going out as something more than the abominable snowman, and the fact they have built in hoods, means, they don't risk costume confusion. We're enjoying this cold weather near death experiences at every corner thing that is so common in this wilderness retreat in which I reside.

Speaking of near death, I thought I was going to have to remove a kind soul from this earth when I walked out to my car last month and found this... Now I realize she gets horrible gas mileage, and her appearance was less than stellar, but finding the only method of transportation off this mountain of madness, in a state such as this, left me beside myself with anger. Who could do such a thing? Surely nobody around here drives into cars and drives away? But then why is my car like this, and nobody is around? 8 long hours of police reports, and serious insurance calls, the sweet 16 year old boy next door arrives at the house, practically in tears stating that on  his way to school he "hit"( I think he meant to say, brutally totaled but I could be wrong) my car, and was so scared that he just went straight to school. He offered to pay me in cash if we could just leave his insurance out of it. I smiled. Feeling very sorry for him knowing what that kind of damage would cost. Needless to say, we filed a claim, and I was able to get the car into the shop for the body work.

 

 HOWEVER. As one could assume, I cannot be without transportation, and the lovely people at state farm assured me a vehicle would be available for me to borrow. What they failed to mention, was that vehicle, would be a mini-van. And I, Ruth Akers, a girl of the I will never drive a mini-van school of thought, would be forced to suck it up. And you know what? I kind of dig it. Sure, I'm not going to be picking up any college boys, but I couldn't do that when I was IN college, so not being able to do it now, is really no loss. And besides that. I'm married. And I have 4 kids. If the van doesn't scare them, one of those others will.

 

Other than the  usual hulabaloo, we're preparing for 2 weddings, my sisters, and my fathers. GASP. YEs. My father has found love. And who am I to stop it. Life must go on, and so must his. I get to don a pink dress for my sisters wedding, and I'm really hoping it's made of satin, and form fitting. Shows off all the good stuff I try to hide with  my hoodies, and control top pantie hoes. I figure if it's gonna be good, might as well be REALLY good.

 

I also, took a leap, and got me some glasses. Part of my plan to make myself appear smarter without actually having to do anything with my grey matter. Mikey assures me, I wasted my money, and Aubree said, " you don't look Smite, you just look we-ard" Maybe I should have used the money towards a brain exercise application for the iPhone.

 

At any rate. This is my life. There are no earth shattering developments. I have not done anything worth sharing, I am not pregnant. For once. And nothing about my existence makes me a better person. But I'm nearing year 1 of my mothers loss, and I'm marking it with a promise. To be the real me. To stop pretending I'm always happy, always excited, always on top of things, always the good girl, who makes the good choices. I'm none of those things. But I keep at it. And I'm pretty sure my mom would be proud.

Eh. Well wahtever the outcome, 1 thing is for sure. This time here with my dad, is his janky basement, has made me want to do more, be more, live for more, and make sure that I do the things I need to, to keep ME ok. I think I'm going to make it. Even if I fall short. I've got this extra padding. It won't hurt too bad. Gotta be thankful for that.

 

Thanks to those of you who still check this rickety old blog. the 21st century called, and asked me to please join it, with new side notes, a banner that ISN'T, this one. So. You know. I'll work on that. Oh, and also. I scrapbooked. yeah. I thought you'd be proud. So go ahead, pull up your chairs. I'm coming back. Not necessarily a Britney comeback, but something pretty close.

 

And that. Is always worth smiling over. ;)

When...

Lay it on me. Would someone please help me out here. When did I become that girl?

You know the one.

When did I become the person who can't so much as MAKE a scrapbook page that doesn't scream I work for Mrs. Grossman. (who by the way, might be a lovely person who makes great brownies, but her scrapbook skills leave alot to be desired). I've printed photos, I've purchased new supplies, I've channeled my inner Garden Girl, I've hung out with scrapbookers who make Art out of crap, and still I've got nothing. Sure, I've got cardstock, with cute children attached, awaiting the proper placement of embellishments and stampage, I've even gotten so far as to distress the edges a bit, making it look as if I have a clue as to what I'm doing. but it's a falsehood. There's nothing worth gazing at here.

When did I get too big to fit into my size 12 jeans! I mean, sure, I can bust out the bungee cords, attach them to each side of my pants, meld the fat that sits around my middle like a grouping of moss on a toadstool, and stop breathing for 7-12 seconds while I release the bungee cords and hope for the best. All the while making it look as if I'm smuggling sausages in my belly region. I can pull that look off, but hotness? It's all but gone.

When did I become the mom who has 15 pictures of her kids in the past 3 months! 15. And those were all taken yesterday. I drug them outside in a single file line, and attempted to make them look as if they weren't wearing clothes dug out of the dirty clothes hamper, while their hair sported the messy buns gone terribly awry. 
When did I become old enough to be the mom of not one, but 2 children in school. I can't freaking believe that in less than 2 weeks 2 Akers children will be walking the halls of the local elementary school. 2 of my kids will be terrorizing public school grounds during lunch time, and 2 of my children will require ridiculous amounts of hand sanitizer and lysol wipes that I am sure will cost me as much as a tank of gas in my gas guzzling vehicle. It's not real. It's not right. But it's reality. Mikey has already informed me that in 11 short years he'll be leaving for college, and he hopes I'm ready. Ready? Dude. I've got my iMac post it note counting down the days until all of you are happily boarding the bus to a college that you've gotten a scholarship to, or who is willing to offer a family discount to parents with more than one child in attendance. I jest. Of course. I love the darlings. And will more than likely shed tears at the idea of them leaving the nest for good, I'm just happy to have them out of the nest for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, so that mama bird can get some of the garbage piling up in her happy abode, out of here. Who am I kidding. They love school just as much as I do. I'm that mom. So sue me.

When did Aubree get her ears pierced? Ok. I know the answer to that one. It was yesterday, and she was so brave, and so ready, and so willing to wait until her 5th birthday to have them, and finally, I got my stuff together, and took not one, but 4 kids to the mall, (where I might remind you THEY DON'T ISSUE SHOPPING CARTS) and stood there cheering on my little trooper while she got her diamonds on. She had a moment of weakness, where her eyes looked as if they were going to tear up, and the women manning the ear piercing guns were like, "She's so pretty..." Yeah. That's all it took. She pulled out this smile, and happily forwent the tears for some much needed compliments courtesy of perfect strangers. She loves her diamonds. It might make me a bad mom, but so help me, I'm not telling her they arn't real.

When is my life going to STOP taking me for a ride that I am soo not ready for. When will the answers to the questions I so desperately need answers to, fall into my lap from the center of the newspaper that I don't read. When is that happening? I wake up every morning in my bed full of children who are usually wearing far less clothing than they started out in, most of them are sleeping on some part of me, and I'm typically searching for a spot that doesn't currently have smallish parts residing on it, and I think. Is this my life? Do I really wake up everyday and clean for a dad, who seems not only not to care, but almost takes it for granted? Do I really fight my sleep loving green bean eating sister over who gets to use the car everyday, only to lose and end up depressed and shoving prepackaged eggrolls into my mouth in hopes of quelling the idea that I still have 7 more months of this? Are there really bears breaking into my garage to eat my garbage on a nightly basis? Oh yes. That too is happening.

When did living in the wilderness become a feat involving bear sitings on a daily basis? I kid you not. We've happened upon a bear in our yard, for the past week. Moose, I can deal with. THIS big dude, grumbling past my door, tends to freak me out a little...

When is Mia going to actually get up off her cute little sausage legs, and start walking? Do you recall when we played this game with Charity 2 years ago? She was 14 months old, and still content on walking around on all fours like Mowgli child from The Jungle book? Mia won't even get on all fours. She's more than happy to raise her chubby little fists to the sky and scream out for someone, anyone really,  to carry her to her desired location, a location which usually involves food. We actually secured this happy grin by dangling a piece of pizza over her head. She truly is the blood of my blood.

Of course, what's a photo of all the kids, without one of the big man himself... Yes it's red. Yes. It's hair dye. Yes it's washable. And yes. I'm completely prepared for the repercussions of  posting such a photo. Bring it on. Isn't he cute though? Seriously people. 

I think I know when. It's when I lost my mom. That's pretty much WHEN. My life went down the crapper. I still think about the fact that she taught me so much and I'm who I am (mostly) I can't blame some of my faults on her, heaven knows she's not deserving of that, but the good in me, the things I can speak of without bowing my head in shame, are the things she gave to me. I know eventually, losing her will be less of a blow to me, and more of something I look back on and think how lucky I was to have her for 26 amazing years, and how much she did for me, that I can in turn do for my own kids. I know that day will come. It's just not here yet.

I meant to be a better blogger. I mean to be a better mom. I meant to be a better friend. I meant to be a better housewife. I meant to be a better dieter ah heck, no I didn't. I hate dieting. I'll never be a good dieter.  I meant to be so much more than I have been lately. And really, if you take away the past 4 months, I haven't done too bad. There are so many things to be happy about. My sister had her baby a few weeks ago... lost all the weight she gained in a matter of minutes, and of course looks like she could run a marathon 24 minutes after squeezing it out, but she did awesome, and her baby is adorable. All the hair. Just think of the streaks I could give her? Ha. Jokes. I got em. Anyways. Life's great. I'm here. you're there. Things will get better. They have to get better. And when they do, I'll write about it.

Don't forget me. I won't forget you. and maybe. Just maybe. I'll make it through all this, with my humor still intact, and tell you all about it.

I bet you can't wait.