Planet Tiff

Me and my Honey-cheeks

2011-06-22T18:29:00.000-07:00

In less than two months we will celebrate our sixteenth anniversary. He gets hotter every year.

Why do I always excpect the worst?

2011-06-13T16:25:00.000-07:00

I have an ovarian cyst. That's it, just one teeny-tiny, measly, rather annoying, fluid filled sac. Yet, that teeny-tiny, measly, rather annoying, fluid filled sac has been causing me a lot of anxiety. I'm one of those people that can turning nothing into something. For instance, anytime my sister mentions that one of her kids has been sick I immediately begin to feel queasy. I believe Gilda Radner summed it up best when she called herself "the Queen of Neurosis." Since she has already taken the title of Queen for herself, I will call myself "the Princess of Neurosis" or P-Nurry for short. (If P-Diddy can do it so can I)

As for my cyst, let's call him Rudolpho, I couldn't help but wonder if it might be more serious. Maybe even ovarian cancer. (I am P-Nurry for a reason) Of course that was before I actually knew it was only a cyst. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but there was a part of me that was actually a little excited to go bald. Just think, I would have saved time getting ready, I wouldn't have had to shave my legs and my monthly experience with waxing strips would be put on hold. (one of my many, many nemesis. Years ago I had a very, very bad experience. I put the wax strip on and yanked. The paper came away but the wax stayed on my lip. I had no idea that there was oil to help remove the wax, so I used toilet paper. For two days I had a toilet paper mustache. I could go into further detail but I think you get the picture) My dear, ever-helpful, husband pointed out that I could, in fact, go bald anytime I wanted to. Fortunately he stopped me before I could get to his hair clippers.

On a more serious note, I have had three friends that have dealt with cancer in the past two years. Two of these friends are currently cancer free. The third is no longer with us. The reality of their struggle does not escape me. I am thoroughly impressed with their courage and dignity. So, even though I may kid and say stupid things like, "it might be kind of cool to go bald," I'm not actually serious. Which, I guess in a way means, I am thankful for Rudolpho.....as annoying as he is. Though, that doesn't mean I'm not anxious to be rid of him. Like an annoying house guest he has stayed to long. (no mom I DO NOT mean that you are an annoying house guest who stays to long) So what does all this mean? Besides the fact that I'm a little more messed up in the head than I realized? Oh wait...that's exactly what I meant. I'm sick. Really, really sick. So sick in fact, I think it's time Rudopho met his own nemesis, long pointed needle. (sterilized of course...I'm not that crazy) This should be interesting...and really, after my P-Nuffy week, what's the worst that can happen?

California weather is not Thanksgiving weather

2010-11-18T22:44:00.000-08:00

Most of the time I love our California weather. It's only when it's too hot, or too sunny, or too hot and sunny that I complain. I especially complain when it's too hot and sunny on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Having to turn on the air conditioner as you roast your turkey is just plain wrong. It's like eating a Kit Kat without the Kat. (the kit is the wafer middle, while the Kat is the chocolaty goodness...or so I've been told. Great, thanks to the Kat now I want chocolate. Stupid Kat.)

I grew up in New Jersey (until I was twelve) and then Chicago (until my parents happily sent me to college...5 states away). Growing up in Jersey and Chicago always gave me a white Christmas guarantee. In my little planet tiff brain that was how Christmas was supposed to be. We'd sit and listen to Bing Crosby sing white Christmas and I knew he was talking about snow. Real snow. The kind that is wet and cold and miserable. I never thought that there could be anything different. Then,after a few years of matrimonial college bliss, (we had two kids, one car, and no money....very blissful) my husband up and moved me to California. California! There's no white Christmas in California, no white Christmas at all. Since then a part of my Holiday cheer has been less cheerier.

I've always been sad that my kids have never gotten a white Christmas, so one year I saved up on packing peanuts. Carl was working (which is why I was able to actually go through with my...creative idea. Normally, if I have creative ideas he puts a stop to them before they can, um, get out of hand) and it was just me and the kids. Back then our family room was right below our balcony. I snuck upstairs and threw my boxes of packing peanuts over the railing while shouting, "it's snowing...yeah it's snowing!" I quickly learned that packing peanuts, even when thrown over a balcony, are nothing like snow. First of all, they don't actually fall. They more hover and then stick to the wall, or couch, or railing, or ceiling, or kids. Secondly, they are a nightmare to clean up. Have you ever tried to throw away a packing peanut? It's practically impossible. Every time I tried to throw one away it would somehow end up stuck to my arm, or face, or hair, or shirt, or pants, or nose, or....well you get the idea. By the end of 'our' clean-up (the kids 'helped' me by dumping out everything I had already, magically, thrown away, all-the-while yelling, 'it's snowing....yeah it's snowing!) I had so many peanuts stuck to me I looked like a snowman. (does that count as snowman building?) BUT, I got my white Christmas.

Favorite Quote of the Week

2010-11-17T12:03:00.001-08:00

"Seize the moment. Think of all those women on the 'Titanic' who waved off the dessert cart." ~Erma Bombeck~

I think I'm going to have a cookie now.

Things that bug me

2010-11-16T22:45:00.000-08:00

As I was cleaning around the house tonight, I realized I was making a mental list of all the things that bug me. (for instance kids who think I'm the hired-help...no comments from you Lois) Apparently I think other people might be interested. So here is my list of things that bug me (in no particular order)

Spiders---stains on the carpet--rude people--waiting in lines--long prayers--practically r-rated TV commercials--having to go to the doctors office--the phone ringing--being interrupted--my incessant need to feel important----dandruff--people talking in class--my pitifully low pain tolerance--my sons pitifully low pain tolerance--having someone eat what I was going to eat--getting up for seminary--my incessant need for validation--being hairy--my chocolate addiction--mental illness (soooo over it!)--paying $3.20 for gas--politics--pants that used to fit but don't anymore--when I'm rude--my kids (love em but still...)--dirty socks--whoever it was who scratched our plasma screen--computer issues--people who make lists just so they can complain--stuffy noses--the cat who poops in my yard--and I especially hate it when I am ungrateful. I have to remember that my blessings far outweigh my silly little complaints.

I love this quote by Joseph B. Wirthlin.
"Gratitude is a mark of a noble soul and a refined character. We like to be around those who are grateful. They tend to brighten all around them. They make others feel better about themselves. They tend to be more humble, more joyful, more likable."

I want to be a noble soul with a refined character instead of the cranky, old holey pajama soul I am now. That's my goal for the Holiday Season, to just be grateful. I think the first step is to stop making lists about things that bug me. Baby steps right?

Why does chocolate have to be so good?

2010-11-12T16:35:00.000-08:00

I wish I was one of those unfortunate souls who absolutely hated chocolate. That would make my life so much easier. I could go months and not eat regular candy, but chocolate? I have a bag a day habit.

I have had a couple of times where I've gone extended periods without chocolate and its creamy goodness. Inevitably, however, I get a taste of it and I'm a full blown addict once more. Why does it have to taste so good? Which brings me to my next question; why don't vegetables taste just as good?

Let's be honest, even though I eat them, I really don't like vegetables. They don't taste good, they have weird textures, and some of them leave a grass-like after taste in my mouth. The only reason I partake is because I read an article at my Dr.'s office that said people who eat vegetables are 25% more likely to be thinner than their non-vegetable eating counterparts. Since I'm a fan of the word thinner I payed attention.

I've tried experimenting with ways to make my veggies taste better. The logical solution was to dip my veggies in chocolate. I figured fruit and chocolate are phenomenal together, so why not try a chocolate covered carrot? It did not go as well as I had hoped. In fact, it was quite yucky. If you don't believe me, try it for yourself. Just a quick word of advise. Don't use your good chocolate because once it hits that carrot, there's no going back.

Let's recap

2010-06-09T12:51:00.000-07:00

I have decided to once again write on my blog. I don't know why, since no one actually reads it. I don't say this for pity, but as fact. Although, since I am the only one reading my blog, because I do actually read them before I post them, does that mean somebody IS reading my blog? Do I count myself in my blog tally? Also, if I am the only one reading my very own blog, do I actually need to write the blog?
These are the things I wonder about.

I realize it has been a little while since I last blogged. I can think of a hundred reasons why I haven't, but if I were to be to be totally honest, I didn't blog because I just did not feel like it. I don't know why. I mean, unlike my usual random ramblings, the past few months there have actually been things to blog about. For instance, Carl had ACL reconstructive surgery. About a week after I had my appendix out he completely tore his ACL playing basketball. Here is how selfish I am. There was a part of me that was actually miffed he would steal my post-surgery thunder like that. I know that sounds incredibly unfair, but how often does a person have a legitimate excuse to stay in bed for two weeks? Sometimes I can justify a day or two, my record being four, but anything past that and it's just plain lazy (especially if there is no showering involved)

Nobody wants that

2010-03-10T23:04:00.000-08:00

One of my sisters recently asked why I don't post more pictures. After I got done laughing, and realized she was serious, I tried explaining that it would be cruel to do that to my readers (all three of them). The writings of my brain are scary enough as it is. Adding pictures would be nothing short of traumatizing. Why you ask? Because I've seen the selection and it is not pretty.

First of all, my nostrils never cooperate with me. Without fail, just when a flash is about to go off, my nostrils flare to the size of a couple of quarters. Well, maybe not a quarter. I tried sticking a quarter up my nose once, just to see if it would fit, and thankfully it did not! (I mean no disrespect to those few who have super pliable, or unusually large quarter fitting, nostrils). Once I realized the quarter wouldn't fit I tried a nickel, which totally fit. I haven't decided if that's a good or bad thing yet. How do you determine appropriate nostril size? I imagine the size of one's nose, or bridge of the nose, would be important. As would the length. Do the rest of the face ingredients matter also? I mean, if you have small eyes would it make large nostrils even larger? What about someone with super puffy lips? How about small eyes, puffy lips, and no chin? (again I mean no disrespect to the small eyed, puffy lip, chinless, pliable nostril people out there. Although, if you do fit that description I would love a picture to help with my nostril sizing quest). Yes, these are just one of the many things I wonder about. That and spiders.

I should probably mention that shoving a nickel up your nose isn't exactly pleasant. First of all, you're putting a nickel up your nose. Nickel's do not smell good. In fact, they smell like a nickel. Secondly, if you push the nickel up to far you risk the chance of it getting stuck. If you are an adult who just 'happened' to stick a nickel up your nose, and it gets lodged, no one is going to help you get it out. They will laugh...hard, and most likely take a picture or two, but you will be left to dig that nickel our on your own. (FYI; do NOT use a toothpick. Unless your looking to give yourself another nostril). It's not like you can go to a doctor either. I mean, I guess you could go to a doctor...and forever be known as gold-digger girl. (apparently nickel-digger girl doesn't sound quite as good).

You can see why pictures are not a good idea.

My baby turns one!

2010-03-04T01:22:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday to my sweet little stinkerbelle. May she wear her name proud. (and never forget that I am her very favorite aunty.)

I have returned!

2010-03-02T17:09:00.000-08:00

My surgery induced blogging hiatus has finally come to an end! I could have probably blogged before now but, honestly, I just did not feel like it. Besides, any blog would have been about my surgery and/or pudding. I'm pretty sure I was unconscious during my surgery, especially since I don't remember any of it, so there would have been very little on that subject. As for pudding, it's creamy goodness needs no help from me.

Just the word surgery sounds dramatic. You tell someone you just had surgery and automatically they give you the 'you poor thing' sympathy head bob. Most people anyway. There are those few individuals who wait to find out what kind of surgery you had before deciding whether or not to bob. I'm not sure what scale these individuals use to determine bob worthiness, so I always exaggerate. For instance, years ago I had very minor surgery for an infected ingrown toe. (FYI: trying to fix your own infected toe with pliers does not always work. In most cases it only succeeds in angering your toe as well as the doctor. Especially if you forget to wash the pliers first.) At home I made sure to walk around with a noticeable limp and mention frequently that I didn't think the infection was going away. After a day or so I finally received a sympathy bob from the stingiest sympathy bobber ever. My Carl. I know he only did it because I was being uber annoying, (even I was annoyed by me), but that does not change the fact that I earned a sympathy bob for a measly ingrown toe. It may have been a hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless.

This time it was more than an ingrown toe. I had a 'torturous appendix.' I didn't know an appendix could be torturous. Obviously having no purpose in life caused it to become angst ridden. I would hope that my other organs tried to cheer my appendix up. Give it a little pep talk, explain just how important it is for the colon to have a tail, but in the end nothing helped. Poor little tortured appendix. Maybe all it needed was a sympathy bob.

Say what?

2010-02-07T16:19:00.000-08:00

Did you know that boogers are brain poop? Well neither did I. I learned this, as well as many other fascinating tidbits, while teaching a Sunday school class of four year olds. While definitely interesting, it was an experience I hope to never repeat. In fact, if not for my very handsome, very patient, husband I would not have survived the bedlam only a group of four year olds can make. The kids and I had already spent ten long minutes together when Carl stopped by to check on me. Bless my very handsome, very patient, husband for agreeing to stay and help me out. Already, in those ten short minutes, I had covered most of the class material, watched as the girls twirled their dresses, the boys ‘twirl’ into each other, and learn that trying to get the ‘wiggles’ out of a four year old boy is like shaking a can of soda and hoping it doesn’t explode when you open it. (girl wiggles, apparently, prefer ballet) Needless to say having Carl show up when he did was nothing short of a tender mercy.

On the off chance that someone other than my mom or sisters read this let me share a little bit about my hubby. First of all, he is TALL. Not just tall, but REALLY TALL. Daily he is asked, “Wow, you’re tall. How tall are you?” For some reason having the same question asked over and over again tends to annoy him. I do not feel sorry for him at all since that is a problem I would LOVE to have. No, wait that is a problem I have. Except when I am asked about my height it’s more along the lines of, “sorry ma’am, but amusement park regulations say that you have to be taller than Mickey’s hand to ride this ride.” So I was fully expecting the towering presence of Carl to shock and awe these children into submission. It did not. He did however get asked, “Wow, you’re tall. How tall are you?” Good times.

One would think that having cubbie-bear around would somehow prepare us for such a situation, especially considering his latest. According to cubbie-bear, his brain told him to throw rocks at the sliding glass door and so he did. When pushed for a better answer all he could say was, “my brain told me to that’s why.” It’s that immediate impulse to act without thinking first. I’m not sure if that is indicative of a button-pusher, or just little kids in general. When I think of little children the words self control do not come to mind. If they did, I’m positive I would not have heard or learned all that I learned today. FYI; if you have or are ever around young children take the time to listen to them. They contain a wealth of knowledge, BUT, on the flip side remember that wealth of knowledge could be coming from your child. So what wealth of knowledge did I gleam today? That; worms do not have guts even if you squish them, putting your hand in the toilet and flushing it tickles, don’t brush your teeth in the toilet, you have to wear underwear even if you’re wearing pants, picking your nose is gross, eating what you pick is even grosser because boogers are brain poop.

Ode to my FIS

2010-02-04T22:39:00.000-08:00

Dear Cath,
Today you are another year older,
(I saw the date in our Purnell Family Folder).
I can't believe how the years have rolled by,
It seems like just yesterday you were a small fry.
Do you remember all the fun times we had?
Too bad you spent most of them incredibly mad.
Looking back I guess it's easy to see,
That the one having fun was only just me.
Although I should tell you that time in the basement,
It wasn't my fault that your head got that dent.
You should have known to move out of the way,
While we threw the toys during our play.
What's been is done and we have moved past,
To the point where were friends finally, at last.
Sister I cherish your company so,
Not having you here makes me feel low.
So low in fact, I've done nothing but rhyme,
Which normally I'd consider a waste of good time.
But I started this poem as a means to an end,
Something I think is worthwhile to send.
To me you'll always be my Fart in Space,
(Due to the contents of your pillowcase).
I will call you this until the day that we die,
And that, dear sister, is not a big lie!

Happy Birthday Cath! I Love You!

Warning: Singing can be hazardous to your health

2010-02-01T22:45:00.000-08:00

Especially if it were true that a person could die from embarrassment. Obviously, that is not true since I am still alive and kicking. Although, there have been times, (so many, many times), that I thought I might actually die from embarrassment. Since I didn't, nor have I ever, succumbed to death by mortification I am led to believe that embarrassment, like the flu, can be inoculated against.

Let me give you an example. Years ago, when I was but a small fry, I accidentally called my teacher mom. At the time I was so mortified. A year an an 'incident' later, the teacher/mom flub became very inconsequential. In fact, I was amazed that it ever even bothered me. Proof that my immunity to embarrassment had already started to develop. This was something very vital if I didn't want to spend the rest of my school days hiding in the teacher's supply closet. A place that became my little piece of elementary school heaven after Hutch Novason, a name I will NEVER forget, found my underwear in the hallway. I could have feigned innocence, especially once he announced they were My Little Pony panties, but I did not. No, I stood in front of that class of third graders and claimed the bright pink pony panties as mine. It wasn't until after spending quality time in the closet that I realized staying quiet might have been more prudent. I'd like to say that the pony panties claim a high position in regards to every embarrassing moment I've ever had. Sadly, they do not.

I find that talking about humiliating, closet hiding, situations helps to fortify the embarrassment immunity. My main audience is the poor people who attend my fitness classes. As if it's not bad enough for me to torture them in the name of fitness, these people are also subjected to the numerous stories of life on Planet Tiff. In cycle they get the added bonus of hearing me sing. I think this may be worse than the other two put together. It's not that I can't sing. Physically I am capable of producing words in a sustained fashion...just not always in a way that is pleasing to the human ear. (dogs yes, humans no.) Some of my most horrifically embarrassing moments have happened through song. You have your basic singing the wrong words to a song, or singing the right words, just at the wrong moment. This one isn't to bad. In fact, it's barely worth mentioning. However, singing during the prelude music will get you noticed. (As well as teach a person to wait until everyone starts singing.) While I found this to be incredibly embarrassing, it doesn't even come close to the time I accidentally accompanied a soloist. FYI; if you find that there are only two of you singing, and one of those two is up front on the stand, stop singing immediately and proceed to your nearest supply closet. Otherwise you risk the possibility of death...by embarrassment.

* I feel I must explain why my underwear was in the hallway and not currently residing on my body. There was a talent show scheduled for later in the day and I had been invited to do gymnastics with some girls in my class. Never mind that I had never done gymnastics, I heartily agreed, and knew I would be fabulous. I didn't want to wear a leotard to school, it was a tad snug on me, and so I had to change in the girls bathroom. Due to the snugness of the leotard I had some very noticeable panty lines. Well, there was no way I could go out on stage with panty lines, especially since they were pink pony panty lines, so I took them off only to lose them right in front of my classroom. My teacher, thinking they were socks, asked Hutch to go grab them. As for the talent show..... I think it was the panties that gave me the edge.

Oxy Clean

2010-01-30T15:55:00.000-08:00

I now have a new number one for 'things that take forever to clean from carpet.' Sadly, this really is a list I have. Why? Because I have an eagle-eye when it comes to carpet spots. I could be upstairs, folding laundry, and see a teeny-tiny spot across the room. Okay, that's not entirely true. Anyone who knows me knows I don't fold laundry. Personally I don't see the point. Especially when the majority of my clothes are A. work-out clothes and B. pajamas. Who really cares if those get wrinkled? Although, apparently my husband cares. He is especially persnickety if they are HIS work-out clothes and HIS pajamas. Sheesh, who knew fifteen years ago that he would turn into such a Diva? I mean, not only does he want his clothes folded, he also insists that EVERY bathroom have toilet paper ALL the time. Can you say Diva?

Getting back to my original point, my new number one for 'things that take forever to clean from carpet.' Before I do that I need to give you a bit of background info. I have a fourteen year-old nephew named Clay. When Clay was a mere three or four he had an uncanny ability to quote pretty much anything and everything he heard. (FYI; if you have a three or four year old with a photographic memory it is extremely prudent to watch the things you say. In fact, your better off not saying anything at all. At least, if you want a healthy relationship with your in-laws.) One day, out of the blue, Clay just up and quoted the OxyClean commercial. We were in the middle of breakfast, at a family reunion, at the time. Everyone held it together pretty well until he said, "It's Oxy-lutely amazing!" Much to Clay's confusion, we all laughed. A lot. Some harder than others.

Today, as I was using OxyClean to eradicate an entire cup of very-berry smoothie from my carpet, I found myself, like a young Clayton, repeating the OxyClean commercial. It ran through my mind over and over again. Kind of like whenever my bro-in -law hears the song, "can't get you outta my head." No matter how hard he tries to let it go, that song will stay with him for days. (If I'm lucky I'll catch him lip-syncing the 'la-la-la' part. It's great.) This made me realize something. Actually two somethings. First, I should probably stop deliberately trying to get the song, "can't get you outta my head," stuck in Adam's head, and second, Clayton was right. OxyClean IS Oxy-lutely amazing!

Who Knew?

2010-01-22T19:33:00.000-08:00

One of the things I never knew I always wanted to do was write a book. There's always been a story or two peculating in this brain of mine. As a kid I could spend hours creating different stories and fantasy worlds for my brother and I to act out. (No matter what we played my brother always insisted on being called Steve. For the life of me I don't know why, especially since his name is Reed. I tried explaining to him that vampires, monsters, and fairy princess's, even the manly ones, don't go by the name Steve. Somehow during this explanation Reed would end up crying, or mad, and I would get into trouble. I don't remember why I was always the one in trouble, but I'm pretty sure it was Steve's fault.) One of the problems with an overactive imagination is that the lines between fantasy and reality become blurred. If that line is not kept strictly in check, you chance the possibility of ending up with one incredible, albeit talented, liar. As we all know lie's, like boomerangs and acne, always have a way of coming back to you. Before you know it, you'll be spending your sophomore year of high school wearing prescription glasses even if you don't need prescription glasses. FYI; prescription glasses, when worn unnecessarily, create one heck of a migraine.

Getting back to my point, I have written myself a novel...or is it a book? I'm not quite sure what differentiates a novel from a book. Is it the heaving bosoms? Which brings me to another point. What does a bosom look like when it heaves? To me the word heaves is associated with tummy trauma. I may be wrong here but that seems like somewhat of a passion killer. Although, the only reference I have in that department is when someone, (I'm not saying who since I promised Carl I wouldn't use his name), accidentally burped in my mouth. I did not feel passion.

This book I have written has done nothing but sit and collect dust for the past year. I've toyed with the idea of trying to get it published, but have never really done anything about it. Well, this week, I decided that I was going to do it! I went on-line and got submission guidelines from a few different publishing companies. One of these companies requires you to fill out a questionnaire. On it they ask such things as, 'what is your pen name.' Somehow I misread it and accidentally added an s to the word pen. Can I just say the power a tiny s has? It has the ability to change things dramatically. For instance, let's use the word kid. Watching one kid is not so bad. Now add an s, making that one kid into many kids. See what I mean? In my case, that little s changed me from the author known as Tiffany Carlson to the author known simply as . . . Bic. I don't know how, but something tells me Steve was involved.

There are two types of people in this world...

2010-01-21T11:14:00.000-08:00

Imagine, if you will, a stark white room. In the middle of the room is a chair and in front of that chair a red button. You are seated in front of this red button and are specifically told NOT to push the button. What would you do? Me? I believe that there are two types of people in this world, those who would push the button and those who would not. I, of Planet Tiff, would push the button. (Knowing me, not only would I push the button, I would push it before anyone had the chance to tell me not to push it) Why would I do this? Because I am a button pusher.

I do not push 'buttons' as an act of defiance. I am not a rebel. In fact, I am one who will shy away from any type of confrontation. No, I push the button for one reason and one reason only. Because it is there. That is the only rational explanation I have. If you are a non button-pusher you will never understand why. A fellow button-pusher, however, understands my rational perfectly.

As a button-pusher I tend to do things that don't make a lot of sense, or sound really stupid. My family's way of trying to protect me, as well as themselves, is to 'ban' me from items that are deemed dangerous. Unfortunately that list keeps getting longer and longer. As a grown woman I should feel indignant and upset at being treated like a child, but I don't. Why? Because I am a button-pusher. FYI, accidentally drilling a hole in your finger not only bans you from power drills, but power tools as a whole.

Cubbie-bear is a devious bear

2010-01-13T22:11:00.000-08:00

And he has zeroed in on me as his target. I don't know what I could have possibly done to trip his spidey senses, I just know that somehow I have. Lest you think I am now calling the hubbie cubbie-bear, I should probably mention that cubbie-bear is my five year old nephew, who hates to be called cubbie-bear. This kid is a very cunning bundle of raw energy, shoved into a teeny-tiny body, that has not an ounce of fear. Let me give you an example. We have a trampoline. It was first bought as a way of giving my children something constructive to do. My definition of constructive is apparently very different than theirs. I thought exercise, they heard fight club. When not involved in the latest brawl, cubbie-bear can be seen jumping and flipping his way across the trampoline. One day I watched him climb onto the fence, jump off, do an impressive flip in mid-air, and. . . . miss the tramp by about a foot. The dirt even made a little 'poof' when he landed. Did he cry? No he did not. In fact, by the time I got outside he was already poised and ready to launch into his next aerial stunt.
(shame on those of you who are wondering if I stopped him...which I did)

So what could a super-energized five year-old possibly do to make his thirty something Aunt nervous? Sadly, he can do many, many things. For example, this year he figured out the whole Santa thing. When he divulged this information to my sister, and she asked who told him, the little turd BLAMED ME! I may have a lot of faults, (so many, many faults) but destroying the hopes and dreams of little kids is not one of them. At least, with children other than mine. Another cubbie-bear example happened last Monday. Once a week we meet with my sister's family for a 'night of family fun.' With six kids between us, not surprising, we have yet to experience the fun part. On this particular evening, due to an unfortunate tramp incident, we were discussing ways in which we could speak kinder to each other. Someone brought up that when people people speak sarcasticly it really hurts their feelings. Cubbie-bear, who up to that point had been scaling my couch in silence, piped up and said, "Oh, like Tiffy does." FYI, never ask a five year-old to clarify, because they will.

Due to the lateness of the hour I will give one more example as to cubbie-bear's ruthless plan to get me in trouble. He decided that he wanted to sit next to me during church on Sunday. Why I don't know since I am forever threatening to lick his eyeballs. Maybe his little fence brain duster did more damage than I thought. Hmmm.... Anyway, for some reason it never occurred to me that I probably shouldn't let him sit on the end...it didn't and so I did. I spent the rest of church trying to find him before my sister could ask me what happened to her son. Darn that cubbie-bear.

Doozy of a bug

2010-01-12T18:18:00.000-08:00

I have been dealing with the never-ending cold. I know for one of my new year's resolutions I said I would faithfully blog at least twice a week...and I haven't. I honestly have a great excuse for that. Everything I've written has been unbelievably boring, so boring I have, in fact, bored myself. I did not, or could not, subject anyone else to this utter boredom so I did not post at all. I'll give you an example. Last week I had an entire post about the merits of clear breathe right strips as opposed to the colored ones. I will give you a short summary. Clear strips do not stick to your skin as well as colored ones. However they do stick very well to blankets, sheets, as well as my husbands hair.

One of the home remedies the advice nurse suggested was a nasal rinse. She claimed it to be a gentle and soothing cleanse of the sinus cavity. Per her advice, as well as the fact that my nostrils felt like they were superglued together with, well, snot, I went out and bought myself a nasal rinse kit. Being the smart girl that I am, I read the instructions thoroughly and was again assured that the sinus rinse was a gentle soothing cleanse. Since I am all for gentle and soothing I tried it. FYI, shooting a cup of saline water up your nose is neither gentle nor soothing. In fact, I've had the same experience many times body surfing in the ocean. There is nothing like snorting about a gallon of sandy ocean water up your nose to really drive home the whole beach experience. Although, like the sinus rinse, ocean water really cleans out the sinus's, as well as gives you that nice burning sensation. I've never actually lit my nose hair on fire, but I wouldn't be surprised to find out that the two feel somewhat the same.

Okay, that may not be entirely true. I should probably tell you that this year is the year I am going to be 100%, completely honest. It's been a little over two weeks and I am finding it to be harder than I thought. I never realized just how many little white lies I tell, albeit most of them are to cover up stupid things that I've done. If it were up to me there would be such a thing as a justifiable lying situation. For instance, a lie that keeps a person from a straight jacket and padded cell. Unfortunately my opinion does not matter, which is why they make straight jackets and have people to pad cells. So, in keeping with my honesty effort, I feel I must clarify. I have never, nor do I ever, plan on lighting my nose hair on fire. (although I never planned on shaving off half my eyebrow either, and that seemed to somehow happen) I have, however, singed the hair occupying my nostrils...and not always accidentally. I must admit that I discovered, the hard way, not to use lighter fluid and hairspray to remove unwanted hair. Not that lighter fluid and hairspray aren't fabulous at removing unwanted hair, just that they tend to remove the wanted hair as well. It took a good six months for my eyelashes to start growing back. While this is a true story, and not the dumbest thing I've ever done, I can with 100% honestly claim to have never worn a straight jacket. As for the padded room...let's save that for another post.

Weight loss then and now

2010-01-04T21:34:00.000-08:00

This is me then. As you can see I am eyeballing those cupcakes something fierce. Sadly I can't remember what flavor they were, or even if they were any good. My love-handles and inner thighs, however, remembered them quite well. In fact, those cupcakes hung around for a while joined by many, many friends. Krispy Creme doughnuts were especially close friends.

This is me now. I'm the short one on the right. Although, if I could get away with lying, I would say I was one of the other two. Probably my sister since she's noticeably taller. (I envy her 5'2 stature) If you look at the picture above, you can see how hard it is for a short person to hide those few....dozen extra pounds. Not even Spanx can help.

Speaking of the magical product that is Spanx, I learned the hard way that you cannot cheat and go a size smaller. Unless, of course, you have no problem being slowly suffocated by a lycra/spandex combination. My near death girdle experience has actually helped me as a Pilate's instructor. My class, particularly the men, love it when I tell them my too small Spanx story. (complete with the drama of getting out of the Spanx. FYI, water does NOT help in a lycra/spandex emergency. I repeat, water is VERY bad, especially if you are trying to get OUT of your lycra/spandex prison.)

Back to the gripping weight loss story. A family health crisis made me realize how important my health really was. I made up my mind that I was really ready to change (the first and most vital step) and so I called my sister, who is a personal trainer, for some much needed help. For three months she was known in my home as 'she who inflicts much pain' or, on those days I hurt so bad I had to use the bathroom door frame to hoist myself from the toilet, the sister who I swear is trying to kill me. (bless her masochistic little heart) I would love to say that I saw instant results, but I didn't. I mean, I did, but not the ones I was looking for. This sister of mine failed to mention that sweat = acne, and lots of it. It was three months before I saw any weight loss results, lots and lots of pimples, but nothing in the way of having less of me. BUT, thanks to my sister, I did not blow three months of hard work. I could always call her knowing she could talk me through the frustration. A big part of it was that I trusted her completely, so I did hold on. (to this day I don't know how that trust was built. This is the same sister who used to put me in the trailer behind our riding lawn mower and 'forget' to put the pin in. She would then ride over the biggest bump in our yard, where the trailer would come loose and jerk so hard I would fly into the back of it with a terrific thump. That's right, poor little me would hit the very cold, very hard, very metal, very cold, hard, metal, trailer side. My sister would then laugh, I would cry, she would apologize and promise to never do it again, I'd believe her and stupidly get back in the trailer where she would, in fact, 'forget' to put the pin in again. As you can see, I was an incredibly brilliant child.)

So the moral of the post is, some kids just never learn, exercise will cause you to break out, and it is possible for anyone, even someone daring enough to pit water against the mighty Spanx, to succeeded in their weight loss or fitness goals. Truly, if I, who owns and resides on Planet Tiff, can do it, anyone can.

It's time to diet!

2010-01-03T19:11:00.000-08:00

It is a brand spanking new year and, as such, the season of resolutions. A lot of people make resolutions, but not many keep them. I myself have an astonishing three day resolution record and that was only because I was sick in bed. I blew this year's resolution two hours into the new year. I vowed that I would stop saying the word 'okay' all the time. Mainly because it makes me sound like an old, valley-girl, cheerleader wanna-be as well as being incredibly annoying. (Being able to annoy yourself is a unique talent and as it happens I have that talent in abundance.) The point I'm trying to get to is this, many people make many resolutions.

So here is where it gets real. Most people resolute( it's my blog, I am allowed to make up and misuse words as much as I like) to lose weight and get in shape. Most of these people will not make it to the end of January. Why? Because Hershey's, Cadbury, and the makers of M&M's somehow make their chocolaty goodness addicting. I can think of no other rational explanation. Why else would someone, not me of course, but someone, eat an entire bag of M&M's in one night? Why I ask you?

Through hard earned experience, I have learned some very valuable keys for effective and lasting weight loss. The first is very simple, don't eat an entire bag of M&M's yourself. Second, the use of a pedometer can be a great asset. A very great asset indeed.....if you remember to put it on. This is very important because it is impossible to pad your pedometer numbers. (not that I've tried) Third, and the last for tonight, use a scale. Mine is an excellent prop for some unstable shelving. It is just the right height and very sturdy. Using these three simple tips lasting and effective weight loss can and is achievable. Okay?

Why three year olds should never have caffeine

2010-01-01T01:37:00.000-08:00

Some people have fireworks, others sparklers. What do I have? A three-year-niece with super-powered lungs. If high pitched shrieking were an Olympic sport she would take a medal. Okay, I don't know if that's true. If you were to take all the toddlers in the world to see who could shriek the longest or the loudest I cannot say, with any real certainty, that she would even be a contender. However, I can guarantee that a toddler shrieking contest is the best birth control ever! If you don't believe me visit your local daycare. FYI, if you do in fact decide to visit a daycare near you, first make it VERY clear why you are there. You do not want to get your local law enforcement involved. Not only could it be incredibly embarrassing, most cops will not believe that you are merely there as a form of birth control. Unless, of course, they have a toddler.

I recently read that cold medicine and mouthwash can actually register on a breathalyzer machine. Since I am currently on a lot of cold medicine it caught my attention. I could just see me getting pulled over, sans bra, wearing pajamas, socks with flip-flops and tissue stuffed up my nose. I wasn't the only one somewhat concerned by the news. There were a lot of people who wrote in wanting to know how police would be able to tell the difference between liquor and mouthwash? I would think that would be glaringly obvious. For instance, if you have a person who has just spent the last mile or so driving on the sidewalk, I'd venture to say it's probably a little more than just mouthwash.

I'm such a baby

2009-12-29T21:14:00.000-08:00

The last day or so I've been dealing with the flu bug. A very annoying and tenacious flu bug I might say. I tried drowning the little bugger, (bad pun intended) with large quantities of caffeine. FYI, a caffeinated cold is not the way to go. It's like Nyquil in reverse. The sniffling, sneezing, why the heck can't I sleep, medicine. Since I've had some time on my hands I've been doing some thinking and have come up with what I like to call the sliding pain scale. Everyone has their own pain tolerance, whether high or low. However, I believe a person's pain tolerance can actually work on a sliding scale depending on where, or who, you are with the moment the pain is inflicted. I will give you an example.

I work at a local health club. I am, if you will, a lean mean exercise machine. (all that is true except for the lean, the mean, and nobody in their right mind would ever call me an exercise machine) For some asinine reason I decided I should try and stand on a stability ball. This would not surprise anyone who knows me, for I am always doing, well, stupid things. These stupid things are the reason I am not allowed to touch power tools, use a hot glue gun, or dye my own hair. I would say that I am terribly indignant at being treated like a child, except I wouldn't allow me to touch any of that stuff either. (the accidental hot gluing of hat to nephew's head is just one of many examples) So, being me, I thought that standing on stability ball would not only be splendid, but doable. In less than a second I discovered that I cannot, in actuality, stand on anything that rolls. After a splendid slow-mo back-dive, in which I landed directly on my delicate derrière, I came to with a throng of gym goers around me. Had I been at home I guarantee there would have been bawling...lots and lots of bawling, but I wasn't at home. No, I was surrounded by a bunch of people with cell phones held high. (Thankfully I was deemed youtube unworthy) So, nonchalantly shrugging the incident off, I got up and casually strolled out to my car. Waiting a minute or two, (to make sure I was all alone) I proceeded to bawl like a baby.

I use this story as just one of many examples of the sliding pain scale. However, I cannot take full credit for this brilliantly brilliant insight. No, I must thank my local Walgreen's for their supply of energy drinks and cold medicine. If you haven't had the priveledge of shopping at Walgreen's I highly encourage it. They have pretty much everything a person could need. In one Walgreen's shopping trip you can buy lightbulbs, sour cream, toilet covers and a new camera. My particular favorite aisle is the one dedicated soley to the 'As seen on TV' products. It's there that I've gotten some mighty putty, a box of bendaroos, and the ever popular slim clip. Yes, Walgreen's is a magical place. In fact, I think I'll go and buy me a snuggie.

Why another blog?

2009-12-27T19:27:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay, I know this is my second attempt at my own blog. My other attempt just didn't feel right. I think it had something to do with the lame name. Not that Planet Tiff is a wonderfully marvelous name, but at least it's better than my previous attempt. (which was so lame, I cannot repeat it for fear of scaring off any potential readers.) So why did I decide to try my own blog? Because, unfortunately, that's the way my brain works. I can have 100 things I HAVE to do, and my brain says, "Man, things are so crazy busy....I should start a blog!" This is the same brain that accidentally hot glued a hat to my nephew's head. (FYI, if you ever find that you have accidentally hot glued an item to someone's head, don't yank. It only pulls the skin off) I wish this was an isolated incident, but that would be a gross falsehood. All I can say is life on Planet Tiff is never dull.

My mother recently asked, after seeing Julia and Julia, if I had any aspirations of getting my blog 'out there.' I thought about it and asked what exactly one had to do in order to get their blog 'out there.' She explained the story behind Julia Powell, sent me to the Pioneer woman blog, and gave me an article to read. I guess to have a successful blog it needs to be pretty unusual and something that has never been done before. 'Okay,' I thought, 'I myself am pretty unusual and I'm sure my brain is something the world has never before experienced.' For a split second I actually thought about putting forth the effort. Then I remembered just how lazy I am. That brought all thoughts of blog fame and fortune to a screeching halt. Besides, I don't think the world is quite ready for Planet Tiff.

Welcome to my world

2009-11-22T14:42:00.000-08:00

A few nights ago I asked my husband THE question. "Honey-cheeks," I said, "do you think I'm somewhat abnormal?" Without any hesitation he said yes. (not even a polite pause) Okay, that's not true. I've NEVER, in fourteen years of marriage, EVER called my husband honey-cheeks. There have been a lot of other names, Carl for example, but never honey-cheeks. It sounds too much like a pastry. Carl and I agreed long ago that we would abstain from calling each other anything that could be squishy, lumpy, or high in fat. Although, come to think of it, I believe honey-cheeks are indeed an actual pastry. In fact, they were the exact pastry responsible for Princess Lea's hair. Some will tell you that it is the cinnamon roll from which Lea's ubertastic side buns came to fruition, but this is a myth! In truth, George Lucas had a honey-cheek half-way to his mouth when he looked down and was hit with a eureka! "This," he waved the honey-cheek excitedly, "this is the pastry I've been looking for!" All present clapped with joy, for they knew the struggle to find the perfect pastry had finally come to an end. Since I am a fan of Star Wars, and am profoundly grateful to the makers of honey-cheeks, Carl will forever more be known as my honey-cheeks. (which might be the encouragement we need to hit the gym more regularly)