Tales from the Front Lines

First of all, there is a pregnant female in the O'Bryant household. It is a mollie...that seems to give birth to live tiny fish as easily as breathing. We purchased two mollies and brought them home only to find 4 fish in the bag. Two big and two tiny. Now, we have 4 big fish in the tank and about 18 tiny "fry". The aquarium people have assured me that the big fish will eat the little fish which initally horrified me. Now, however, I can only see the beauty of such a plan. Eat your young, go ahead, please! Do it for me. Chow one for the team. Of course, I have inherited mollies with an absurd sense of the maternal. They don't WANT to eat their young. They just want to procreate their tiny mollie heads off. Did you know that female mollies can store sperm for up to 6 months? If they are stressed or aggravated with their tank mates, they will not gestate, they'll just "hold it in" somehow and impregnate themselves, later. THere's a lesson t...

...and end right up doing them anyway. For me, it's Weight Watchers. Because, really, right down to it, what the heck else am I going to do? Heave this weight around with me for the rest of my natural existance? Ummmm......no. No thank you. So, off I trot to the website and sign my happy self up for 3 months. A few clicks of the mouse later and ....voila! the heavens open up, and the FLEX point system is revealed! I have a certain number of points and many of my meals are happily within the range of the points. Then, I realize that the points have to last me the ENTIRE day. This is what we call "the whole picture", the "small print" of the exercise. I do not get to have 20-umpty points for breakfast, lunch AND dinner. Nope. Has to last the whole day. So, I begin weeding out the undesireables, right into the grateful and astonished mouths of my children. "Here, sweetie, eat the icecream. Yes, I know it's Mommy's favorite flavor, so p...

He's such a sweet man. Really. It's a shame I dislike him. He's done nothing to deserve it, really. All he's done is tell me the truth. And the truth is: I'm fat. He's tall and thin, with brown hair and I think he has eyes. I'm not sure, because I cannot look this man in the eyes. Never have. Probably never will. There are reasons for this: there's so much ELSE to look at in his office, scales, blood pressure equipment and the endlessly facinating poster of "Lifeline - your blood's biological journey". I've stared at it so many times that I can practically tell you...nothing. Because I'm sitting in his office, with hands and knees tightly clenched as he delivers the news about my weight gain in a somber, gently chiding tone. "You were HERE in Feb. 2005, and now, you are HERE", he points to an appalling number. "Uh-huh." this is from me. "And we need to get you down here", he points again, the...

A "poser", a "wannabe", a "wuss", am I. I have just had any type of motherly pride slapped right out of me. I have seen Southern motherhood in action and I am AWED. It was a birthday party celebrating the 5th birthday of a little friend of my youngest daughter. It was issued, parchment style with ye olde English writing, asking for all "brave knights and faire maidens....to come to the castle for revelry, jousting and foolishment". Huh, said I. Clever, yet I am not cowed, not yet. Then, I RSVP and ask should my littlest be dressed in some medieval manner. A flowing veil, perhaps, at least a dress? No, sugar don't worry your little head, everything should be ready to go I was informed....oohkaaaay. Finally the day has come. Small child is fetchingly dressed, hair curled AND ponytailed and an appropriate gift in hand, I smugly enter....a castle? A restaurant? A restaurant with a castle theme? That is completely and utterly empty and decorated ...