A Few Things You Should Never Say to a Woman...and a few you should.

So, I was listening to the radio this morning and the deejays were discussing how one of them approached a woman in the office and told her she looked tired. The other two deejays (one a woman) were appalled that he would be so stupid to say that to a woman. How true. I love so much when someone comes up to me and tells me I look tired. It just gives me so much energy and perks me up right away. HA! Thanks for the boost, buddy!

I've recently cut my hair pretty short. Not pixie short, but shorter than I wanted it. {*Note, I cut it myself and when I don't like the way it turns out, I just cut it until I can live with it.} Pretty much my entire life I've had short hair. For a better part of my childhood I rocked the Dorothy Hamill. It was awesome. I look back at those pictures and wonder, "why did my mother hate me..." Then there is that one time I went to the mall in Amarillo, Texas and got a mullet. WHAT THE HELL?!?!?! Pardon my french, but, seriously? I think my mom was smoking crack while I was a child. That or she was puttin' a little sumtin' sumtin' in her morning coffee and just didn't give a rat's hiney what I did with my hair. Ohmigosh...did I ever tell you about the time she let the alcoholic jeweler in town pierce my ears? I finally figured out why my neck always hurts. As a kid I learned to tilt my head just slightly so my earrings would look even. Again, thanks, Mom.

Oh, sorry...got off track...

Back to the short hair...

Anyhoo...my hair is shorter than I would like it and it's causing me to have to dress a little more girly than I normally like, for fear of being mistaken for a boy. That, coupled with the tired comment I heard on the radio, has inspired this blog with a little advice.

Here are a few obvious things you should never say to a woman:

1. Never tell a woman she looks tired. As I mentioned before...It makes us feel like the hour an a half we spent getting ready that day was wasted time and we would have been better off just rolling out of bed and leaving the house. You know...sometimes a woman looks tired, because she is. And sometimes she just generally feels like crappola because she's been working his butt off, and the last thing she wants to hear is that she looks crap, too. So, what I'm saying is, basically, if you say to a woman, "you look tired," you might as well have just said, "you look like sh*!".

2. If a woman or little girl has short hair NEVER say, "Oh...I thought you were a boy." (Same goes for boys with long hair, only "you look like a girl", duh.) My entire life I've heard that. I think that's why I had such an interest in make-up so young...because I knew it would distinguish me from the boys. I was always built like a bean pole (until I had kids, now I'm built like a tree trunk), so I didn't have curves on my side. It was all up to the clothes and the makeup. Funny though, I'm not a girly girl. I'm not a tomboy, either, but I don't like a lot of frills. So, I get ticked when I feel like I have to be frilly to be recognized as a woman. Seriously, I don't look anything like a boy, even without makeup. Unless that boy has boobs, hips, shaped eyebrows and wears Uggs or flip-flops with skinny jeans. In all honesty, it takes a very secure woman to have short hair. A secure woman, or a woman who actually wants to look like a man, in which case, it would be considered a compliment.

3. Never ask a woman if she's pregnant unless you're absolutely sure she is. NEVER. EVER. EVER. Oh My Gosh. I'm not sure this one even needs an explanation. Just don't do it.

4. Never tell a woman she looks good in something she looks really horrible in. Tell her the truth. It might make her mad at first, but she'll thank you later. It's really better for everyone in the long run. Better for us, so we don't have to look at her, and better for her so she doesn't end up on my blog, or the People of Walmart website.

5. Never point out a woman's flaws. "Um, excuse me. You have a little something black on your chin. Oh...that's a hair. There's one on your neck, too." Nuff said. Oh, that reminds me. I need to turn on my wax warmer....

Now here a few things every woman likes to hear and will more than likely put a little spring in her step...

1. "You look like you've lost weight!" Everyone loves to hear this. Even if they don't, just say it and see what reaction you get. I guarantee her face will light up.

2. "You're so skinny! I can't believe you've had 3 kids!" I know. I know. I'm blessed. Blessed with a few good genes...and Spanx.

3. "You have a teenager?!?! You must have started young!" That's right. It might be because I wear my teenagers clothes and act like I'm 13, too...but I still like to hear it.

4. "What do you use on your skin? It's beautiful!" That would be Dove and wash cloth...and sleeping in my makeup because I'm too dang lazy to wash it off at night. Plus I hate when the water runs down my arms into the sleeves of my sweatshirt. So I just leave it and wash it off in the shower, but thank you!

I've heard all of these lines before a few times. Ok, just a couple. Ok, once...and it was me saying it to myself...while I was writing this blog, but, again...it's nice to hear...I don't care who says it.
I'm challenging you to choose any of these lines and use them this week...even if it's on the woman in the mirror and see what happens.

Anyhoo...The moral of the story? Think before you speak...or...if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all, unless it's behind their back and in that case, call me......


Happy Spring Break!

But, Wait...There's More....

Just when you thought you've had all the Vault Denim you could handle, I'm back with more...

Yesterday I talked about the jeans themselves. Today....it's business time*.

*I have to share this video with you, even though it has nothing to do with jeans, but the phrase "it's business time" reminded me of this and it's one of my favorites....

It's Business Time ~ Flight of the Concords

Moving on....

Did you know that Vault Denim has business opportunities available? Of course you did, because I told you that I'm doing it. Der. But I didn't explain much about it....because I don't want to seem pushy, but it seems the only way to get ahead in business is to be pushy, so...get out of my freakin' way!! Vault Denim and I are coming through! WAIT!! Actually, I don't want you to get out of the way, because I want you to listen...so scratch that. STAY PUT AND SHUT IT. JUST LISTEN....please.

When I started doing this, I just wanted to make a little money. A little extra cash so I could go to Target without Tim questioning my every move. When I went to my first party (I've mentioned this in previous post...you can go there if you want to read about...here's the link: I Wear Jeans! You Wear Jeans! We All Wear Jeans! ), my sponsor (no, not like an AA sponsor....I'm not in need of that kind of sponsor, just yet, but so far I only have one teenager...ask me again in few of years), Lisa, told me how easy it was. Just sign up with one time low fee, pick up the jeans from the RC, sell them, and take them back. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy! And it really is, if you can find people to sell to...

Anyhoo...here are my (drum roll please....)

Top Ten Reasons To Become a Vault Fashion Consultant

10. Low Enrollment Fee!

Only $159

9. No Inventory Investment!

The company supplies all the jeans. You just sell them...and buy them for yourself. Which is something I do a little too much of....

8. You Don't Have to Store the Inventory.

RC's in you area keep the inventory at their home and you check it in and out as you use it. I'm an RC and it's a lot of work. VFC's have it easy!

7. No Monthly Quotas to Meet

They do have incentives, but you don't have to meet anything. I mean I would suggest you try to sell something, but it's up to you....They're not going to kick you out if you're only doing one party a month.

6. Lucrative Compensation Plan

Earn at least 18% commission on your sales. I know. To all you other home party people, you're thinking that's not much, but um, hello...we have very little investment. You have to invest in your "kits" and build up your sample stuff. We don't. HA. Oh, except you do need jeans to wear to parties, oh darn. And did you note the "at least" part. There is potential to make more than 18%. 

5. No Experience Necessary!

The jeans sell themselves and the more you sell, the more you learn. Especially when you're like me and buy one of every brand/style. 

4. No Ordering or Delivering

120 pairs of jeans at an event to try on and take home that night. However, this statement is a little misleading. Ordering is (will) be available online at parties, but the product will be shipped to the customer. Still no delivering. And that just opens the door to more opportunities, because in addition to the 120 pairs you can actually see and try on, you'll have access to the online store. Whoop! Whoop! Holler!

3. No Out of Pocket Expense

Meaning you don't have to take cash or checks made out to you then turn around and put all the orders on your credit card. Which is prefect for me, because I like money, and I would probably charge it all to my credit card then cash the checks and spend all the cash and then we'd be stuck with this huge credit card bill and nothing to show for it. We accept cash (duh!), checks and credit cards, but it's all run through Vault. You simply collect, then deposit into Vault's account. 

2. Integrity and Ethics that Start at the Top!

Ok...the owners and investors in the company are truly great people. And I think they're all related...which is a little weird. I'm kidding! I think it's awesome! I'm actually a little jealous. I mean, I am part of their Vault family....but I'd sorta like to be mentioned in a couple of their wills. 

1. WE'RE SEXY AND WE KNOW IT!!!

(Enter LMFAO's super over played "sexy and I know it" tune...)
Putting yourself and other women in the right pair of jeans gives you confidence and there is nothing wrong with a little confidence. So yeah...we are sexy and we KNOW IT!! And we've even got a little passion in our pants and we're not afraid to show it...(I really hope you've heard this song before or this just sounds insane to you!)

But in all seriousness. There is so much potential here. I can feel it in my jeans. But it requires work. Like any job, you have to work hard, but here's the kicker...this is FUN!! Every day I enthusiastically jump out of bed and into my jeans (Ok! I admit it...I totally lied right there, because I would much rather stay curled up in my bed in my pj's.) and dance through the house singing "Sexy and I Know It". I can be myself because I'm conformable and in my element. And really, how many jobs out there allow that? Not many....

If you're interested in the business of Vault, or know someone who is, give me a call. I'd love to talk to you/them about it. I also have a DVD that explains it really well that I would love to share with you. (I know. I know. Pushy pushy. Hey...it's what I do. And better jeans and a business that can make you money than a used car, right? Or worse yet, used jeans.)

Now if you'll excuse me...the sinus medication I took a little bit ago has kicked in and I'm nodding off at the computer. Until next time, my friends. 

P.S. Book mark my blog so I don't have post on Facebook every time I post a new one. I'm going to try to be more consistent. And no...not all my posts from here on out will be about Vault. 

Vault Denim...Holler!

Ok, here we go...I haven't talked much about Vault Denim in my blog, so today, you're in for it...

When I joined Vault, in March of 2011, I thought it was going to be an easy sell. I mean, what woman doesn't like jeans? Boy, I was sadly mistaken. It's so bizarre to me, too. Nearly every single woman on the face of the earth owns at least ONE pair of jeans. And most women LOVE them. Many of those women wear them on a daily basis...like me! These same women also HATE shopping for jeans because it's often hard to find the right pair. "The waist is too big!" "The waist is too small." "The legs are too tight." "The pockets are too far apart." "They're too long." "They're too short." They're too blingy." "I want more bling...." I could go on...

And here, I thought, "Man, I can really help these women. I will bring 120+ pairs of jeans, to them, in the comfort of their own home (or office, salon, school, street corner), surrounded by their friends, everyone will find the perfect pair of jeans and we will all live happily ever after! Win! Win!" But that didn't happen. It did happen a couple of times, but for the most part...it's been a struggle. And I can't figure it out....are women that picky? So picky that you can't find one pair of jeans you like out of the 120+ I brought for you? One Hundred and Twenty. All different, too.

So many times we find a brand that "works for us" and want to stick to it and most times turn our noses up at anything else. Silly really, because there are so many different brands and styles to choose from. I'm giving you the opportunity to try them.

Let me explain how Vault works...

I have 3 huge bags full of jeans that I pack and bring to your house (or wherever you want) and I set them all out, in stacks, by size, from 0-24. Yes. TWENTY FOUR. Do you know that what means? There is literally something for everyone. There are usually 10-12 pair of each size, too. These jeans are usually the bling/stitch jeans that everyone is wearing, but I realize that they're not for everyone. So....

We also have premium, designer jeans. AUTHENTIC DESIGNER JEANS. NAME BRANDS. NO KNOCK OFFS. NO SECONDS...If you're into that sort of thing. I'm not so much, but I do like that the premiums tend to be a little more plain than the other ones. We carry sizes 24-36ish on those bad boys. The price range on all of the jeans is from $48-$92 + tax.

Now, people. This is a legit business. Vault has agreements with many of the major brands out there (can't name names because of that agreement, though). After the season is over, we are allowed to come in and buy the overstock at a very reasonable price and sell them to you for much less than the department stores and boutiques. Those jeans you saw at Nordstroms for $200, we probably have for $92 or less...

I'm not going to lie, to ya. Our blingy jeans, like the LA Idol, might be a little more than you find at the local cheesy mall store. That's because they go down to LA and buy a few and sell them for next to nothing to get you into the store to buy other things. And that's ok, but we don't have other things. Jeans. That's it. Lots and lots of jeans. So, instead of spending money on cheap clothes, you spend it on a nice pair of quality jeans.

Vault Denim is also working hard and designing their own lines of jeans. "House brands" they call them. We've had some of them in our inventory for a while now and they are some of the best sellers. They're price point is comparable to the others, but are better quality, made from a nicer denim and are made to fit a woman. Their current premium line, Emerson Edwards, is amazing (she said in a high pitched opera singing voice). I just counted in my closet and I have 7 pair of them. Yes...7. And I love every single one of them. They also make them for men. Tim has a pair and can I just say, his butt looks H-O-T in 'em. Oh, and skinny...oh, and COLORS...a rainbow of skinny Emerson Edwards. OMGee...they are soooo cute. I have an electric blue pair. I'm going to wear them on Saturday and I can't hardly wait!!! Can you say, "Sass-a-licious"?!?!?!

(Me, sans makeup, with my new colored Emerson Edwards. Jealous much?)

We also have little girls, that Mia loves and looks adorable in...and boys and babies, too. And did I mention we have maternity? Yeah...it's all coming. Some of it's here, some of it's coming and some of it will only be online, but it's all amazing. And it's all only through Vault.

The short time I've been in this business, I've learned a few things about women...

1. Women are obsessed with numbers. "Oh Em Gee...these run so small! I'm normally a 1 but these are a 3! Gasp!" Silly really, since no one sees the tag...on the inside...while you're wearing them. Honestly? Who gives a rat's ass?!?!?! If I had a dime for every time someone told me I was skinny then were shocked to hear what size jeans I wore, I'd be a rich woman. Not that I go around blurting out what size I wear, but sometimes at parties it comes up. But, it's all an illusion, people. Who cares about the number...it's the fit and feel, for crying out loud!!! So, if you come looking for a size 3, but really need a 5 or 7, don't be discouraged. It's not you...it's the jeans.

2. Women are delusional about what size they actually are. I often hear, "I wear a 27..." and I look at them and think, "I wear a 29 and I'm pretty sure you couldn't fit your big toe in my jeans right now..." I swear sometimes they just say that to hear themselves talk. The other day, in Vegas, at the convention, (where we were all Vault Denim reps, and should know what size we wear), I was buying a pair of jeans...ok...um...3 pairs of jeans (yes, all Emerson Edwards, so what?), and the girl writing me up mentioned what size I was buying. A girl in the line behind me said, "What? You're tiny! I can't believe you wear a 29! I wear a 27." As if 29 is huge or something and really...if this girl was a size 27, Rosie O'Donnell is a heterosexual conservative.

3. If I hear, "I just need to lose some weight first", one more time....UGH!! Holy shitaki mushrooms!! Get over it!! Seriously. We all want to lose weight. Always. We'll never be satisfied. It's the nature of the beast. Again, I'm going to be honest with you...you're not going to lose that weight. You're totally sitting at the computer right now, reading this, eating a brownie, or cookie, or drinking a Pespi. Let's face it. It's. Not. Going. To. Happen. So, why not look and feel good now? Who doesn't feel good when they look good, no matter their size? If you feel frumpy, you're going to look frumpy. Get yourself a pair of cute, sassy jeans that fit you perfect now and reward yourself with a new pair when and if you finally do lose that weight! (Said the salesperson...)

4. Women are snobs. I swear. Some think I'm selling junk from my trunk that I bought off some guy off a street corner in New London (that's a funky little town near by....). Well, I didn't. Would I be charging you sales tax if I was trying to peddle stolen goods? (That would be really stupid...I think...but I've never bought or sold stolen goods, so I'm not real sure of the rules...besides not selling stolen goods to begin with.) I'm also not an outlet store, so I don't have all the seconds that get sent away because they weren't good enough to be sold in the "real" store. Don't judge what I do until you see it for yourself.

5. For some, it's all about the name. I'll be honest (there is a lot of honesty in this blog today. Honesty and swearing.)...before I started this, I never looked at brands and I never knew (or cared about) brands. I shopped at Target. But now that I do, I tend to notice them more...however, I still don't care. Actually, I look at these women walking around in their fancy, name brand jeans and think..."hum...I wonder how much she paid for those? Probably twice as much as I sell them for. Poor little misguided jean snob."

6. For others, well, they're just plain cheap! Not frugal...cheap. Because if they were frugal, they'd buy their jeans from me. Frugal is smart. Cheap is stupid. Some women I know just refuse to pay $50 for a pair of good jeans,  so, they go to Target and buy some for $30 (note that's only $20 less) that fit weird and fall apart. I know this to be true, because I had a pair from Target. A pair that I actually LOVED, but one day, I bent over and they ripped...right up the crotch. The material was already thin and it didn't take long for me to wear it out and RRRRIIIIPPPPPPP!!!! I thank the good Lord I was home when it happened, and that I was wearing good underwear. {{Please note I mean no ill will towards Target. I love that place. It's my second home and sometimes I think I single handedly keep them in business, buying everything there, with the exception of my jeans.}}

So, the point of today's blog is this:

I'm not asking anyone to give me a kidney. I'm not even asking you to buy anything...I'm asking you to give it a chance. And if you're not interested, maybe you know someone who is. I really want to make this work. I want this to be my job. I want to be a denim expert. I want to own 50+ pairs of jeans and love every one of them and I want everyone else to love them, too...no matter their size. Vault Denim can do that for all of us. Just give them a chance.

www.vaultdenim.com

www.kimberlydodson.vaultdenim.me

(559)936-6246

I'm an Open Blog

Someday I would love to say, "I'm an open book!" and actually mean it...meaning I actually wrote a book, but for now, I'll have to say, "I'm an open blog," or even truer (is that word, Lynnette?), "I'm an open Facebook post."

It is true, though. I'm one of those people that has no problem telling people my problems (within reason, of course). I don't understand why some people are so secretive about things. I suppose if I had an STD I wouldn't go shouting it from the rooftops (and for the record, that will NEVER happen here, but if Tim and I ever divorce, well...you'll know why.....), but normal everyday issues...who cares? 

The other day I was trolling through Hobby Lobby and ran into someone I know. She asked how I was doing then sheepishly (please don't be offended by that word, but I couldn't think of anything else) asked if Xanax really worked for me. Then she said, "Your blog has actually helped me, because I was suffering in silence and then I read your blog, and you're talking about it like it's normal." Ok, so maybe she didn't use those words exactly, but I can quote, "YOUR BLOG HAS ACTUALLY HELPED ME....". That's right, my loyal and trusty readers....I'm helping people!!! 

Honestly, though...had I not blogged about it, she would still be suffering in silence. She might still be suffering, but now she's suffering on my blog...hehehe. 

Anyhoo...since I'm such an open Facebook, I will now explain what's been going on with me the last week...which, turns out, was pretty much normal stuff magnified by...guess what? ANXIETY!!!! 

**CAUTION: THIS BLOG IS ABOUT TO GET VERY GRAPHIC!! IT MADE TIM BABY BARF...**

After my surgery I had very little bleeding. Very, very little. Honestly, hardly anything. Like only a little pink when I went pee. That is, until last Monday, when I went potty and there was more than just a little pink...It was bright red and twice as much as I had done for nearly 2 weeks. That was the day I drove back into Crazy Town for my week long vacation! Whoop!

I got on the phone and called, who else? My sister! Because she knows EVERYTHING. Have I mentioned that? She's a teacher, so she must know everything, right? (Oh, and her husband is a super cool cop who leaps out of helicopters, but that's another blog...) Well...she said, "Did you call the doctor?" UM, NO!! Because you were suppose to say, "Oh yeah, that's normal." But she didn't, so I called the doctor. The nurse says, "I'm sure that's normal but I'll let you talk to him." I wait...tick-tock. Then she comes back, "Um...he wants to see you." My response? "Are you serious? SHIT." Yeah, I said that...to the nurse. I called Tim and he came home to take me, because by time he got here I was awfully drugged. Not really...I was a nervous wreck, even drugged. 

When we get there, he has to "check me". You know what that means. I think I started crying at that point. And I'm pretty sure during that exam, I nearly ripped Tim's hand off and shoved it up/down Dr. Kim's...I mean, um...well, use your imagination here. (Sorry....but I warned you it was going to get graphic). After the exam, he tells me everything is normal and then shows me this little plastic thing he found while on his "journey". It was the plastic ring he used to tie my tubes 4 years ago. He was laughing and said, "Look, Kimberly. I found this in there. I don't know why it was there. I think that's funny." HA. HA. YEAH. Hilarious. 

For the next several days, it was on and off. I was a wreck. What was doing wrong? I had no restrictions. I specifically asked him if I needed to slow down and he said, "NO. Keep doing whatever you're doing." Everyone that has had this surgery, except my superwoman sister, has told me I need to slow down and rest. But doctor says, no. Keep going. So...honestly...as much as I love other's advice, I'm sticking to the man with the medical license.  But I was still a mess. I, for sure, thought I had ripped open a wound inside and was bleeding internally. 

Saturday morning, Ella wakes me up about 4am for a drink. As I was headed back to bed, I thought, man...I've either really been sweating or I peed my pants. What I wouldn't have given to have peed my pants!!! Now, when things like this happen to me, it gets ugly. Really ugly. I was trying really hard to remain calm while getting clean clothes to put on, but I started losing that uphill battle. I called Tim as I sat down in the floor of the bathroom. Picture this....Me, in an old, ratty t-shirt (I was wearing a sports bra, so don't go there...), cute lacy panties and knee high wool socks....trying desperately NOT to pass out. Tim came in there and was trying to coach me through. A few other things happened, that I'll spare you from, but the main thing is...I didn't pass out!! It seemed like an eternity of breathing, wanting to barf and feeling the blood drain from my face, but made I through. Holler. 

So, I took a pill and went back to bed waiting for my sister to get up. Yep...I did it again...I called my sister. I did call the doctor (after I called her) and he wasn't in and there was another doctor on call, but the bleeding had pretty much stopped by then. So, I toughed it out. We had a dinner to go to that night and I really, really wanted to wear my new dress and cute shoes. I was going to that dinner for goodness sakes!!

Remember earlier in the week, when I started bleeding? I posted that I had to make a trip to the doctor on Facebook. I learned my lesson after that, because that night at the dinner, EVERYONE and their MOTHER was asking me how I was doing. I felt like poo, but I was trying to be cool. "I'm great. Fantastic! Thumbs up! Thanks for asking!" And I looked flippin' amazing. No, really. I did. I should have taken a picture of myself. My makeup and hair looked amazing and I was lookin' H-O-T in my new dress and shoes. I appreciated all the concern, really, but considering I was going through an ordeal that very day and was trying just trying to make it through the night....It was getting on my nerves (no offense to you people who checked on me...this was one of those, "It's not you, it's me" situations). 

The next morning I got up and all was well with the world. Tim was making breakfast and the girls were all still in the pj's and parked in front of the TV like good little children. I sat down and started blogging, when I felt a little gush. (Unfortunately I know that feeling, because I hemorrhaged after I had Ella. You should have seen the clots I was passing...) I got up and went to the bathroom, where I passed a clot about the size of a golf ball. Holy shitaki mushrooms!! That's it...I was going to die, right there on that toilet. Somehow I managed to get upstairs where I hollered to Tim to start fanning me while I called the doctor...who I once again couldn't get a hold of. I got, "if this is an emergency you have the option to call 9-1-1 or go an emergency room." Comforting, right? Good gracious.

We made the decision to go to the ER in Visalia. I desperately wanted to shower because I still had on my makeup from the night before, which wasn't quite as amazing as it started out. One of my eye's lashes were all matted together and I had pulled my bangs back into a couple bobby pins and slept like that. It's wasn't pretty. But Tim wouldn't let me. Oh. My. Gosh. I was mortified. When we got there, they took me right back, but it was a good 2 hours before we saw the doctor. At one point I had Tim get me a wet paper towel and some hand sanitizer so I could give myself a make-shift bath. Which, is actually pretty funny because I saw all the other people that were there, and I'm certain none of them showered before they came in. 

Sidebar: I've come to the conclusion that only crazy people visit the ER. Crazy people and gang members. One guy was having his infected stab wound looked at. One woman was screaming, "help me! Help me!!" Another woman was throwing up and you could hear her throughout the entire hospital. While they were taking me back to my room...I saw a guy wheeling a body out. I'm forever traumatized. Oh, and I can't forget the guy from the county jail...in shackles. As if my own reason for being seen wasn't enough....Xanax? Why, yes, please! 

Anyhoo...in the 2+ hours I waited for the doctor I had 2 IV's (one in each arm because the first one wasn't in right...) and had to pee on a potty chair...and cried off and on about 100 times. 

Then the doctor came in...a woman, which was a breath of fresh air, however...I think she may have been a lesbian, which, while there's nothing wrong with that, was a little awkward. I'm kidding. Once again, I got "checked". Good gracious. An IV in both arms and now this? If it weren't for my children, I would have been begging the Lord to take me home. (Note: I realize what I went through is nothing compared to what so many people deal with on a daily basis. Just want to make that known.) 

Anyway...short story, long (whoa, big surprise!)....I'm fine. I went to the doctor today and after he chewed me out for not calling him directly and I chewed him out for not giving me his cell phone number (yeah, that's how our relationship works), and he checked me, yet again, I'm perfectly fine and everything is normal....and I now have his cell phone number. 

Oh, and for everyone that keeps telling me I need to take it easy, again, I asked him if I needed to slow down and he said, "NO!" I asked him if I could still go to Vegas (only about a dozen times) and every time he answered, "Yes. Go to Vegas and have lots of fun." So....I can paint, do laundry, vacuum, lift, drive, and party it up in Vegas, because Dr. Kim said so. But I don't want to...

My Date with DiVinci

Long time no blog, I know. I've been busy! I thought after all the kids got into school life would be free and easy. HA! I thought wrong. Oh, how I miss my bonbons. Anyhoo...

If you're my friend on Facebook, and care read about my whining, you know that on Wednesday, January 4th, at 7:30am, I went under the knife for a hysterectomy. But it wasn't just any knife. It was the DiVinci Robotic knife. Here's my story....

For years I've suffered with pain on my right side. I lived with it for YEARS. Y-E-A-R-S. Did I mention this has gone on for YEARS? Considering it has been YEARS, I figured if it hadn't killed me by now, it wasn't going to, so I just lived with it. And it was really annoying. But, at my last "physical"...(you know...that physical, the one that all of us women look forward to every year so much that we mark the date on the calendar with hearts and flowers, just like we do the anniversaries of our first dates, first kisses and wedding anniversaries ), I talked to the doctor about it and told him I was over it. After discussing my options, we decided that a hysterectomy was the best for me. Rip it out!!!

My sister had it done and couple years ago. In fact, she was the first patient at St. Agnes to have it done. She was a model patient, too, of course, because she has an extremely high pain tolerance. (I wanted to say she had the pain tolerance of something really strong and mean, but I couldn't think of anything, besides an ox, and I was afraid that would offend her. She's sensitive that way). When I say model patient, I mean that literally...She became a spokesperson for the Di Vinci robot. Interviews, photo shoots, videos, banners, newspaper articles. Yeah, really. (She drew the line at TV commercials and freeway billboards, though.) When the doctor was going over all the details with me, he actually made me watch her video interview. I laughed through the whole thing. I couldn't help it (sorry, Sissy). Anyway...she talked about how she rested the first day and didn't use pain meds. The second day she drove her kids to school and went to her son's basketball game (can you say cu-cu?), then was up that weekend cooking for company and skiing three weeks later. Yeah, she's pretty much superwoman. She makes it look soooooo easy. (They didn't bother to ask me about all the phone calls I got from her crying and whaling in pain. But I understand. It might ruin the whole "It's so easy my husband could do it..." vibe she's giving off.) 

So anyway, the videos are watched. Packets are read. Papers are signed. Insurance is approved. Date is set and........sigh...the date arrives.

After a wonderful night sleep (note the sarcasm), I went in for pre-op preps. I showered and shaved that morning. That was before I knew they were going to "scrub" me down with these horrible anti-bacterial wipes! Seriously? I thought I was going to go through the roof. Number 1, they were flipping' cold. Number 2, they were ANTI-BACTERIAL. In fact, I think they might have even been Clorox or Lysol wipes. It was insane. Mean, actually. Even worse? There were 2 male patients that were having to be shaved all over then "scrubbed". A. Gross!! B. OUCH! What the hello kitty? If they feel this is completely necessary, they need to figure out a way to either warm the wipes or do it after you're out, because, honestly...it's cruel. 

Then they put these things on my legs. Leg compression things to keep the blood flowing while I'm out, to prevent blood clots. Innocent enough, I guess. The nurse described it as, "a massage". A massage? Apparently she's never experienced it, or she's never had a real massage. Poor, misguided little nurse girl.  I'm slightly (ok, that's an understatement) claustrophobic. To me it felt like an ancient torture device, if I knew what an ancient torture device felt like. Between the antibacterial scrub down, the leg contraptions and the loose bowels causing me to run to the bathroom on the other side of the pre-op room with my gown flopping open every 5 minutes, I was DONE. My doctor had ordered me some calming meds before surgery, but I had to see Dr. Feel Good first....and he was running late. Jerk. And I told him so, too. FINALLY, as I'm being wheeled into the OR they give me something. I calm a little, but still pretty anxious, obviously...since the OR is rather intimidating, especially when there is this huge robotic arm hanging over the operating table and a chair across the room where the doctor will be sitting. More drugs, please? I don't mind if I do!

So...then I got some good stuff. Funny thing, though, I remember everything. I remember Dr. Feel Good getting ready to do my spinal and telling me I was skinny (FYI: no longer a jerk after that comment), and Dr. Kim (the greatest doctor ever) asking me about all my mom's grand kids and me trying to explain to him that if my brother has 2, and my sister has 2, and I have 3, that makes 7 and he says, "so there's 6?" And me replying, "Holy poop balls, Dr. Kim...I'm having second thoughts about you operating on me right now!!" 

Next thing I know, I'm trying to wake up in recovery. OMG...I hate that feeling. I feel so out of control, and when I get that feeling, we all know what happens...Panic attack. I've some how managed to learn to control it, mostly. I can't control my heart rate, but I can control my reaction. I lay perfectly still, eyes closed, and try to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. I told the nurse I needed something and she tried to call the doctor, who couldn't be reached (Dr. Kim was briefly on my poop list while he was unavailable) to get an order for Xanax, because I already take it, for AN HOUR AND A HALF, before she says, "well, we do have some medication I can put in your IV if you want to try that..." I calmly answered, "Yes, please. That would be great." As soon as she was out of the room, I yelled, "It took her a freakin' hour and a half to figure that out?!?!?!" I may, or may not have embarrassed Tim with that little outburst and I may or may not really give a poo. 

How do you handle pain? I handle it pretty well, I think. I think I probably whine more when my pain is less than I do when it's really bad. They have these pain scales for you to gage your pain on. 1 being no pain at all (with a smiley face), 10 being unbearable pain (with a very horrible sad face, that's red and sweaty). How do you know what unbearable pain is? I've given birth without medication, with contractions off the charts. I would think that would be considered unbearable pain, but I managed it. Considering I have anxiety like I do, I think I handle such situations pretty well. They kept asking me how my pain was and well, it was pretty bad. I felt like I was giving birth without pain medication again, and quite frankly, I wasn't enjoying it. "So, Kimberly, on a scale from 1-10, how bad is your pain?" Me, "8 or 9." Nurse, "8 or 9? Really?" YES, BIOTCH!!! Are you laying here in this bed? Did you just have some robot rip your uterus out through a tiny incision in your abdomen? I THINK NOT!!! MY PAIN IS A FRICKIN' 8 OR 9!!!!! After several vials of IV drugs, I gave up and said forget it. Just give me a Xanax or 2 and I'll call you in the morning! 

At some point, Dr. Kim decided I didn't need any more IV meds and that I could take Oxycontin. The nurse came in with several pills and said, "This is your Zoloft, Xanax and Oxycontin." Whoa. Really?!?!? Won't that kill me?!?!?! I was having my own little Pharm party right there in the hospital! Whoop! Holler!! Seriously scared the crap out of me (ok, not literally because, unfortunately, it was several days later before there was any bowel movement), but I took it anyway. I think I'll save the Oxycontin for the druggies. I didn't feel any better after taking it. I took it twice then opted for the Tylenol/Advil/Xanax combo instead. So, we can look at that one of two ways: 1. I'm an idiot and really enjoy pain, or 2. the pain really was bearable with just Tylenol/Advil/Xanax. Haha! The truth is, my friends, most things are bearable with Xanax. 

Evening came and it was time to decide to stay in the hospital or go home. I wasn't actually going home, I was going to my sissy's house, where Tim, the 3 girls, and my niece and nephew were waiting for me. Hum......eenie, meenie, miney, may...in the hospital I will stay! Yay!! 

Actually...nay. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I thought it would be nice to have a night in the hospital (remember my earlier blog about the hospital resort I have dreamed up?). Say what you want, but I don't get to rest when my kids are around. I love them to pieces and they make me smile, but they're hooligans. And I have only myself to blame. That being said...Oh. My. Stars. And. Garters. I should have gone home. Between my extremely grouchy, whiney, rude roommate, Pearl and the IV they had flowing through me causing me to pee, and I'm not exaggerating here...AT LEAST 20 times during the night, I wished, every single agonizing minute that I had chosen home. 

I actually had two IV's. One hooked up and one just dangling off my arm, with a huge needle that had blood backing up and that was hecka painful. Then, there was the one that was hooked up. It wasn't just hooked up to an IV bag....it was flowing like a waterfall. It was turned up so high, that I had to pee every 10 minutes. I'm NOT KIDDING. At one point, from about 10-11 I was up at least 6 times. They told me not to get up without help, but I called and no one answered. I even called their little cell phones and the one that finally answered was rude and told me she's get to me when she could. I had to pee lady, and I just had surgery in the same area...I was in pain. I couldn't wait. So, me and my little IV pole went for a little walk to bathroom, praying every time that I didn't pass out or fall...at least 20 times that night...and I'm not exaggerating. Seriously, not exaggerating. Oh, and finally after my not hooked up, dangly IV hose thingy narrowly missed the pee water 15 out of 20 of those times, I got smart and tied it on my arm. Why was that hose even there?!?! I just woke up with it. It was never used and gave me a huge, painful bruise on my arm. 

Needless to say, when Dr. Kim (the greatest doctor ever) came in, he said, "Why is she still have an IV? Take that out. She not need that." (It's written that way, because that's how he talks. Love my Dr. Kim. You should hear him cuss. It's hysterical!) Then he reminded me that he told me I would be more comfortable at home. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Then showed me pictures of my innards and how I had scar tissue binding my ovary, tube and my bowels. (I know...you just threw up a little). Nice, huh? He also told me that it was most likely scar tissue from my appendix and that will probably come back. Yay. More good news. Best news yet, though...I got to go home.

Isn't there a rule that you have to be wheeled out of the hospital in a wheelchair? I thought there was, but I suppose I could be wrong...because the nurse said, "do you want a chair or can you walk?" So I walked out. Nearly passed out on the elevator, but I did it. Woohoo!! I was on my way to my sister's house. Tim had taken the girls home and because I had to see the doctor the next morning, I opted to stay the night at my sister's so I didn't have to ride home and back. He came up to see me then came home to the girls and my sister took amazing care of me. She didn't rub my feet though, which was disappointing. I would think that a really good sister would do something like that, but she didn't. Oh well...beggers can't be choosers.

I'm currently on the road to recovery. Slower than I imagined, actually. The spokesperson for the Di Vinci robot said she was up in about in 2 days...not moving really slow and still feeling like her insides are going to fall out her bottom every time she stands up, despite the fact those insides are no longer inside. She set the bar really high. But the truth is, I can drive and lift at my discretion. After about 30 minutes of being up, I want to lay down and by 7pm, I want to drug everyone and put them all in bed, especially myself, but that's not really anything new. Tomorrow will be a week since the surgery. I suppose, considering I had my uterus, cervix, one ovary and tube removed, as well as some scar tissue cleaned up, I'm getting along pretty good. If you saw me out and about, you'd never know I'd just had major surgery. In fact, I find myself telling random people, just to get some sympathy! 

I feel bad, because there are so many women who still suffer from abdominal and vaginal hysterectomies when there is this amazing technology out there allowing them to recover in 1/2 the time. The cost is still the same...the doctors just need to do some training, but I guess they just don't want to. Why else would they insist their patients go through such surgery when there's an easier way. If you're in need of a hysterectomy, call me. I'll give you the amazing Dr. Kim's number and he'll have you back on your feet in no time. Not as quickly as the spokesperson tells you, but pretty quick, considering.

Short story long...that was My Date with Di Vinci the robotic arm, in the OR at St. Agnes Medical Center. 

My Poor Sheltered Children. How Will They Ever Survive in this Cruel World?

Here's the deal. My kids are sheltered. I admit it. And honestly, I'm okay with it. I have no problem with the fact that my 13 year old daughter's TV viewing is limited to Disney and Nick. Honestly, sometimes Nick even pushes my limits. But for the most part, it's all good clean fun, that the entire family can watch together.

That 13 year old, Gracie? Well, she is who she is. She's different. She's a good girl. And she LOVES who she is. She make a look a mess, but she's got it together. If I had a dollar for everytime I recieved a compliment on her from an adult with younger kids, I could send her to Harvard. Younger girls like her because she's not afraid to be a kid and be goofy. She respects them and treats them like people, not annoying younger kids, like most girls her age would (with the exception of her younger sister...who she treats like a doormat).She doesn't wear makeup and has no desire to...in fact, when I make her for a special event, she has a tantrum and I have to pin her down and force her to. She doesn't care too much about her clothes. Tees and jeans are just fine with her. If she's comfortable, she's good. Her hair...well, don't get me started on that kid's hair.

She's special. She's a sweet girl (to others, not so much to me) and she's pretty innocent (some might call her prude). She doesn't use bad language. When we hear songs with the word "hell" or "damn" in it, we either turn it down or yell "HECK" and "DANG" to shelter the other two as much as possible. She has no desire to watch things she knows are inappropriate. She was recently reading the book Wicked and voluntarily stopped because some of the contents made her uncomfortable. She knows a lot about "life"...because I've told her and I continue to keep her informed as I feel necessary. She knows she can come to me and talk about anything...and she does. If you're reading this, and you have kids in school with Gracie, chances are, I know things about your kids you'd never expect. She's an open book.

Today, when I was complimenting her on what great character she had, she started crying and said sometimes she felt like she shouldn't be herself because kids at school made fun of her all the time because she doesn't watch anything rated higher than PG-13 or listen to explicit music, as if that's something to be ashamed of.

I have spent a lot of time with these kids Gracie goes to school with. I know their parents. I also know that a lot of these kids parents would be appalled if they knew how thier kids acted at school towards other kids and what they talked about. Sex seems to be a big topic of conversation. I was told that you can rarely say anything that most of them don't twist into something sexual. And the languange...ugh. I'm not saying I have the cleanest mouth around because I say my share of  colorful words, but the "F" word is one I HATE. It's disgusting. I even hate when people just insinuate it, with "Effing". I hate the expression WTF or LMFAO. All disgusting. I admit to saying freakin' and friggin', but never the real "F" word. Oh no way. Yet, again...it seems to be a favorite among 8th graders. The word and signs that go with it.

I'm curious...how many of you parents of young kids have actually sat down and watched Pretty Little Liars or Secret Life with your kids? Two huge shows that I hear kids talking about all the time and how they're so excited when it comes on. Did you know what in Pretty Little Liars, one of the teen/high school girls was having a sexual relationship with one of her teachers? One girl is a lesbian and had quite the relationship with another girl. They are often drinking and partying, too. And...they're all still in high school...all while dressing like hookers. Great message, don'tcha think?

And what about Secret Life? That circle of friends just keep passing each other around, like a joint. One couple even has a baby and now they're LIVING together...and are still in high school. Now call me crazy, but I just don't see this as a message we need to be sending to our young kids. Just because some of this stuff really happens, doesn't mean our kids need to be watching it. They're brains aren't fully developed and they are so impressionable. They love the way these kids look and interact like adults, all while just being a few years older than them. They feel they can relate to these characters. This is why I like Disney's Good Luck Charlie. Awesome show about a family of 6 where the parents are actually involved in their kids lives and the kids make normal kid mistakes.

Anyway...the moral of this story is: If you have a young, impressionable teen, how about talking to them about kid stuff and encouraging them to stay young as long as they can because, in all honesty, being a grown up isn't always fun, so why would you want to rush it? Oh, and tell your kid to stop making fun of my kid because she has amazing morals and values and has more potential in her pinky finger than most do in their entire body.

That is all....

*I didn't proof this one either...so sue me.*

Will they ever get it? It's Stoopid!!

Can someone please explain to me what the saggin' pants is all about? Seriously. What's the deal?!?! I read that it was started in prison by inmates that wanted to advertise "themselves", if you know what I mean. That killed me. I wanted to so bad to tell all those "Bieber Boys" (because Justin is a sagger) that they were just advertising their @$$e$ were open for business, but then my bubble was burst when I went to Snopes and read that it was all bunk. But it makes sense? What other purpose would it serve?

 Seems like it use to just be the gang bangers that did it, but now everyone is doing it! (I'm probably going to tick some people off right now), but it boils my blood when I see one of my young, straight-laced, white, family members doing it and acting like they're not. "Hey, (enter the name of said straight-laced, white, family members), I see your chonies. Pull your pants up." "Huh? Oh. They're not that low. I've just lost a few pounds and they're a little big on me now, that's all..." Sure...that's it. That's why you have a belt on and it's hitting you about mid- butt cheek and has 2 holes left in it.

I really, really, really hate when they have their whole flippin' @$$ showing and their belt BELOW their butt cheeks. Come on. What's the point of wearing pants?!?! If I had to choose my favorite saggin' look it would be the skinny jeans with the crotch mid-calf...I mean mid-thigh, because at least they sort of stay up on their own. It's the ones that are so huge that when they run they have to hold them and limp to keep them up. Or that super sexy walk they do where they have a huge stride and then dip every couple of steps. That is so cool. Oh, how I wish Tim was like that.

So have you seen a picture of Justin Bieber lately? I saw one not long ago of him on stage and I was appalled at how saggy his pants were. And his ears are pierced, too. And he has tattoos. And sometimes he wears those super huge sweatshirts and jackets. What's that about? He's got bundles of money and he can't afford to buy clothes that fit and has to borrow from his 400 pound security guard? Weird.

How do these skateboarders/bike rider stunt guys do it? I mean, don't you need a lot of mobility to do those stunts? Probably why there are so many skateboarding/bike accidents. I bet if they did a study, they would find that skaters/bikers wearing tight fitting exercise pants had less falls that those in saggy pants. (Hey...I think I just came up with Mia's science fair project for next year!)

Don't you think they're going to have some back and hip problems? Ah-ha! Light bulb! Some ortopedic surgeon came up with the trend to ensure he was never short of patients.

Hey, what if we started pantsing all these guys. Would we end up in jail? Or worse, shot? When are they going to get the picture that it's not cool and no one but them likes it? I've never, ever heard anyone ever say, "Oh, I love when guys sag their pants. It's so sexy." Never, ever heard it, unless it was sarcasm. Have you? I didn't think so. We need to start a revolution.

Say NO to saggin'!

~I'm tired and I didn't even proof read, correct spelling or use bold or italic for emphasis. I apologize. Maybe I'll edit tomorrow...~