Sunday, July 16, 2006

I'm hot, I'm irritable, and I'm bloated.

The irony here is that I've been nominated for a "Blogs of Beauty Award" in the humor category. I'm feeling slightly less than humorous and a whole lot less than beautiful right now.


It's so stinkin' hot here I was tempted to wear my new swimsuit to church today. I'm only partly kidding; hormones will do that to a crazy middle-aged woman. When we arrived, I wished I'd followed through on my impulse because the air conditioning had been shut off in the building. HELLO??!! This is Texas in JULY. This had to have been the fault of a man because every Texas woman knows that just crossing the parking lot into church will melt your mascara down into your cute summer sandals. It's even worse for those of us dealing with hot flashes and high temperatures - we're those women who bring lawn chairs to the grocery store and set up camp in the frozen foods aisle. We even wear sleeveless shirts and don't care who sees our back-of-the-arm flab that waves like a flag in a Labor Day parade.


So I immediately suggested that we move our worship service down the street to the community pool. Hey, Jesus preached next to the Sea of Galilee! But by that time the men were setting up fans, which was about as helpful as an ice cube in you-know-where. I should note here that our church meets in a public school and the thermostat is controlled off-site, at the school district's main offices. So our guys were setting up fans, and I was thinking we needed to get serious about this cooling issue and just hack into the electronic controls on the wall or use a hatchet or something, because by this time the elastic waist on my skirt was not only soaking wet, it was cutting into my bloated belly and I was about ready to go Wolverine on the next man who carried in a wimpy little 12" fan.


I finally settled for sitting in front of a friend who had worn his cowboy hat to church. I paid him $20 to fan me through the service. On the way home, I stopped at Dairy Queen and bought us all ice cream cones. I dropped a big blob of ice cream down the front of me; fortunately, my Oklahoma-sized bloat caught it before it slid off onto the car seat.


In conclusion... If you haven't yet been there, check out the lists of amazing blogs that have been nominated over at A Gracious Home. (Voting closes at 8:00 pm EST tomorrow.) Boy, there are a lot of talented women in the blogosphere. And I bet not one of them came home from church today feeling like she was an estrogen-imbalanced walrus cow that had been squeezed into a sweaty, ice-cream stained sausage casing.


Have I ever mentioned that PMS stands for "Pass My Shotgun?"

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