Reason #46 That I Don't Eat Wheat

Somehow I managed to get a haircut all by myself today, send a package to a bloggy friend, AND catch up on Anne's blog. Then, I decided that I needed to blog a particular story for her, in hopes that she won't feel so alone in her plight of peeing with small children in public toilets. In addition, my aforementioned bloggy friend needs some laughter at my expense. Also, I am nasty and I like to share.

Recently I went on a wheat binge. I do this every 3-6 months until my body screams no more wheat and then I stop eating wheat for another six months. I increase the amount of magnesium I take when I eat wheat or I would never shit ever again. The problem is that my body hates wheat and too much magnesium and sometimes there is a critical failure.

This time the failure was complicated by two things: Walgreens and Egg. You see, I needed to use the restroom in a very urgent way. I was four miles from home. I had Egg with me. As I strode desperately into the store I might have misjudged the feeling of gas for something a little more sinister. And possibly totally fucking shit myself.

I got into the bathroom and realized that I had to hold Egg while violently emptying my bowels because there was no fucking way I was going to put him on the ground. As I undid my belt and jeans and pulled everything down I realized that I had a little problem. Here is where you need to avert your eyes if you are at all squeamish. Really, it is very bad. I shit on my feminine napkin. Shit of a supremely muddy nature. On my pad. For some reason this was even worse than just shitting in my underwear, although I thought the cleanup would be a breeze. Just throw it away! Finish pooping! It's all good!

Now, remember that I am holding Egg on my lap. Figure in the fact that shitting on one's pad while furiously speed walking through Walgreen's really makes for a um....mess? So much of a mess that while attempting to clean up my general ass region I smeared shit on THREE out of five fingers on my right hand in three different wiping attempts. While trying to hold Egg and not let him touch the toilet paper, the ground, my fingers, or anything else.

Have you ever walked into a toilet stall and wondered how the holy fuck someone got shit on the toilet seat? You think that shitting is a straightforward event that does not involve stray fecal matter? Well, dear readers, I now know how that shit happens, although I cleaned up my mess before I left. Egg and I went straight home and we both bathed before doing anything else that day. For those of you that say, "I don't know how you can not eat wheat," this should answer any and all questions. I am positive that this was the second worst shitting mah pants episode of my whole entire life.

Poop Giveaway!

Remember when I said I purchased "What's Your Poo Telling You?" and I said when I finished reading it I would give it away to my dear readers? Well, that time has come. Fucking finally, huh? I think after the last two posts we all need some laughs and poop. Here's how it will work, official rules and all that:

1. Post a comment with your best poo story. It must involve poo from your ass or your immediate family's ass. No stranger poo stories!

2. Your comment must be on this post by 12:00am PST Saturday, January 15, 2010. That's 3am on the east coast for you non-math types.

3. I will have my official number drawing baby pull a number at random out of a jar. I will post a picture of the drawing! Cute babies pictures! YAY!

4. The winner must give me an address to mail the book to, and I will PERSONALLY AND WITHOUT MALICE sign the book for you. Personalized inscriptions are 20 cents extra, tax included. (Kidding! It's free! Unless you want to send me twenty cents!)

4b. I will post the winning poo story with a link back to the winner's blog (if applicable). If you would like to remain anonymous to the innernets at large, please say so in your comment!

5. On the day that I announce the winner, I will post my MOST TERRIBLE poo story EVAR!! Involving CAR and FULL TERM PREGNANCY poo. So terrible that it has never been told on Sam's Stories. Hopefully that day will be the Monday immediately following the end of the giveaway contest thingy.

6. If you have any questions, please contact me at samsstories at gmail dot com.

7. This giveaway is not sponsored, paid, threatened or containing blow jobs. I purchased the book with my TB's very own money. I just love poo. And books. And my readers.

Now, you might be wondering how to describe your poo accurately. I have a handy chart for you! This way we all can fully understand what type of poo you or your family member is having in the story. When I first found this chart I meant to post about it, and then fucking life and diaper changes got in my way. But today! I present the Bristol Stool Chart. Very handy for daily discussion of your poo with friends, family, neighbors, and people on public transportation. I especially like using this when on a lengthy flight. People really appreciate this kind of information!

Labor & Delivery Visit #1

Yesterday I hit 31 weeks and had a very stressful day which led to me sitting in Teddy Bear's truck crying my fool eyes out while Teddy Bear and Chicken said their goodbyes to my extended family. I would have given my own goodbye but mine would have sounded like, "You fucking suck" which I have heard is frowned upon in polite society.

I traveled to San Diego to visit my mother, her two sisters, one of her brothers, her cousin, her aunt and various cousins. Most of them live out of town/state so it was a nice gathering. I told myself that I would not stress about the food situation and would simply run out to get something Sam friendly (wheat free and lowish carb) when the time for dinner came. Yes, my family seems unable to take my wheaty status into consideration EVER. When the dinner menu was brought up Teddy Bear and I just laughed. Sandwiches, lasagna, raviolis, pizza, kibbe, and salad. For those of you that aren't Lebanese, kibbe is essentially raw lamb, spices, and bulgur wheat. Yes, my mom's family is Lebanese. You might have wondered where my stunning ability to tan hails from, no?

Well, dear readers, the menu choices left me with salad. Fucking salad. Which my mother reiterated no less than four times throughout the afternoon when she caught Teddy Bear and I laughing over the menu. "But SALAD! Don't forget the SALAD! You can eat the SALAD!" she cried. When the time came for dinner, Teddy Bear and I popped over to a local tree-hugger store (Henry's) and found a terribly crappy selection of frozen gluten-free meals. Most of the Henry's that I visit have a much better selection, but whatever. I'm fucking pregnant and hungry. We bring the meal back, heat it up and I eat with my family.

The frozen dinner was 90% white rice and 10% chicken, which meant that I added some cheese, ate all the chicken, a few bites of rice and handed it over to TB. I figured I could eat some salad and not fuck with my blood sugar by gorging on simple carbs. Look at me being responsible! I walk over to the salad, see a box of croutons and poke around in the bowl for a moment. Can't be too careful, right? Guess what I find? CROUTONS! In the FUCKING SALAD! YAY ME! I return to the table, let Teddy Bear know what happened and try to be cool. Stay cool, Sam. Don't worry! You can eat another time! Or you can go cry in the truck!

Guess what I did? I cried and cried and it sucked. Chicken and TB came out to the truck, I cried some more and then they took me home. Or, almost home. Because at some point I started having contractions that left me dizzy, gasping, and grabbing for something to squeeze really hard. And thus we headed for L&D, where I knew that an hour's observation would lead to a complete stop of the contractions and a big ole jug of water to consume. Now I have my very own big ole jug to fill with tasty things like VODKA and TEQUILA or maybe just water.

I got to hear Egg's heartbeat thumpy thumping away, listen to him kick the shit out of the heartrate monitor and lay in an uncomfortable hospitable bed while Chicken tried to amuse me. I also learned that hospitals = very bad memories for Sam and I would like to avoid them at all costs in the future. Remember that time my dad set himself on fire (accidentally) and I spent three weeks in the burn unit with him? Oh. Maybe I forgot to tell you about that one. Next post? Deal.

Some Serious Shit

Some of my dear readers have wondered what the fuck is wrong with my ass. Although I have posted all about killing bathrooms hither and yon, I don't believe I have explained the issue satisfactorily. I have battled poop for longer than I can remember. When I was six months old I attempted to take a poop and wound up with twin scars from a double hernia. The post that explains the situation in a little more detail (with pictures!) is here. No, my belly does not look like that anymore, and hasn't for a few years. That is what I looked like at 115-120 lbs.

I believe I suffer from Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). I spoke with my doctor about it at one point maybe six or seven years ago and he slapped the diagnosis on me along with a hearty, "Sorry, can't do anything for you." At the time, there were medications for IBS sufferers on either end of the spectrum, the chronic constipation and the chronic diarrhea. In my case they had nothing. What was wrong with my bowels, you ask? I get constipated until at some point my body says, "Fuck this shit!" and I have massive diarrhea. Occasionally the cramps that accompany the diarrhea are so bad that I start throwing up, likely a combination of pain and my body being so fed up with the pollution that any usable exit is utilized.

My symptons have been mostly under control for the past five years with my gluten-free diet. The magnesium that I have been taking has combatted the effects of medication that make a normal person constipated and I have been fairly happy with my ass. I expected that going off all the medication and getting pregnant would mean a reduction in the amount of magnesium needed and happier bowels all around. Nope. I had conveniently forgotten that the most horrific bowel issues in my life (excepting the double hernia incident) have been while pregnant.

The cycle length of "no poop- OMG poop!" has been helped by the magnesium, however I am still struggling. At this point it looks like the cycle is lasting about a week. Just about the time where I am thinking, "I haven't been shitting enough lately" I am starting to notice an unpleasant feeling in my bowels and then running to the bathroom for an extended visit. I am afraid of taking too much magnesium and spending every day in the bathroom, so at this point it is a trial and error clusterfuck of guesswork.

Why am I writing about my ass in lurid detail? Two reasons:

1. Someone might read this and say, "Hey! That sounds like my ass! Maybe I shall seek help/eliminate an allergen from my diet/cry a little for our twin bowel issues."

2. Someone might read this and say. "Hey! That sounds like XYZ and I have THE CURE. You should do ABC and you will have a happy ass forevermore."

Because, at the end of the day, no one wants their life to be ruled by an asshole.

Wow

I just returned from a dinner at someone's home. Want to know how it went? I'll give you the quote of the evening and you can guess how my stomach feels at this point, okay?

"There is flour in bread crumbs?" (No, I did not eat the bread crumbs, it is a long story and I don't feel like telling all of it.)

I am used to telling people that I can't eat wheat and then they reply, "But it is WHITE bread" and then I sigh and explain that white bread is made with bleached wheat flour. Or I ignore them and carry on because you can only educate people with actively functioning brains. It happens all the time. But how can you explain to someone that there is flour in bread crumbs without bashing your own head against a wall?

My name is Sam and I am intolerant to wheat. And people.

Humping Like A Motherfucker

When I told Anna that I was attempting to get knocked up she told me to go to Fertility Friend and use their handy dandy software to chart my temperature and other fertility signs. Like a good friend, I did. My chart looked like a fucked up motherfucker, and according to the fabulous software behind the scenes, I did not ovulate this cycle. Also, I was probably dead. This past week my uterine area has been fairly pissed off, with weird pressure and crampiness that was not appreciated. I decided that either I was pregnant or my uterus was going to up and die on me any minute.

Instead of peeing on a stick early this weekend, I decided to head to Santa Barbara and enjoy my paid mini vacation with Teddy Bear. Of course, it is fairly hard to enjoy yourself when you are surrounded by douche bags. We stayed at the Fess Parker Doubletree (about 1 mile south of State Street and across the street from the beach, Anne). Remember the cost of the room? That was the corporate "we're spending about 100k this weekend at your establishment rate." The best rate I could find online for a normal person was $465 per night on a weekend-just to give you an idea of the type of place we were at this weekend. See the pretty room? It looks just like the room we stayed in, except for the pubic hair and clogged drain.

I'm not saying all this to be an annoying braggart, more to set the stage for the fucking imbeciles that fed me wheat on Saturday night. I expect morons when you're at a burger joint, they don't get paid enough to give a fuck about me and I understand that fact. But when you (or your husband's company) are paying out the motherfucking ASS to stay somewhere I expect to be able to EAT ME SOME FUCKING FOOD. *ahem* I don't have the energy to blog about all of it right now, I will this week I promise. The highlights contain fun times like the moment I realized that my fancy dress for the fancy dinner was at home and I was in Santa Barbara. Or the moment I realized that I had just dined on sub-par creme brulee that an asshat had added Bailey's Irish Cream to in a fit of insanity. Yes, Bailey's is a Sam no-no due to the wheaty goodness they use while making it.

The weekend was pretty much a bust, I didn't drink because I wasn't sure whether or not I was pregnant, I didn't want to pee on a stick and get all excited and have my step-mother-in-law smell it on me. (The excitement not the pee you asshole!) But now I'm home and in bed loving teh innernets in my undies, listening to my Chicken procrastinate like a fucking professional. I have one more day of student teaching left and then I am fucking enjoying my summer, people. Enjoying the fuck outta it.

Ahhh....the Holidays

A time of gathering, food, merry-making and cheer, isn't it? Or maybe a time of angst, terror, horror and fear? Yes, most definitely the second choice. This year, I had two Thanksgiving dinners. The first was at my Aunt S's house on Monday night. My Uncle P was coming into town from New York and most of the siblings (my mother's siblings) gathered to have a Lebanese & Pizza affair. The Lebanese because my mother (and her siblings) are all 1/2 Lebanese. The pizza because all of their children (except for me) do not eat Lebanese food.

This was the first meal I had eaten with my mother's family in several years. I had been opting to eat ANYWHERE else with fairly good results. For some reason, when I eat a holiday meal at another family's house they make me wheat-free food. Not everything is free from wheaty goodness, but there are usually meats and vegetables and salads and desserts that I can gain 10 holidays pounds from eating. Yummy turkeys and gravies and PIE, oh how I love pie. I still miss H3.2's mom, the mistress of fabulous gluten-free food ALL FOR ME.

Does anyone see where this is going? Do I even need to continue this post? Fuck it, I will anyway. I need to vent. So... Monday night. My Aunts S and B, my Uncle P, my mother, a few other random people and my Uncle P's Vegan Girlfriend. This is where a little, itty bit of background is needed. Uncle P has been married for about 25 years. I am not sure if he is officially divorced yet, but he moved out some time ago. Vegan Girlfriend was the only woman I have ever seen my Uncle P with that wasn't my Aunt M. It was a little weird, but we rallied and my mother and Aunt S planned a wonderful meal that included many, many varied assortments of delicious food that did not contain meat, dairy or egg. Isn't that so sweet, and courteous and wonderful?

When I inquired about the wheat content of the food, a stunned silence ensued. "Oh noes!" cried everyone. "How could we have forgotten that Sam cannot eat wheat? What shall we do?" Yeah, whatever. I got a "Maybe you can eat the stuffed grape leaves, why don't you call the place that catered them and talk to the gentleman that barely speaks English and see if the two of you can figure out over the phone if you can eat?" Thanks Mom! Thanks Aunt S! You're the best!

I ate the stuffed grape leaves and some plain salad. Luckily, I am enough of a slut for stuffed grapes leaves that I wasn't very bitter. Let's move on to Thanksgiving, huh? Where there was gobs of food and joyousness abundantly spread throughout the kitchen. Three items were not swimming in Wheaty Goodness. The turkey, the ham, and the mashed potatoes. I politely requested that people use only one utensil for those items, and not to double-dip the serving forks into wheaty items. To which my Aunt replied "Ho, ho, ha ha! We've been drinking for four days so that might be a problem. I recommend you serve yourself first and make sure you have enough for seconds. That way we won't have to worry about it! Yay!"

Do you feel the love? 'Cause I sure do. Fuckers.

Conversation at McDonalds

Sam: I'd like a Big Mac with no bun please, not lettuce wrapped.*

Employee: Uh... no middle bun?

Sam: No buns. At all. Not lettuce wrapped.

Employee: Uh... do you want cheese?

Sam: Yes. Pretend you are making a Big Mac, just without a bun.

Employee: Uh... do you want pickles and onions?

Sam: Yes. Exactly like a Big Mac, with everything on it, except the bun.

Employee: Uh... do you want it lettuce wrapped?

Sam: No. Just without the bun please.

Employee talks to the kitchen staff. I wait. My burger comes out in a variety of ways including:

1. Lettuce wrapped
2. No lettuce at all
3. With buns
4. No buns, exactly how I asked for it

How often do you suppose I go through this EXACT conversation? Yep, every time. The problem is that I love french fries, and very few places have french fries that I can eat. McDonalds is one of them. They also can (if they are mentally capable) make a burger without a bun. It just stresses their poor little brains so much. In case you're wondering, I am very polite and concise and not a bit snotty throughout this conversation. I swear. Really. I am the model of nice and courteous and all that shit. It doesn't help at all, but I feel bad for the employees. The "no bun" thing just fucks them all to hell.

*There are only two places that make a decent lettuce-wrapped burger, In N Out and Carls Jr. I tend to go for In N Out more, because I can eat their fries.

You Don't Want To See

Not today, no half-nekkidness for you. Really, you'll appreciate it in a minute. Trust me.

Last night I ate wheaty-gluteny goodness in an orgy of taste sensation prepared by the lovely people of Japan. Imagine (if you aren't a total non-sushi eating pussy) the glories of fresh, raw tuna atop chunks of tempura on saucy goodness on a tempura shrimp roll with other glories lovingly placed into the mix. The avocado tempura eel cream cheese saucy crunchy goodness? Heaven. Tonight I indulged in flour tortilla beautification. Fried and cinnamon sweet honey orgasm tortillas. Right now my belly is so bloated with the terror of wheat that I could not possibly see my cooter even if I tried. I will be paying for it later, but it was worth it. Ahhh.....

I have a job. Not a "yay! I'm employed and holy crap my college education was useful after all" job but something that will pay off the debt and allow babies to be had. I'm working nights doing inventory stuff at a major retailer. I had my day of orientation yesterday and WOW the people were the very bottom of the food chain. As if I had said "let us round up the biggest fuckall misfits and put them in one room and see what happens!" One woman was 45 minutes late and then immediately got on her cell phone. In a training room with 4 other newbies and two trainers. It's not like she wasn't noticed. After our lunch break she was 30 minutes late. Her phone ran. She answered. What the fuck? Looking to the positive side, I am sure there will be much blog fodder for me to relay to the masses (2) of my bloggy readers.

How does wheaty goodness and job add up? Well, it's like one plus two minus three equals six of fucking course! I can't eat wheat and work. So I decided to binge before the first day (night) of work. Which is Sunday12 am. Ohhhh... tummy so bloated.

Speaking of readers, you may (or may not) have noticed that upon my latest template revision I removed my site counter. I didn't mind for a while, then I began to feel a little lost. How do I know if you are reading if the site meter doesn't tell me? If I fall will anyone hear? If I put my titties on display will anyone enjoy it? Of course you will, but bear with me for a second. I had a purpose to this post...

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Today I spoke to Chicken on the phone (he's coming back on August 6th) and he told me that his older step-sister taught him how to say "I am a lesbian" in German. She's thirteen. He's ten. I'm terribly confused about the why and how of this conversation, but there is one thing I do know: you should never trust a thirteen year old girl when she teaches you something in another language. Poor Chicken just didn't understand until I explained it to him in patented Sam/Mommy style:

"She could be telling you to say 'I am a pig fucker. I fuck pigs!' and you wouldn't even know it."

Oh...I get it. Exactly.

Sidenote: For those of you that are wondering why the fuck I would work nights, it is all the kid's fault. I want to be there when he gets home from school. I want to parent my own kid. If I have to work nights to do that, I will.

French Fries

Hey-guess what?! I have a funny post! A light-hearted, foot stomping, giggle 'till you pee a little Sam's Story! For reals! And! A cartoon! For you, dear reader that tires of my gloom and doom. Also, I have a few tidbits of TMI for you. Yes, I know you are thinking "There is no such thing as TMI at Sam's Stories, there is only NEI (not enough information)!" However, I shall do my best to astound and dismay you with my irrelevant facts about human remains and vaginal discharge mixed with a bit of spelling excitement. Ready? Okay!

On Saturday I visited my local scrapbook store with my friend Ducky to scrap the day away. Around 3pm we realized that we were famished and headed to Siggy's for a late lunch. Now, I have never been in a Siggy's, but I knew a little about the restaurant. It is a cross between Denny's and McDonalds in my opinion. Lots of fried food, burgers, sandwiches and even real(ish) dinners and breakfast. Here's where I bore the shit out of you with the backstory (for new(ish) readers:

1. I am intolerant to wheat. This means no flour. No breaded, fried foods. No food fried in oil contaminated with breaded, fried foods. For example, I cannot eat french fries that have been fried in the same oil as breaded chicken strips.

2. I cannot stand being a pain in the ass to waiters. The people that ask for everything on the side without this and add that drive me a bit crazy. Now that I know wheat fucks me up, I have to be that person. I hate it. I prefer to eat at places where I already know all the details so I can just be careful about what I order. Less hassle and I don't feel like an asshole.

Now we're at Siggy's, a haven of yummy fried morsels that I cannot eat. I'm having a good day, though, so I attempt to get some information about the french fries. I LOVE french fries. My standard fall-back is a burger with no bun, but FRIES would complement the burger nicely with their glorious oily, salty goodness. I ask the boys behind the counter if the fries are fried with the zucchini, mushrooms, onion rings and whatnot. After much hemming and hawing and asking the cooking staff they respond with a "no" which means I'm halfway to getting glorious fries. Now for the question that typically sends my plans into a fuckall mess. "Are the regular french fries fried with the seasoned curly fries?" You see, to get the seasoned part to stick to the fry, flour is usually added to the mixture. It sucks my ass, but what can you do? The boys talk to the guys doing the cooking, more guesswork, (by the way, no one is waiting in line behind me) and then an old guy speaks up.

The old crone is about 80 years ancient with a decent-sized belly on him and he's waiting for a to-go order. During my questioning of the counter boys his expression has gone from curious to utter disbelief. Finally, he can no longer contain himself and interjects:

"Are you going to ask them to fry each individual fry one at a time, also? I'm going home to kiss and hug my wife and be thankful that she's not like you."

Oh. My. Gawd. I thought about letting it go, but FUCK it. Really. I'm embarrassed enough asking 20 questions just to get french fries. I inform him and the counter boys that I'm allergic to wheat and that I will become VERY ill if I eat it or anything that comes into contact with wheat. I thought about providing graphic details involving vomiting and diarrhea and the SMELL oh gawd the smell but I held back. The old man actually apologized nicely, I got my answer on the fries (no dice) and I ordered my burger. Good times, I say. Good times.

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NEI Time:

I've gone off the pill. No, no, I'm not ready to get pregnant. I'm just getting prepared for eventual pregnancy and reducing the list of prescription medicines. One side effect that I wasn't prepared for (because I've been on the pill for about 100 years) is horniness. Like raging, texting TB at work do me now hormones. It's fantastic. Especially with the in-laws on vacation out of town and Chicken on the east coast. Rawr!

Another side effect (that I was looking forward to) is the stoppage of ungodly discharge from the va-jay-jay. I had been on Ortho-Tricyclen Lo for a while and loved it, then changed to Ortho-Tricyclen generic (Trinessa) due to cost. Ew. That's all I can say. Just nasty, gross, yucky too much icky stuff. I go off the pill and POW! The vag is happy and floaty and just plain fabulous now. I know, you could not have gone another day without that information. Happy to oblige.

Change of topic time. Did you know that when a person is cremated that their ashes are called cremains? Well spell check doesn't seem to understand that, and when I asked spell check for alternate suggestions, things like creamy and creaming came up. Ew. I've had enough of that already thank you very much.

Ready for your comic? TB introduced me to XKCD today and I was highly amused at some of the panels. If you visit the site, place your cursor over the panel and wait a second. The alternate text will appear and it typically adds a funny factor of three or more to the comic. My favorite so far:



P.S. Essie, if you would like to converse about divorce, send an email to samsstories@gmail.com. I'd be happy to listen/read, give stupid advice or just make you laugh.

Who's The Coolest Cat In Town?

This weekend at Teddy Bear's annual awards dinner (AKA Christmas party but shhh! don't tell the Christmas tress in the corner that they aren't politically correct) I was treated to a mostly gluten-free meal. My future MIL (TB's step-mom) made the cutest little card in the world so the servers would know not to poison me too much.

As far as the whole testing thing went, first let me tell you that cost was a factor in waiting for the Celiac tests. My health insurance (remember I don't have a real job-so no handy dandy group insurance) sucks ass. And not in the cute ass licking way, like the newly named "Reina" did to Dude earlier. She walked up, sniffed and *slurp!* licked his butthole. He immediately sat down and looked agitated. Like he's never licked ass before. What. Ever.

Onward ho, disjointed post! I received the bill today for all the various and sundry tests they did with my four precious vials of blood. My total cost? About $22.00 USD. Stupid fuckers. If they would have told me that MONTHS YEARS ago I would have had it fucking done and over with already. But NO! My damn meds cost me six times that amount EVERY FUCKING BLOODY MONTH.

Sorry. The result? No Celiac disease for me. Which means: Yay! I can eat wheat occasionally, feel like total shit but not be destroying my small intestines and chances of future motherhood and increase my risk of cancer and blah blah blah. So my body hates wheat. I get it. I stay away from it. But it won't kill me. Although, if I eat it like I did for the month prior to testing, I will want to die. Note to people in my life: If I start eating wheat all day every day, either I am about to commit suicide and want to A) enjoy wheat while I'm alive or B) I am hoping the misery of wheat will help push me over the edge. Or possibly A and B together. However, if you see me savor funnel cake once a year, for fuck's sake just let me enjoy it.

I have tried numerous things since my wheat intolerance NOT Celiac diagnosis. Like oatmeal. Hey- it doesn't bother me! Guinness- no reaction either!! I could live off of oatmeal and Guinness. Really. I could.

And yes, the stinky cat has a name: Reina. Meaning Queen of All Unholy Shit Smells. But she's so lovable. And she's into tossin' salads. Woot! The picture is BIG. Clicky on it and you'll see what I mean.

Also, things newish to come: I will be adding some sort of picture thingy like flicker to share my uh... pictures. And... I will be taking over/editing/sharing my father's websites. I think I'm ready, although when I updated his old email address today (because his sites still link to it) I got teary. I hate this cliche holiday sadness at the loss of my father, but how can I avoid it when he died in January? Grrr... Must kiss and hold stinky kitten to sooth the Sam beast.

OH OH Oh! I almost forgot!!!! More exclamation points!!!!!! Soon there will be a www.sams-stories.com. How exciting is that?!!!