Yesterday I had yet another colonosopy. I’ve lost count on how many I’ve had. This may have been number five. Or six. Whatever number it was, I’m an old pro at this. Do you know what a colonoscopy is? It’s when your doctor takes a camera and scopes around in your colon. Do you know how they get inside your colon?

Yep, that’s how.

In order to properly scope around your colon, two things have to happen:

• Your colon has to be EMPTY.

• You have to go to the hospital and put under.

In case you don’t know how you get an empty colon, let me tell you. IT IS FORCED OUT OF YOU. The day before a colonoscopy you are not allowed to eat anything. You can only drink clear liquids. After a day of fasting you either have to drink the most vile liquid drink known to man or you have to take 32 horse sized pills.

I chose the pills.

So you take the liquid (if you’re mental) or the pills (if you’re less mental) and then wait. After an hour or so your stomach begins to rumble and shake and hurt. And then, all of a sudden, you jump up and RUN TO THE BATHROOM, all the while hoping and praying that you can make it before you explode.

You then spend the rest of the next 12 hours close to the toilet. Very close to a toilet.

And in case that isn’t enough, you get to take more pills (or drink more of the vile drink) the next morning and do it all over again before heading in to the hospital to be wheeled into an operating room so that someone can man-handle you and your colon.

It really isn’t that terrible. I mean, I got to sleep most of yesterday, so that’s a good thing. And because I’m an old pro I requested they admit me to the hospital early so I could lay in the bed, with a warm blanket, and read a book before my surgery.

They removed three polyps from my colon yesterday. That is the least amount I’ve ever had extracted from my colon, but still, not a small enough number to ease my doctor’s concern. Someone of my age shouldn’t have any polyps. My doctor said that one of the polyps was a little large and “funny looking”. He doesn’t think any of them are cancerous, although they have yet to be tested. And while he’s pretty sure they aren’t harboring any cancer, he wants to see me back for another colonoscopy before the end of the year.

Having issues with my colon has always sort of been funny. You know, Hee-hee, they make me have explosive poop. Tee-hee, I have poop issues. But now, well now it seems to be getting a little serious. Now it’s sounding more like “colon cancer” and less like something to tee-hee about.

It really isn’t to a point that I need to worry. But how do you not worry? How can I think about this and not hear the word cancer over and over? My doctor suggested all of my siblings have a routine colonoscopy. You know, “just in case.” Convincing them might be harder then it should be.

This week I’ll be calling my insurance to make sure they’ll cover my third colonoscopy this year. I’ll be eating more fiber and vegetables.

And I’ll be holding my eternal family a little closer.

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I decided to try out scrapbooking for the first time.  Head on over to New To Us to hear (and see) how it turned out!

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Amber is the winner of my latest give-away. (Amber, send me your address asap!)

The King and I have been holding family prayers with Babboo since he was born. A few months ago he started being able to say the prayers, with a little help from mommy and daddy. Last night, before bed, he asked to say the prayer all by himself. His first family prayers went something like this:

“Bless Jesus be happy. Bless we watch shows. Bless we eat. Bless we play with toys.”

This morning before I left to catch the bus, and before Babboo woke up, I told The King how sweet I thought it was that the first thing Babboo prays for is for Jesus to be happy. The King looked at me and said, “He isn’t praying for Jesus to be happy, he’s saying ‘bless Isabel be happy’.“

Does my toddler really know that I haven’t been feeling very happy lately? Can he sense it?

I need to be happy for myself, for my husband and for this sweet little boy.

There was girl that lived one block over from me in high school. She was a year younger, but way more mature then I was. Or rather more mature looking. If you know what I mean. (And I think you do.)

She came from a family of a million kids. They had a kid in every grade at my high school. The family lived stuffed inside their three bedroom house. They were poor. And yet, she always dressed super trendy and cute. She had the perfect cinched waisted GAP jeans (this was the early 90’s, remember) with huge belt and baggy top. Her hair and face always looked pristine. I never understood how she could look so hip and yet, be so poor. One day I learned her secret. She had an older, richer cousin who lived in California. Apparently this older cousin sent her bags and bags of trendy hand-me-downs every summer. Just in time for the new school year.

I had other friends with this same mythical older, well-dressed, cousin. My best friend Marci had an older cousin who would hand-down her formal dresses. I dreamt of received garbage bags full of new hand-me-downs. I longed for the day that my cousin would ask me if I wanted all her used skirts and tops.

The thing is I was the oldest girl cousin in my family. I didn’t have anyone to hand their clothes down to me. There wasn’t anyone in my life to share their wardrobe bounty with me.

Not even an older aunt.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve been the proud recipient of an overabundance of a quite divine hand-me-down maternity wardrobe courtesy of my good friend Marci. And let’s not forget the hand-me-down goodies that Mrs. Squirrel has sent me over the years. I’m talking shoes and skirts and sweaters.

I know some people don’t like hand-me-downs. Let’s make one thing clear; I’m not one of those people. I love having something new-ish to hang in my closet and wear to work. I love knowing that my new favorite skirt was once loved by someone that I love. It just makes my heart feel good.

My little family had dinner over at some friend’s house last Friday night. They served us a glorious artichoke and chicken soup with the yummiest salad I’ve ever had. And bread. And ice cream. Not to mention the lovely conversation and fun kids for Babboo the play with. It was just a good night with people we love. At the conclusion of the night my friend asked if I wanted to go through the boxes and piles and bags of clothes her son had recently grown out of. She was planning on donating them the next day.

I tried to hide my excitement as I told her I’d love anything she had to offer. She took me upstairs and I was giddy when I saw the piles of winter pajamas. Babboo has needed some bigger and warmer jammies, but I just haven’t been able to justify spending all the money just yet. It just hasn’t been cold enough. Yet. My friend put pajama after pajama in a pile for me to take home. Before she was done I had more pajamas for Babboo then I’ve he’s had in his entire life. The kid is set for the next two winters. And I couldn’t be more grateful.

Last night I was folding all of his new jammies after getting them out of the dryer. Babboo recognized that they were new clothing items and kept asking me, “Mommy, what that jammie?” I explained to him that his friend William had been nice enough to give him all of these new clothes. Babboo got excited and proceeded to call them all “William Jammies” and requested to wear the firetruck “William Jammies” to bed last night.

I have a pile of clothes Babboo’s grown out that I can’t wait to pass on to his little friend “Cabub”. It’s like a piece of my baby that I’m passing on and I want them to go to a good home.

So tell me, what has been your favorite hand-me-down?

I’d have to say mine was the gray maternity shirt Marci gave me. As seen here when I was just barley pregnant with Babboo.

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Holy crap, I’m guest blogging for Amalah today over at the Advice Smackdown.  This is like my wildest fantasy come true.  Head over to read about my favorite drug store products and make sure to leave a comment about your favorite drug store products.

And also, check out my latest New Thing. I tried out some new make-up, but only because I had a $5 off coupon.

In no particular order.

I’m jealous of girls with fancy shoes and better hair. I’m jealous of girls who don’t have to wash their hair everyday or shave their legs. I’m jealous of people with designer jeans. I’m jealous of stay at home moms. I’m jealous of people with better jobs then I have. I’m jealous of people that work part time. I’m jealous of two car families and skinny people.

I’m jealous of A –list bloggers and freelance writers. I’m jealous of people that make more money then we do. I’m jealous of people that get to travel more. I’m jealous of people that get to sleep in and take afternoon naps. I’m jealous of people that have more time for television watching. I’m jealous of people that can cook and bake. I’m jealous of people with enough time to see movies. I’m jealous of people with pretty purses and trendy belts. I’m jealous of people with home internet and laptops. I’m jealous of people that drink soda all day and eat sushi for lunch.

I’m jealous of people who get to hang out with their mom and their sisters on a daily basis. I’m jealous of people that get to visit their family more then I do. I’m jealous of people that are well-read. I’m jealous of people that are clever and funny. I’m jealous of people that are good at crafts and jewelry making. I’m jealous of people that have organized spice racks and kitchen cabinets.

I’m jealous of people that can eat whatever they want and stay skinny. I’m jealous of people that make excellent homemade pizza. I’m jealous of fun moms and moms that sew their kid’s Halloween costumes. I’m jealous of people that decorate their houses super cute for Holidays. I’m jealous of people that are educated about (and understand) the economy and politics. I’m jealous of people with good superior vocabularies. I’m jealous of people that are well-read and articulate. I’m jealous of people with more friends and/or better friends. I’m jealous of people with immaculate houses and clean toilets.

I’m jealous of people that have cute jackets and big red necklaces. I’m jealous of people with perky boobies and manicured fingernails. I’m jealous of people with husbands that don’t care how much money they spend on clothes or at the grocery store. I’m jealous of wives that have rich husbands. I’m jealous of people with awesome mother-in-laws and sweet sister-in-laws. I’m jealous of people that have friends over for dinner. I’m jealous of people that throw amazing parties. I’m jealous of people that are pregnant. I’m jealous of people with more kids. I’m jealous of people who are patient and giving and loving. I’m jealous of people that are willing to serve. I’m jealous of people that always smile and ask questions.

I’m jealous of people that are fun and happy and enjoyable. I’m jealous of people that ask the right questions. I’m jealous of people with no health problems. I’m jealous of hipsters and punk rockers. I’m jealous of people that go to shows. I’m jealous of people who know a lot about music. I’m jealous of people that can play the piano. I’m jealous of people that have good singing voices. I’m jealous of people that are good teachers. I’m jealous of people that know a lot about the scriptures and church history. I’m jealous of people that are good at math and know all the grammar rules and are good spellers. I’m jealous of people that can paint and draw and create. I’m jealous of people with amazing art collections and good furniture. I’m jealous of people with nicer houses with lovely art on the walls.

I’m jealous of people with big rings and dangly earrings. I’m jealous of people with huge diamond rings. I’m jealous of people with pretty dresses at church and better toys for their kids. I’m jealous of people with better marriages and fun date nights. I’m jealous of people with better church callings. I’m jealous of people with better treats at their house.

I’m jealous. And I need to work on that.

So tell me, what are you jealous of?

I haven’t been feeling so good lately. It’s probably a combination of a few different things. You know, things like returning home from our month long vacation, work stress, marriage stress, upcoming holiday stress, church responsibilities, my upcoming (fourth!) colonoscopy, Babboo’s new school…..blah, blah, blah…..

Stop talking Isabel.

Can I be honest here?

Okay, it’s the damn weather. I hate that I haven’t seen the sun in months weeks days. I’m cold all the time. I’m stuck in a office cubicle with horrible florescent lighting. I wake up in the dark and go home in the dark. I’m just feeling myself lately. Add all the other issues on top of my need for a little vitamin D and you get a very unhappy Isabel.

I’ve been dealing with these dreary feelings in the best and only way I know how. I’ve been self medicating.

It seems the only things that keep me going lately are Coke Zero (this stuff is awesome), documenting my daily work attire for the interweb, copious amounts of rice crispy treats, watching season two of “Dexter” on The King’s iPod, and buying new patio furniture at ridiculously low end of season prices at the local outlet mall.

Dreaming of being able to use the new furniture on our new deck NEXT YEAR makes me giddy with anticipation. Of course it’s about 350 days before I’ll get the chance to use them. But still, knowing the sun will shine again helps. A little.

Okay, this only helps a teeny tiny bit. In fact, come to think of it, this actually might be worse. Seeing the patio furniture sitting in our garage just mocking me every time I come home from work is pretty miserable.

Music also seems to be a way for me to self medicate. I was fortunate enough to attend my third Old 97’s concert of the summer the night before we left for our vacation to Europe. Not only was this an Old 97’s concert, but it was a secret concert. They were billed under a secret name and only true fans knew about the show. (True Old 97’s fan = ME!) I went to the concert alone since someone needed to stay home with Babboo. Thankfully I was recognized by a lovely pregnant lady (hi Sarah!) from the internet who so graciously let me hang out with her and her husband for the duration of the show. I eventually decided to forgo trying to get a good picture of Rhett Miller and not just some dude’s head and just enjoy the freakin’ show already.

It may have been over a month ago, but the thought of seeing another Old 97’s show still has me thrilled.

And although my bestest friend May doesn’t know the full extent of my inner dreariness she has helped to make me feel a little bit of sunshine with the thoughtful mix CD she sent me last week. It isn’t just the music on the CD that makes me happy, it’s the fact that I know May loves me and misses me just as much as I miss her. (Curse you Reno, Nevada.)

Although I do have to admit, the music on the “I miss Isabel so I made her a mix” CD is pretty darn awesome. I had forgotten how much I loved Camera Obscure. And I’ve long been a fan of Mates of State since seeing them live a few years ago. I’ve become even more of a fan since I recently found out they have a blog about touring with their two little girls.

So thanks to May for allowing a little bit of musical sunshine to enter into my cubicle each and every day. I don’t think you know how much this means to me.

And don’t worry, appointments have been made with real live doctors and actual medicinal help will be shortly administered to aid in the lack of sunshine in my life. In the mean time I’m going to try to find happiness anyway I can.

So tell me, how do you self-medicate?

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Did you see me over at Alpha Mom this week?!  If you missed it head over to read How to Make Dinner with a Toddler Under Foot (in five easy steps).

I have a very specific fear when I travel. This fear is very real and very frightening to me. I go to lengths avoid any confrontation with my fear while on vacation.

No, I’m not afraid of bed bugs in hotel sheets.

I’m not afraid of getting pregnant by using public toilets.

I don’t worry about missing my flight. Or not being able to get a taxi or a bus.

The European subway systems don’t scare me.

My fear is that that I won’t fit in with the locals. That I’ll look like a tourist. You know what I’m talking about. I don’t want to be the stereotypical American wearing huge white tennis shoes, elastic waist slacks, fanny pack, straw hat, and a Bermuda style shirt walking around with a backpack and a Rick Steves guide book.  (Rick, I love you!)

It’s not that I hate people that look like tourists. I am a tourist. I accept that. I just feel embarrassed when people can tell that I’m a tourist. I don’t know why I feel this way. I just do. I go to great lengths to fit in. I pack my bags with things that won’t call attention to my vacation status. No “God Bless America” t-shirts or Nike’s. I try to just keep my clothes simple. No bright prints. Mostly just black. Or maybe tan. And I never ever pack white tennis shoes. White tennis shoes are the #1 “I am an American tourist” piece of attire. (I have one pair of black Simple shoes I bought for our first trip to Europe. They are pretty much only worn when on vacation.)

I accept that it is hard to not look like a tourist. There is no way to look like a local when standing in line to see the Mona Lisa or when at the top of the Eiffel Tower or in Times Square. I would die before riding the subway while looking at a guide book or a map. In fact, I try to not even speak while on the subway. The King and I have mastered the “is this our stop?” look. Words are not needed. Because as soon as the other subway riders hear you speak English, it’s a dead give away that you’re a tourist.

I want to fit in with the crowd.

Last year while in the subway at NYC, a local New Yorker stopped and asked me directions. Me! As in, she thought I was a local New Yorker. Me! The silly little girl who grew up in a farming community in Utah. A local!

Is it wrong of me to admit that I loved this so much?

At the start of a meal with our friends in Berlin I busted out my travel sized bottle of anti-bacterial sanitizer. I washed down Babboo and myself with it. We had had a long day of traipsing across the city using the subway and public toilets. We were covered in germs. Eww! Our friends looked at my little bottle and then they looked at each other. And then they laughed. I asked them what was so funny. They said that the sure fire way to recognize an American was the little bottle of anti-bacterial hand sanitizer in their side backpack pocket.

I quickly moved it under the table and continued to clean up in hiding. Dude, lesson learned.

(Also, why doesn’t the rest of the world love Purell like the Americans do? It is like a little gift from God.)

So now I knew to keep my anti-bacterial use to our hotel room and dark corners. I would not be using it on the subway or in a museum.

As you all know, we spent most of our time in Europe on the beach in Spain. Before our trip I contemplated what shoes would be the best for this leg of our trip. I hated to admit it but I just knew that a good pair of Crocs would be perfect for both beach and city travels. I also hated to admit that nothing would scream “AMERICAN TOURIST!” like a Croc-wearing-family. And so, I did not buy us Crocs. Instead I bought some little aqua socks from Target, even though I knew they would not be as fabulous as the Crocs. I just could not do it. I didn’t want to be one of those tourists.

I saw a few people sporting the Croc look in Germany. These people weren’t tourists or American ex-pats, so I wasn’t sure how to explain why they were wearing them.

And then the minute (the minute!!) we got near the beach in Spain it all changed. Every.single.person was wearing Crocs! And not a one of them was an American. They were all these hip Europeans in their cute summer dresses and their beach tans…and their Crocs. It was old men and young women. It was small babies and teenager. It was people wearing bathing suits and people wearing work uniforms or people wearing nothing at all except Crocs. I saw white Crocs and red Crocs and yellow Crocs. I saw Crocs with the little button thingys on them and some that looked like they had been worn everyday for the last three years.

(At a gas station in Formentera, Spain.  Every single person there was wearing Crocs.)

And then there was us, the American Tourists, not wearing Crocs. We totally stuck out in the crowd. It was clear that we were tourists.

And I was mortified.

So tell me, do you have any travel fears?  And if so, what are they?  (Also, am I the only person that doesn’t own Crocs?)