<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461</id><updated>2011-04-21T17:54:32.993-07:00</updated><category term='Husband'/><category term='insecurity'/><category term='Valentines Day'/><category term='Depression'/><category term='cervical cancer'/><category term='excercise'/><category term='housework'/><category term='Fat'/><category term='happy'/><category term='New car'/><category term='depressed'/><category term='bad credit'/><category term='diet'/><category term='dieting'/><category term='Failure'/><category term='body image'/><category term='Stupid husband'/><category term='insomnia'/><category term='Jealousy'/><category term='PPD'/><category term='chores'/><category term='confused'/><category term='unhappy'/><category term='Racism'/><category term='Pessimism'/><title type='text'>Blue Ruby</title><subtitle type='html'>This is a blog about my life, things I see, things I do.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>20</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-9014388555526979986</id><published>2007-02-20T15:38:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-20T20:34:22.692-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Stupid husband'/><title type='text'>Stranger In My House...</title><content type='html'>So, since Friday, I have been going through that confused, sad, lonely period that everyone goes through during a breakup. But I am standing my ground. See, Friday night, I let him back in to talk, and the first thing he did was go to the bedroom closet, grab the box that I keep all of my first daughter's birth keepsakes, and pull out his condoms. I said "Oh, no, we are not about to do it." He said he didn't want to have sex, he was counting them. I was confused because when he had left that morning, I thought that he had taken everything, including his condoms. Then he said that there were two missing; There were only seven condoms, and according to him, we had only had sex three times. I personally, am not sure how many times we had sex in the last two weeks, but I know I didn't use any condoms. Like I said, I didn't even know that they were there. So we got into a huge fight. He slapped me, I hit him, he ripped my new shirt, my new favorite shirt that I had only worn twice, and I made him leave again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I stayed away from home all weekend and worked ten hours each day to make up for the time that I missed while I was awaiting my drug test results. I finally came home last night. This morning my husband called and wanted to come and see the babies. I told him that the oldest was a my mom's but the baby was here. So he came over. He was trying to kiss me and tell me that we need to be back together, but at the same time, he told me that he had a picture of me on his phone giving some guy head. I told him that I had no idea what he was talking about and he talked about it so much that I made him leave and get the phone so that I could see this picture for myself. And you know what I saw when he got back? A blurry picture of a dark shadow in the shape of a circle, and with something light colored in front of it. He swore up and down that there were facial features in the shadow. He's psychotic. I am so done with his crazy ass. He keeps saying that he wants to be back with me, but he thinks that I'm cheating, so that doesn't make any sense. Plus he's been telling people that I am a cheater and showing them that stupid picture and trying to point out his stupid idea, but pretty much dragging my name through the mud. Then he says that I did this to myself, that I made my bed and now I have to lie in it and it pisses me off because I haven't done a damn thing wrong! I am at the point where I just don't give a fuck about him, this relationship, or men in general.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-9014388555526979986?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/9014388555526979986/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=9014388555526979986&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/9014388555526979986'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/9014388555526979986'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/02/stranger-in-my-house.html' title='Stranger In My House...'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-2625108361079359081</id><published>2007-02-16T01:56:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-20T20:34:46.476-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Stupid husband'/><title type='text'>My Husband is an Idiot</title><content type='html'>I am so pissed off right now. My husband is such an idiot. First, he ruined Valentine's Day by ignoring me and playing video games, while I cleaned up and took care of the babies. He didn't spend any time with me. He didn't spend any time with me. Then he took a three hour nap, and woke up vacuumed the living room. Whoopty-fucking doo.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then he started with me again tonight. He was being an asshole, as, usual. I went back to work today, and he, coincidentally, got off of work five hours early. He spent all day playing video games and lounging around the house, child-free.  Then I get home from work and he keeps playing video games while I took care of the babies. He bitched about how I didn't do anything and yada, yada, yada. I reminded him of what I had done the day before. He then went on to bitch about some other shit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We eventually got into an argument and I called him a punk-ass bitch. He called me a hoe, and I told him to get out of my bed. He refused and we got into a huge fight, he took my glasses to try to prevent me from leaving, and I called my mom. She cussed him out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now he's saying that he's leaving tomorrow, and he's saying that I won't have the car and etc. He honestly thinks that I can't make it without him. But he keeps forgetting about I was making it alone before he came along and I can do it without him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I FUCKING HATE HIM!!!! All I ever wanted was to love and be loved by someone and he wouldn't do it. He had to make me feel like I wasn't worth anything and he had to ruin my life. The only good thing that came from our marriage was my baby girl, and I would never want her or my older one to grow up thinking that this is an acceptable way for women to be treated.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's saying now that I have been lying to and deceiving him and that I am writing this so that some mysterious "him" can read it.  And he just said that his daughter doesn't matter to him. He is so out of here.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-2625108361079359081?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/2625108361079359081/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=2625108361079359081&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/2625108361079359081'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/2625108361079359081'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/02/my-husband-is-idiot.html' title='My Husband is an Idiot'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-1987336851452490637</id><published>2007-02-14T18:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-14T18:24:15.631-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Valentines Day'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='cervical cancer'/><title type='text'>Happy Valentine's Day!!!</title><content type='html'>I have had a pretty alright Valentine's Day. My husband had actually forgot and when we were at my mom's house yesterday he overheard us talking about it, and said "Tomorrow's Valentine's Day?" At which point, we forced him out of the door to get me a gift. We exchanged our gifts at almost midnight--I got him a card, a red heart pillow, some candy and a balloon. He got me this huge, beautiful Valentine's bear, a box of candy and a rose. But I've spent all day cleaning the house and he's been playing video games. How Romantic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I had my colposcopy yesterday, and it was not as bad as I thought. I took a very strong pain pill before hand, but when I had to sign a consent form that said "Cervical biopsy" I freaked out and had to take a Klonopin, and in the end, felt very high for the rest of the day. So, now I pretty much have to wait for a phone call letting me know whether I have cancer, and I'm getting an IUD so no more babies will be coming out of me, at least not for another 5 years!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-1987336851452490637?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/1987336851452490637/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=1987336851452490637&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/1987336851452490637'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/1987336851452490637'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/02/happy-valentines-day.html' title='Happy Valentine&apos;s Day!!!'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-2627324084076400474</id><published>2007-02-10T15:10:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-04T16:02:03.345-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='happy'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='confused'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='depressed'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bad credit'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='New car'/><title type='text'>What a Week</title><content type='html'>So, my husband and I filed our taxes on Monday and got back $3388. We haven't gotten the baby's social security card yet so we are going to have to amend our taxes once we get it and then we'll get like another 2 grand. Anyway, we paid all of our bills and paid off our laptop and then went and got a car. I was getting pretty discouraged at first. I had paid $49 for this auction site called seizecars.com because it had made it seem like there were so many auctions in our area with such a selection of cars. But when I joined it, I found that there were no auctions listed in Nevada at all! I hate sites that deceive you like that. So I called their customer service department and got my refund. Then, my husband was trying to get me to buy a minivan from some guy he knows. I was furious. A minivan? What do I look like a thirty-something soccer mom? So, I was starting to think that I was gonna have to buy another bucket, and just deal with the fact that I don't deserve a nice car. Then he went to the dealership that we had gone to before that had been willing to give us a car before he got fired from West. They helped us select a car, and I was being really picky. I'm sure my husband and the salesman were both getting frustrated. But so was I. I wanted a car that was made in this century, that looked nice and that I would look nice driving. And I really wanted key less entry, preferably with an alarm. We ended up getting a 2001 Nissan Altima. It's black, power everything, sunroof, the works. It even has a CD changer. I was ecstatic. We went to the dealership Thursday to sign the paperwork.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When it came time to sign the paperwork, my entire mood was ruined. The salesman said  "There's no way you can get the car  with her on it". He said that if we had the car for six months to a year, then we could refinance or trade it in and he could co-sign for me. I couldn't believe it. I was making the down payment (and I say that because the reason we got so much money in our tax refund was from EIC from my daughter), and I am going to be making the payments to improve his credit enough to co-sign on a car for me so that &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;then&lt;/span&gt; I can improve my credit?! I wanted to cry. I felt like this isn't even my car. He can take it away at any time. Plus, I am pretty much doing all of the work to raise his score. Then I have to have him co-sign for me after I raise his credit score and then take Lord knows how long to raise mine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What upsets me the most is that the salesman ran my credit and lowered it four points. Now he had run my credit less than two months ago. He knew what he could and couldn't do. He knew that he couldn't work with my credit, but he still ran it again and now it has lowered. I can never win.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-2627324084076400474?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/2627324084076400474/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=2627324084076400474&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/2627324084076400474'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/2627324084076400474'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/02/what-week.html' title='What a Week'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-1667388034412626654</id><published>2007-02-04T15:43:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-04T16:02:03.463-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='insecurity'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Stupid husband'/><title type='text'>Fuck Him</title><content type='html'>I am so fucking tired of this shit. This &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;motherfucker&lt;/span&gt; has got to go. I'm sick of him accusing me of cheating and making his snide comments. I joined an online community called &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;IMVU&lt;/span&gt; where you can make an avatar and buy clothes and houses and cars and anything else. It's pretty much a fantasy game where you can chat with people. He has been &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;trippin&lt;/span&gt; because I've been chatting with people on the other side of the country. He said that he didn't know whether or not they were over at our apartment when he was at work. &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;WTF&lt;/span&gt;?!? Then he starts saying that the reason I don't wanna go to the &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Superbowl&lt;/span&gt; party is because I am planning to move while he is gone. In his words, "The U-Haul is already paid for." What? Nothing is packed. Everyone is at the &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;Superbowl&lt;/span&gt; party. Who would be moving, me and the baby? He's fucking retarded.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-1667388034412626654?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/1667388034412626654/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=1667388034412626654&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/1667388034412626654'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/1667388034412626654'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/02/fuck-him.html' title='Fuck Him'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-7972790740882894230</id><published>2007-01-31T23:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-01T00:00:09.777-08:00</updated><title type='text'>So Now What?</title><content type='html'>I was in such a good mood earlier. But, as usual, my husband had to go and ruin that. He was working on his essay and was confused about the feedback he had gotten from his professor. The problem was that he hadn't spell-checked (He misspelled the word outsourcing 8 times), there were numerous grammatical errors, he didn't use APA format, and he didn't cite his sources. He started whining about how they didn't give him enough time to do this work, and how could they expect him to? Never mind the fact that I took that exact same class while pregnant, working two jobs and taking care of my daughter. He doesn't seem to understand that for a persuasive essay, you have to provide proof of the argument that you're making and that you have to cite your sources. He thinks that he can just make some stuff up off of the top of his head and then copy and paste someone else's work on top of that, and tada! there's an essay.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So then he decides that he wants to have an attitude because I wouldn't do his work for him. Well, sorry, I am not about to get your education for you. What's the point of going to college if you're not trying to learn? Well, whatever. Then he started with the whole why don't I tell him the truth bullshit. Well, I do tell him the truth, and he refuses to accept it, so whatever. I am not going to trip over this shit anymore.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-7972790740882894230?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/7972790740882894230/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=7972790740882894230&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/7972790740882894230'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/7972790740882894230'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/so-now-what.html' title='So Now What?'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-6387219432387925835</id><published>2007-01-30T16:15:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-30T16:58:49.894-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='insecurity'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Jealousy'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Stupid husband'/><title type='text'>This Stupid Bastard</title><content type='html'>I am so pissed right now I could punch someone. I thought that things had changed. When I took my husband back, it was with the understanding that he would stop with the baseless accusations and trust me. I told him that I was tired of dealing with him accusing me of cheating when I have been COMPLETELY faithful to him. He agreed that he would trust me, he acknowledged that he had a problem and he knew that this was his last chance. Now guess what? He just blew it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He took the baby to get her first set of immunizations today. When he got home, the first thing he asked me was "Who was smoking a cigarette outside?" Now, we live in an apartment complex, so it's not like this is private property. So my reply was "How am I supposed to know what anyone was doing outside? I've been in here." It could have been the cigarette I was smoking the other night when I went to get my pack, but I doubt that it would still be there. Anyway, then he was walking around giving me evil looks and shit. I asked him what was wrong. He said I knew what was wrong, I knew what I had done. What? I had watched General Hospital, talked to my mom, searched for washer/dryer combos online, and talked to my friend on the phone until he got home. What was wrong with that?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then he was throwing pillows off of the couch. I ignored him and put the baby in her bassinet. He walked to the bedroom door with my hairbrush.&lt;br /&gt;"What did you need the brush for? Whose hair were you brushing?" (My hair looks a hot mess today).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I was brushing my daughter's hair. You can go look, I put her hair in a ponytail."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He walked away with a smirk on his face. Then he went into the bathroom and started smoking a cigarette, and I went and joined him. I reminded him of the conversation we had had a few days prior about communication. I said that if he was upset with me about something (real or imaginary), then he needed to tell me. I at least deserve to know what I was being persecuted for. He said that I knew what I did. I named everything that I had done since he left. He just smirked. I could see him clinching and unclinching his jaw.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He told me to tell him that I wasn't like the friend I had just gotten off of the phone with. He said that she is a ho because she found someone new only a few weeks after getting out of a relationship. What that had to do with us, I have no idea.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then as I was blogging, he comes into the living room and says "Do you think I'm a sucker? A fool?" Blah blah blah. I ignored him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, I went into the bedroom to see why the baby was crying and ended up talking to him. Apparently, as he was leaving, a car with two guys pulled up in front of our building. He said the guys started walking towards our apartment. I reminded him that our unit is in the middle, and they probably were going to visit our neighbors on the left, because they tend to have an awful lot of company.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now he's trying to be nice. Whatever.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-6387219432387925835?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/6387219432387925835/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=6387219432387925835&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/6387219432387925835'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/6387219432387925835'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/this-stupid-bastard.html' title='This Stupid Bastard'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-8292612977854806273</id><published>2007-01-29T11:10:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-29T11:16:31.194-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Dieting</title><content type='html'>My husband and I just got into an argument about dieting. He thinks that to lose weight, you should starve yourself. That you should go a day or two without eating and then eat a little and repeat. I tried to explain to him that any doctor, nutritionist, or other health expert will tell you that you reduce your calorie intake and eat 5 small meals a day rather than three large meals a day. I showed him articles, even offered to call my doctor. He refused to talk to the doctor and ignored the articles that say a healthy weight loss is 1-2 lbs a week. He pointed to ads that said things like "I Lost 50 lbs in 4 weeks" and said, "Well, if it isn't true, how can they sell it?" I tried to explain that the FDA doesn't have to approve dietary supplements, so they can sell whatever they want. I don't know how I'm going to lose weight with someone who isn't supporting me. I just want to give up. Maybe I should just stay fat.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-8292612977854806273?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/8292612977854806273/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=8292612977854806273&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/8292612977854806273'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/8292612977854806273'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/dieting.html' title='Dieting'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-5217984805242869866</id><published>2007-01-29T00:49:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-29T01:04:01.564-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Depression'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='dieting'/><title type='text'>*Crying*</title><content type='html'>I am so upset right now. I feel like such a big fat loser. I have been upset all day about my weight, and all kinds of other things.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I look in the mirror, I am so disgusted. I hate the way I look. I hate looking at myself. I hate going to the store and shopping for clothes. All the nice clothes are for people whose clothing sizes are single digits. When I was a size 7, the only problem I had with shopping was the item I wanted to buy being sold out. Now, I have a much smaller selection. Now, I know that there are a lot of people who will say, "Then go on a diet." Well, I am on a diet. But I have 80 lbs to lose before I'll be comfortable in my body. I feel like that will take forever. In the meantime, I have to be fat. I hate it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I have been depressed over all of the things that I missed in high school. All the homecomings (dances and games), winter balls, Prom. I have been trying to find a way to get over it, but nothing works. I even searched for Virtual Prom online. But no. Can you believe they have Virtual Weddings but no Virtual Proms? My husband suggested that we have our own prom, but how?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I suck.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-5217984805242869866?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/5217984805242869866/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=5217984805242869866&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/5217984805242869866'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/5217984805242869866'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/crying.html' title='*Crying*'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-3726986473244313507</id><published>2007-01-28T19:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-28T19:33:17.272-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Stupid husband'/><title type='text'>I JUST WANNA SCREAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</title><content type='html'>My husband is at it again. I don't even know how we got on the subject, but he said that I let my 1-year-old get away with a lot of things. Now, I am constantly correcting her and disciplining her, so I asked hi9m how. He said what he always says "Just drop it." Of course, I got upset. He always starts something, usually something that is insulting me, and then he wants to drop it. HE DOESN'T COMMUNICATE. He says that he doesn't want to start an argument, but him not speaking is what starts the argument. If he would just talk to me, then I wouldn't get upset and frustrated. If he had said what he meant, then it would have been over and done with. But no.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I left. I went to 7-11 to get cigarettes but when I looked in my purse, I didn't have my debit card. So I came back home. Come to find out that the thing he was referring to was that I don't "teach her manners." What? She says please, thank you, excuse me. But what he was referring to was her making a mess when she eats! For god's sake, she is a year old. What the fuck does he expect? So I left again and got my cigarettes and a Smirnoff, even though I'm not supposed to drink. I'm just so fucking pissed.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-3726986473244313507?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/3726986473244313507/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=3726986473244313507&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/3726986473244313507'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/3726986473244313507'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/i-just-wanna-scream.html' title='I JUST WANNA SCREAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-118615263169318650</id><published>2007-01-28T11:57:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-28T12:08:20.845-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Can you believe this?</title><content type='html'>I woke up this morning in a pretty good mood. My one-year-old had climbed over her baby gate to come wake me up and ask for breakfast. I made her some oatmeal and me a cup of coffee, which I drank while checking my email. I then took my &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;welbutrin&lt;/span&gt; and my husband came in and asked for a &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Klonopin&lt;/span&gt;. I said no, these are for my anxiety.&lt;br /&gt;"But I want to feel good, too."&lt;br /&gt;WHAT!? Doesn't he understand that I take these for anxiety not to get high? These pills keep me from having panic attacks and relax me enough to where I'm not stressed out all day. And he wants to take one to get high?&lt;br /&gt;I stood my ground and told him no, every pill  that he takes is one less that I have and I actually need them. He got all pissed, said, "Okay, I'm going to remember that next time you ask me for something", and when into the bedroom and shut the door. I went to the bathroom to have a cigarette, and he comes in and snatches the pack, like he was getting back at me. I already had a lit cigarette in my hand, plus I have more money than him and I'm getting another check from my job on Friday.&lt;br /&gt;I can buy my own damn cigarettes. Screw him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, on a nicer note, I'm in an online weight-loss support group. It seems pretty nice. And I still haven't gotten a scale, so I don't know what I'm going to do about my weekly weigh-in tomorrow. I guess I'll ask my mom if she can get me one on her way from church (she passes my apartment on her way home) and I'll reimburse her.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-118615263169318650?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/118615263169318650/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=118615263169318650&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/118615263169318650'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/118615263169318650'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/can-you-believe-this.html' title='Can you believe this?'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-6180758781208564924</id><published>2007-01-27T18:10:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-27T18:21:09.983-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='diet'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='body image'/><title type='text'>They're here! I'm on my way...</title><content type='html'>I changed my layout for my blog. I kept my logo, but  I put one of those My Virtual Models next to it. I didn't realize how realistic it looked. I also put some logos for  some of my favorite shows.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Good news: The breast enhancement pills (Breast XL) and the diet pills (Slim Seduction) both arrived today! I did not expect them to get here so soon. But I'm glad. I hope they work. I've been trying to squeeze in exercise between cleaning and chasing my daughter around. The antidepressants have given me more energy so I have been able to get more things done. I guess it's because I don't have as much of that hopeless feeling.&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, I did 200 crunches last night and I am really feeling it now. I;m about to use this workout video that I gave my mom for Christmas in 2005 (that is still in the plastic wrapping) that I borrowed from her. It's a cardio workout, so hopefully, it'll help me get rid of this so-called "baby fat" sooner.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-6180758781208564924?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/6180758781208564924/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=6180758781208564924&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/6180758781208564924'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/6180758781208564924'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/theyre-here-im-on-my-way.html' title='They&apos;re here! I&apos;m on my way...'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-7714296794329240369</id><published>2007-01-26T17:47:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-26T18:14:39.229-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Cry, Cry, Cry</title><content type='html'>I am so upset. I've been this way all day. I never did go to sleep last night. This morning I went into a crying fit because of everything that I never did do and never will be able to. Having social anxiety throughout my adolescence screwed a lot of things up for me. I really wish I had known what it was and gotten help.  I have never been to a Homecoming game or dance. I went to my cousin's winter ball and just wandered around, scared and nervous. I never went to the prom (Junior or Senior), the Snow Ball, the Military Ball, or any other social event. I didn't go to parties, or much of anywhere at all. I didn't have a Sweet 16. I planned on having a Sweet 17, but we moved to Nevada the summer I turned 17 and I didn't know anyone. I have been to exactly 2 nightclubs in my life, once at each club. I'm 22-years-old and I don't even know how to dance. I never learned because I was always so afraid and self-conscious. It's like I never got to live. It just makes me so sad that these are things I'll never be able to do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel like I'm so worthless. I have been working for 7 years, since I was 15-years-old, and I have nothing to show for it. I just want to burst into tears. Every guy that I ever thought loved me just took me for all I had. I spent years trying to be accepted and felt like I had to try to do whatever it took. When I got a boyfriend, I would make sure that I didn't do the things that guys always complained about: I wouldn't accuse them of cheating, or give them a curfew, I didn't ask them to buy me expensive things, I did whatever they wanted. And what did I get? I got cheated on, I was constantly broke from giving the bf money. I was lied to, I was ignored until something else was needed. In short, I always got a broken heart.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes, I'm married now. Yes, I have kids and a job and etc. But now my life is over. I can't go out. I can't spend my money on me. I feel like I am never going to feel fulfilled. I don't even have any hobbies. I don't have any friends. And I have to either bug my husband to get off of the laptop or wait until late at night just to blog or surf the net.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Speaking of husbands and low self-esteem, he's been looking at all these naked chicks online and then wanting to have sex with me. Now, I have never had a problem with him looking at porn or anything like that, but what bothers me is that he looks at these little skinny women with huge breasts--in short, the opposite of what I look like. I told him I wouldn't mind if he looked at women my size. I even found a site  that had women who were around my size, not too big, but definitely not skinny. You know what he said? "I don't want to look at those fat bitches!" But he swears up and down that I'm not fat.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But what am I supposed to think when he looks at women with perfect bodies and then wants to hop into bed with me? It makes me think that he's thinking of them.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-7714296794329240369?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/7714296794329240369/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=7714296794329240369&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/7714296794329240369'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/7714296794329240369'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/cry-cry-cry.html' title='Cry, Cry, Cry'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-7264806107795770648</id><published>2007-01-26T04:17:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-26T04:54:30.793-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Depression'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='PPD'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Pessimism'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Failure'/><title type='text'>Insomnia</title><content type='html'>I am so tired, yet wide awake. I hate not being able to sleep. My one-year-old daughter is coming back from my mom's tomorrow. Or should I say today, hell, it's after 4am.  But I just can't sleep. I feel like my life is so pointless. I know that I'm impatient. My mom always tells me "You've gotta crawl before you walk", but hey, some people never crawled, they went straight from sitting up to walking, and I wanna be one of them! I am so tired of living like this. Yes, I have a nice two bedroom apartment that some people would love to have. Yes, I have two beautiful babies. Yes, I have a husband who, no matter how much of an ass-hole he can be or how much of a bitch I can be, still loves me.  Yes, I have a car and a job and blah blah blah. But so what? Just because there are people out there who are doing worse than me, that makes it okay?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;First of all, my apartment is a Section 8 property (For those of you who don't know, that means that our share of the rent is determined by how much we make and how many children we have, the other share is paid by HUD) and our car is a 1993 Mitsubishi Eclipse. That's right. My car is 14. In two more years, it can get it's own damn license. And my job? I make $8.22 an hour to listen to people bitch about the stupidest things.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What do you mean there are no more window seats? Well can't you move someone?"&lt;br /&gt;Yeah, like I'm going to change some one &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;else's&lt;/span&gt; seat assignment without their consent just to make you happy--You're not even nice.&lt;br /&gt;Or--this is my favorite,  I got this call on Thanksgiving--&lt;br /&gt;"I flew from New Orleans to DC and I left my bags at home" (That's right, at home, not at the airport). "My friend said that she can bring them to the airport, but I need you guys to fly them here and I'll pick them up."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; There are so many things wrong with this scenario. First of all, who goes to the airport and leaves their luggage at home? So I told her, no the luggage must be accompanied by a person. We are an airline, not a courier.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, I can buy a ticket for it." If she could buy a ticket for the luggage, why couldn't she buy a ticket for her friend to fly it out there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, can't you put a flight attendant or pilot on charge of it?" HELL NO. So then she can say something is missing and try to sue the company? I really don't give a damn one way or another, but really.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm never flying this airline again!!!" They always say that when they don't get their way. I told her to call every other airline she could think of, tell them this story, and see if they say the same thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to do this for the rest of my life! Union or not. I hate customer service, but I'm good at keeping my cool and pretending to kiss customers' asses, so I've been in this field for 6 years.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A lot of people don't understand why I am suddenly so upset. A lot of it (probably all of it) is from the &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;ppd&lt;/span&gt;. I feel like a failure. I can't be a good enough mom. My career as a mortgage agent is pretty much done. I mean, I am still licensed and I could go back to my broker on my knees begging to try harder, but what's the point? Six months and I didn't close a single loan. I spent more money that I had on business cards, fliers, keeping up a cell phone that never rang. I sent out hundreds of postcards a week. I spoke to everyone I met and mentioned that I was a mortgage agent. A lot of good it did me. So now I'm a Reservations Agent for a stupid airline.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not to mention that my 18-year-old sister just bought a brand new Pontiac G6. And my 21-year-old brother just bought a brand new Ford Explorer. And here I am, working my ass off, and I've never had a brand new anything. All of the stupid boyfriends I had in the past made sure they screwed my credit along with me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Plus, after 4 years of trying to get back in college, I finally enrolled at University of Phoenix online. I was doing great, so great that I didn't want to take time off to have my baby in November. I just let my instructors know that my assignments would be a little late (I also let them know why) and they said fine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Unfortunately, administration didn't care. As I was struggling to keep up with my coursework while deprived of sleep and chasing a toddler half the time, I failed to post on two separate days a couple of times, but did get all assignments in. So, three days before Christmas, I got a call saying that I had been dropped from one of my classes, and not only do I have to take it over, but I have to pay $800 first! And this is before I can continue with any other classes and before I can receive any more financial aid. I don't have any way to pay for that! That's why I had Financial aid to begin with. So, pretty much, because I didn't want to get a couple weeks behind, and I thought I could do it all, I am now going to be months behind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's all hopeless.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-7264806107795770648?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/7264806107795770648/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=7264806107795770648&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/7264806107795770648'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/7264806107795770648'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/insomnia.html' title='Insomnia'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-3530807085537322213</id><published>2007-01-26T02:36:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-26T02:50:45.729-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='unhappy'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='diet'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='PPD'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Fat'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='excercise'/><title type='text'>Big, Fat Fool</title><content type='html'>I feel so stupid right now. I got all obsessive compulsive about cleaning my apartment, thinking that since my meds haven't completely kicked in the maybe having a spotless house would make me feel better. WRONG!!! I feel even worse. All that happened was I started feeling claustrophobic in here. It was fine when there were three of us, but now that there are four, it's just too much.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So once I started feeling bad about the tiny apartment,  I started thinking everything else I'm unhappy with. Like my body. Everyone says, "Oh, it's just baby fat; You'll lose it." Like it's no big deal. Before I had my first daughter, I was 135 lbs. I gained eighty pounds when I was pregnant with her. I know, I know, that's a hell of a lot, but I also stopped tweaking when I found out I was pregnant, so that also caused some of that weight gain.&lt;br /&gt;So, after I had her,  I lost 40 lbs. I was on my way back to a size 7. Then I got married and decided, "Hey, I want my kids to be close together. Let's have a baby now!" Nine months later, after my husband stuffed me with ice cream and McDonalds, I weigh in at 221. I was 236 when I went to my last prenatal visit, so that means that I've lost 15 lbs. And 7 of those were the baby. So, when people tell me it's just baby fat, I just don't buy it. Who has nearly 100 lbs of baby fat? I hate this. I try to exercise, but then one of the baby's needs me, or I have to clean up some mess the older baby made.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I downloaded this virtual plastic surgery program that's supposed to show you how you would look if you got a boob job or lipo. It showed me the boob job, even let me pick out the boobs, position them and everything. But I could not figure out how to do the lipo. I emailed customer service. I hope they let me know soon.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-3530807085537322213?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/3530807085537322213/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=3530807085537322213&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/3530807085537322213'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/3530807085537322213'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/big-fat-fool.html' title='Big, Fat Fool'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-8804578135959082779</id><published>2007-01-25T19:46:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-25T19:58:39.499-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Husband'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='housework'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='chores'/><title type='text'>Stupid Husband</title><content type='html'>I am so pissed off right now. I have spent all day cleaning and doing laundry, feeding and changing the baby, while he was glued to the laptop playing some stupid video game that he bought with money that we don't have. Then, I asked him to clean the baby's room and he acted like I asked him to climb Mt. Everest! Then he asked me to help! Yeah, right! He got all pissed because the older baby (who's 1 1/2), pulled all of the clothes out of the dresser and some out of the laundry hamper. He complained that he couldn't tell what was dirty from what was clean. Well, here's a clue: Look and see if it's visibly stained, and smell it in case it smells like baby food, milk, or anything else. Not sure? Assume it's dirty. How fucking hard is that?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-8804578135959082779?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/8804578135959082779/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=8804578135959082779&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/8804578135959082779'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/8804578135959082779'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/stupid-husband.html' title='Stupid Husband'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-4865355454122926873</id><published>2007-01-24T11:41:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-24T12:13:57.825-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Pills, Pills, Pills!!!</title><content type='html'>So,  I went to see this new psychiatrist today. We discussed medications for my PPD and anxiety, and he gave me another prescription for Wellbutrin. But, get this: He suggested that I "double-up" on my doseage, which is currently 150 mg, so I figured he would write me a prescription for 300 mg. But he gave me a prescription for 150--I just have to take 2 of them! How much sense does that make? He also gave me a prescription for Klonopin for my anxiety.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In addition to those pills, I ordered some Slim Seduction pills, and some breast enhancement pills. I figured if I can get rid of this baby weight and get the boobs I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;should have &lt;/span&gt;gotten when I was pregnant, it will help me feel better faster.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But damn, that's a whole lot of pills, though!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-4865355454122926873?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/4865355454122926873/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=4865355454122926873&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/4865355454122926873'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/4865355454122926873'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/pills-pills-pills.html' title='Pills, Pills, Pills!!!'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-5098303888588194332</id><published>2007-01-23T02:33:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-23T02:46:22.074-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='cervical cancer'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='insomnia'/><title type='text'>Stress...</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;I cannot believe that I am up at 2:30 in the morning and I've been cleaning! I thoroughly cleaned the bathroom, I even took the little glass shelves out of the medicine cabinet and scrubbed them and sprayed them with glass cleaner. And the kitchen. I washed the few dishes that were still in there. I took the burners off of the stove and the little metal things and lifted the cover and scrubbed the grease off. Now let me tell you, that was disgusting. But I know why I did it. I have been trying to avoid lying down so that I won't be able to worry. I've been trying to keep busy so that I won't think about the fact that I may have cancer. I mean, after I read the cervical cancer information online, I relaxed a little because it said that it can take years to become full blown cancer, and what my doctor had probably seen was precancerous cells. But so what? Even if it's precancerous, it has to be dealt with. I just don't want to think about something being done to my body due to cancer or any other serious disease.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm just wondering how this could have happened. The most common risk factor is HPV, but I don't have it. However,  I have been taking birth control pills for like 7 years and I do smoke cigarettes, so there you have it. Those are also risk factors. I had no idea that smoking cigarettes could increase my chances of getting  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;cervical&lt;/span&gt; cancer. I was only concerned with lung cancer (well, obviously not too concerned; I mean, I still smoke, right?). So here I am, with incredibly dry hands (from all the cleaning) and I still have insomnia. Damn.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-5098303888588194332?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/5098303888588194332/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=5098303888588194332&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/5098303888588194332'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/5098303888588194332'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/stress.html' title='Stress...'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-5406153084194353310</id><published>2007-01-22T15:52:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-22T16:21:06.809-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='cervical cancer'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='PPD'/><title type='text'>Cancer?!</title><content type='html'>So, I went back to my OB/&lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;GYN&lt;/span&gt; today to follow up on how I am handling my antidepressants he gave me for my &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;PPD&lt;/span&gt;.  I told him how the suicidal thoughts have began to subside, and I'm feeling a little better, although I wouldn't say I'm feeling normal. He nodded, gave me another 7-day supply and a prescription, then dropped a bomb on me;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"So, your  Pap Smear was abnormal." He said casually.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Okay..."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Silence.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He flipped through my chart. "I see your Pap in April was normal...Have you ever had an abnormal Pap Smear?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"No...What exactly does an 'abnormal' Pap Smear mean?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, he explained (in a very non-&lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;chalant&lt;/span&gt; way to keep me from panicking) that it just means that my Pap indicated that there are some abnormal cells in my cervix, most likely &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;pre&lt;/span&gt;-cancerous, but I shouldn't worry, Then he said that he wanted me to come back in three weeks to have him look at my cervix with a little microscope camera.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, then I made my appointment and drifted out to the elevator, bought some coffee in the lobby, and then drifted to the car, where I sat and sipped my coffee while I let what I just heard sink in.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Abnormal cells?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cervical Cancer?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought about my babies. My husband. My mother.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cancer?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I drove home, fighting hard to concentrate on the road. It's been really hard for me to focus on the road since I've developed &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;PPD&lt;/span&gt;, and now I have something else to screw up my concentration.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got home and told me husband. He shrugged it off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You probably don't have it. And it you do, then they'll just remove it. Or you'll get a hysterectomy. We don't need any more kids anyway."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I scowled at him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What, you want more kids?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, I was thinking 4 or 5 years down the line..."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, you probably won't need a hysterectomy. And if you do, and you really want another kid that bad, then we'll adopt."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How comforting. It's easy for him to make it seem like no big deal. Some people call that optimism. I call it denial.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I went online and looked up cervical cancer. The only symptoms listed are continuous discharge, abnormal bleeding, and heavier periods.  I have had a lot of abnormal bleeding since I had my baby 8 weeks ago tomorrow. Like after the &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;lochia&lt;/span&gt; stopped, a week later I started bleeding off and on and it's still happening. And even though the websites that I've been viewing say that it's easy to treat cervical cancer in it's early stages, I'm still worried. Just the word cancer makes me all cold and anxious.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-5406153084194353310?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/5406153084194353310/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=5406153084194353310&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/5406153084194353310'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/5406153084194353310'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/cancer.html' title='Cancer?!'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2394433645246968461.post-3014770640444311037</id><published>2007-01-21T00:02:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-21T02:58:06.793-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Racism'/><title type='text'>What's up with this?</title><content type='html'>I have always known that racism exists, but I never experienced it until 2004. That's when I got pregnant with my first daughter. Her father had mentioned before that his mom had a problem with him seeing me, and that she had made comments that he didn't want to repeat, but we weren't serious, so I didn't really care. Plus, I figured she'd come around. She just needed to get to know me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I found out that I was pregnant.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He freaked out, saying his mom was mom was going to kill him, how was he going to tell her, etc. A week went by. She still didn't know. I cried, saying that he was ashamed. I knew we weren't in love, but I thought that he at least cared about me. He had told me that we would raise the baby together. He said that he wanted a daughter. He even seemed happy. Then two weeks after I had told him that I was pregnant, he disappeared. He said that he was going home to take a nap and he would be back later. But he never came back. I went to his house one day. I heard people inside, I saw cars outside, but when I knocked on the door, all sound ceased. They pretended they weren't home. I didn't dare call his mom's phone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  A few months later, he went to my friend Sherri's apartment (that was where we met), and told her that he felt bad, but his whole family was mad at him and there was no way he could be involved in the baby's life. He actually went there quite a few times, always conveniently right after I left. Each time she tried to convince him that he needed to do the right thing, each time, he was too much of a coward to stand up to his family.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  Fast forward--the baby is born. A beautiful little girl who looked just like her father. Straight hair, half-moon shaped eyes that were brown like mine, rather than green like his. When she was three weeks old, Sherri, her bf (who was a friend of his) and I went to his house to show him and his family the beautiful child that they were missing out on. I stayed in the car because we figured that they would respond better to white people. The result: His mom said that they didn't want to see the baby, they wouldn't accept the baby, and if he ever had anything to do with the baby, they would disown him. Such wonderful people, huh?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  Well, anyway, I got over it for a while. I met a great guy who I ended up marrying. We have had another daughter. He treats my first daughter as if she is his own. Things have been good for us, except for the fact that I have been going through Postpartum Depression for the last 7 weeks, since our new baby has been born. Maybe &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;that is&lt;/span&gt; why what I saw last night bothers and saddens me so much.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  I was on Yahoo! answers and I stumbled upon a racist answer to a question (I don't remember what exactly was said). That lead me to read the user's profile, and other questions he had answered and asked. Somehow, in the midst of doing a lot of Reporting, I saw a link to a website called &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;niggermania&lt;/span&gt;.com. I got curious about what these racists had to say on this website and went to it. Silly me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  I am so shocked to know that there are people who go as far as saying that we are not human beings, we never invented anything, all black people are violent, on welfare, smoke crack, stink, and are incapable of intelligence. They provided statistics, I don't know how many of them are true, but for every statistic that they showed about the U.S., they showed a picture of poor starving people in Africa. Does this make much sense? No, but it seemed to make them feel good. They even said that we are ugly, and showed a picture of a white model next to a starving African. Now why couldn't they have put a picture of a black model up if they were going to do a comparison? They also didn't differentiate between average Black Americans and poor Africans.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  I think that it is &lt;span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;ridiculous&lt;/span&gt; that in this day and age people can still be so ignorant. It makes me sad to think that when people see me, they could possibly be thinking these things. I'm not so much angry, because how can you really be mad at ignorance? I just wish that these same people could wake up in a different body one day, like in that movie "The Hot Chick", only they'd wake up Black.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  Just needed to vent.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2394433645246968461-3014770640444311037?l=theblueruby.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/feeds/3014770640444311037/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2394433645246968461&amp;postID=3014770640444311037&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/3014770640444311037'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2394433645246968461/posts/default/3014770640444311037'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://theblueruby.blogspot.com/2007/01/whats-up-with-this.html' title='What&apos;s up with this?'/><author><name>BlueRuby</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08252329906665389439</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='28' height='32' src='http://i143.photobucket.com/albums/r140/blueruby84/Avatar.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
