The Secret of the Cookoff Chili

What a perfectly lovely fall weekend!  So much fun best time ever.  It was exactly the kind of weekend I like to have. 


Friday night, we ordered taco pizza and stayed in.  We were supposed to go to a high school football game, but Oldest Daughter wasn't feeling well, and Youngest Daughter had a sleepover friend, and I had a People magazine and the GD dog and George the Superpet, so I was perfectly happy to park it on the couch in my comfy pants.  Throw in some Whitey's Moosetracks ice cream and call it a win.


Saturday, slept in.  Yee-effing-haw.  Took sleepover friend home, got some overdue cleaning done around the house, and tried a new Starbucks flavor - Salted Caramel Mocha.

It's crack in a cup, people.

Then I put some chicken in a pot and got my game face on - it was time to get to a chili cookoff.  I made my white chicken chili, got some Leinenkugels, and Current Husband and I went to meet the competition.  There were eight pots of chili, tons of corn bread, gallons of cold beverages, a bonfire, games of bags, and a houseful of really lovely people.  Back to the food:

My chili was #1 (in label only) and the other white chicken chili, which was delicious, was #2 and we were in crock pots.  Above is chili #3 on the right, which had no beans, amazing shredded beef straight off the bone, and was fire engine hot.  Chili #4 and chili #5 are the other pots pictured here, but were delicious as well.  The plot thickened.

Photo taken after second Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

Chili #6 is not pictured, and had a secret ingredient of peanut butter.  Yum.  Chili #7 was on the bottom, and had polish sausage in it, and was awesome. Chili #8 is on top, and got my vote for the winner.  It was so damn good.  But it was hard to vote for #8 because ALL of the chili was so damn good.  It was one of those times when you want to keep eating and eating and eating. With sour cream and shredded cheese and little mini corn muffins...

...and coolers of beer!

...and dessert!

The winners were happy (yes, there was a trophy, complete with flames).

The 8th place runners up were happy! 

(You're still a hot dish to me, #8)

It was a perfect fall night.  The bonfire was warm and smelled like fall, and we played bags, which I've never played before (and that was oh so obvious!) and everyone just hung out and talked into the night.  The hosts were terrific, and it made me realize how nice it would be to put a party like this together at my house sometime - just have everyone bring a dish around a theme and some beer.  I'm always so worried about not having enough room in my house, but people WANT to get together, and no one is afraid to sit on other people if the conversation is good.

On Sunday, I slept in again (yahoo!) and got some other things done, and then had my college roommate and her son over for dinner.  I took my cue from the party the night before and made potato soup, chicken tortilla soup, and had leftover white chicken chili and banana bread, and we had a great time.

Good, simple food, a few cold beverages, great fall weather, catching up with good friends and meeting some new ones.  There is no mystery to how to have a good time.  The mystery here, Nancy Drew, is how to get CH's gland expressed.  Because after all that chili, my house smells like The Secret of Where The Dead Animal Is Hidden.

Happy Anniversary CH!

Sixteen years ago today, I put on this white dress (even though I'd been having sex with this guy for four years) and drove to the church with two of my college friends and Billy Idol's song "White Wedding" just happened to come on the radio, and we blasted it all the way to the church.  This guy waiting at the altar and I did the vows, did the reception, did the honeymoon, bought the house, had the kids, got the dogs, fought a lot, made up most of the time, have had sickness and health, been richer (in meals) and poorer (in bank accounts), but through thick and thin he's been the one person who has always truly understood me and laughed at my jokes and wiped away my tears and listened.  And even though there are times when I want to hold a pillow over his face until he stops kicking, we take it year by year and it seems to be working out.

This is what we looked like then:

And this is what we EACH had for dessert tonight with our Velvet Devil merlot and Irish Coffees - bread pudding.  Yum.

And that is why I'm not putting up a picture of what we look like tonight.  Because we are both a little sick and bloated from our crazy dinner.  But tomorrow?  Diets!  And exercise!

By the way, I spoke with my fantastic boss this morning about the Homecoming Dance, and he said, "Well, you can't miss THAT!" and we're talking about alternatives so I don't have to leave.  I am very lucky.  Good night, Wifers!   Happy 16th Anniversary, CH, you lucky son-of-a-bitch!

How Chicago Made YD a Vegetarian

About seven years ago, I watched a PBS special called, "Chicago:  City of the Century".  I am a complete history geek, and I thought it was the coolest thing I had ever seen (on PBS).  I am the one person in the country who doesn't watch reality TV (save Project Runway, but that is art in action) and I can't name any Housewives or Kardashians.  This is where Jen Lancaster and I part ways.  Well, and she is a published author.  And rich.  And doesn't have kids or talk about S.E.X., but other than that we are totally alike.

Anyhoo, this special is AWESOME.  It traces the history of Chicago from being a deserted marsh off of Lake Michigan to present, and honestly I wasn't all that fond of Chicago until I saw the special.  I had to own this FOUR DVD set, because wouldn't the kids be so excited to learn about our closest large city?  And then we could visit it together and talk about what we learned while doing the architectural tour and playing chess and doing a wine flight at a five-star restaurant!!

"Once a swampy, remote outpost of fur traders and Native Americans, Chicago rose to become the CITY OF THE CENTURY. The film chronicles its transformation into the quintessential 19th-century metropolis, amid political struggles, labor unrest, and racial conflicts. Tour the city from every angle, from distinctive architecture and dramatic skyline to conversations with eminent and ordinary Chicagoans, in this rich saga of the Windy City."

Kids LOVE this shit, am I right?  I swear this was a recent plot of Wizards of Waverly Place.  My family groaned every time I brought up my Chicago DVD, but one night, I forced them into it.  "If you just start watching it, you'll love it, I swear!"  I guess seven years is a long time, because my rose-tinted plotline of the first DVD didn't include these sections:

• White people forcing the Native Americans out, and then being scalped in return.
• Raging typhoid running through the streams.
• Irish immigrant children playing with maggots in the street.
• The Chicago River running red with the blood from the packing houses.
• Horses getting caught in the muddy streets up to their chests, then shot.
• Pigs' heads floating in the river from said packing houses.
• The thousands of people burned to death in the Chicago Fire, and the river being on fire because it was so putrid.

So the kids were REALLY enjoying themselves, when the narrarator went into great detail about pig slaughter.  Specifically about the Hereford Wheel.  This is where the packers would shackle a pig's hind leg to a wheel, thus lifting the squealing pig in the air, and then down to a "sticker", which is a guy with a knife who would slit the pig's throat.  Fortunately, the DVD had actual footage of this happening.  When the sticker got the pig, blood shot out of the pig's neck like a garden hose.  I'm trying to cover Youngest Daughter's eyes, but she is dodging me.  Then, she sits still and gives me a glaring stare.

"Thanks a lot, Mom, now Chicago City of the Century has made me hate bacon."

And it has.  A little girl who could eat 8 pieces of bacon at breakfast if left unwatched will no longer eat meat.  It's been about three weeks since the DVD, and if I pull up at a McDonalds and ask her what she wants, she will honestly still say, "Thanks to Chicago City of the Century, I'll have fries and a smoothie."

What started as a lesson in the rich history of our country turned into a bacon-hating bloodbath.  Now, when my children don't become scholars, I am going to blame PBS.  And Chicago.  City of the Century, indeed.

I'm Having a Shot for Breakfast

Hello Wifers!

I'm finally back home from the Hooker Convention, which was very fun but tiring.  Hooking takes a LOT of energy.

I arrived at home around 11 p.m. to some happy kids and an even happier Current Husband.  He was actually waiting on the front step when I pulled up.  Of course, I'm all monthly today, CH's luck just ran out.  Not to mention my bitchiness.  George the Superpet is happy though, because this is the time of the month that he hopes someone leaves a bathroom door open so he can rip the garbage apart looking for treasure.  I'm sorry George, I love you, but sometimes dogs are pretty damn gross.

Today, my parents stopped by on their way home from Ohio (they came to the Hooker Convention too, but to see relatives, not for the hooking) and we went out for dinner at Texas Roadhouse, which is sort of our joke because their permanent residence is in Texas, so they drive to Iowa to eat at a Texas Roadhouse.  I know, it's SUPER funny if you're here.  Well, not even then really.  I was a complete glutton and pounded back a 6 ounce filet and loaded baked potato and a Ceasar salad and those damn rolls and a margarita, while my vegetarian daughters ate salad and potatoes and watched me kill myself.  Mongo like steak!  CH looked at the kids like, "Just sit quietly and no sudden movements, it's her time of the month and she is holding a steak knife."

We got home and I decided since I was gone all week, I would do some work in our basement.  We are getting our basement finished, and CH and I decided we would save some money and tear down the current walls ourselves.  How hard can it be?  Well, kind of hard, actually.  I was picking up big chunks of drywall and MOTHERF***ER, I grabbed a rusty nail and punctured my finger.  I had to call Mom and find out if I HAD to get a tetanus shot tonight or if I could wait until tomorrow, because Mom is a nurse, and she said, "I can't remember if it's 12 hours or 24 hours that you need to get it.  And I can't remember if it's 5 or 10 years since you've had your last booster if you need to get another shot.  I'm sure you'll be fine, but if you wake up and your fingers are all twisted, go to the ER."

So Reassuring.

This is from the nurse who would make Hamburger Helper for lunch on Saturday, leave it in the pan on the stove all day, and then warm it up again for dinner, so I'm not always sure if I should be taking her medical advice, but I call My Friend Paige The OB too often about stupid shit like this, and besides, I think her service is blocking me after I drunk dialed them, so I'm taking my chances and waiting until morning.

If you don't hear from me again, it's because I turned into Cujo overnight and I'm frothing at the mouth and have trapped my neighbors in their '84 Ford Escort and am on a first-name basis with the pack of 39 feral cats who live on my street.  I'll miss you people.

Get in the Van. I Have Candy. Part 3

Just to clarify, I wasn't really *that* tipsy last Thursday night, but I was tired and feeling my Patron.  Because I am old.


I didn't blog over the weekend because last weekend was the Bix 7 race in the Quad Cities, and RAGBRAI stopped in Davenport and the riders dipped their bicycle tires in the Mississippi.  Since I generally avoid exercise on the advice of my barista, I did not participate in the Bix with the 18,000+ runners, and I wasn't one of the nearly 300,000 people who have biked across Iowa.  However, my sister-in-law and her family stay at our house annually for the Bix, as they are exercisers, and I make guacamole and open a bottle of wine and listen to their tales of  people vomiting on the race route from overexertion.  You can see why I didn't make time to write.  Vomiting fascinates me.  So does exercise.  But I prefer to do neither.


Speaking of vomiting, I left you when our family had left Hotlanta and made our way to Nashville.  Many texted and asked if I was going to see Elvis.  That is MEMPHIS.  And of course, Graceland is my Mecca, so we'll be heading there in the next year or two.  How can the children complain about not getting to see Disneyland when they've been to GRACELAND?

 "We're caught in a (tourist) trap...we can't walk out..."

No, we went to Nashville.  And I have an announcement -

I have found the Mother Ship.

I'm in complete and total love with Nashville.  I love everything about it.  The beer, the heat, the cowboy boots, the inexpensive jewelry, the funkadelic shops, the awesome food, the slight drawl, even the Grand Ole friggin' Opry.  The whole thing.  I want to lick that town up the side of it's face.  And I sort of did.

We pulled up at our hotel, which I found on priceline because my sister works for Hyatt, but the entire Hyatt line was inexplicably booked, so I booked the best three-star hotel I could find.  We pulled up in Nashville and here is how we were greeted:

I don't believe that included the heat index.
Where the hell is Chardonnay Tony when you need him?

I left the fam in the AC van and checked us in.  The front desk had two women working behind it.  One of them was busy with a police officer, who was loudly filing a report for something stolen from one of the rooms.  The other one was named Svetlana, and she was from Latvia.  I know this because her nametag said "Svetlana, I'm from Latvia!" and she looked as though she didn't understand a damn thing that was going on.  She stood under two ceiling tiles that looked slightly moist and very bowed.  We stared at each other for a moment, she sighed, and decided she had to take me on.  We started our stilted dialogue.

"You have room....?"  Thirty minutes later, the police officer had filed his report for boxes of sample products worth about $35 each, stolen from room, and Svetlana and I had forged some kind of understanding that involved me surrendering my credit card to her and getting a key in return. 

I returned to the Van of Pain, and led my familia through the hotel lobby, where they looked around and assessed the scene.  As soon as they saw the pool, all was forgiven.  On a whim, I texted my friend Stan, who lives with his family in a bucolic Iowa town in which I used to live.  Stan is a lighting designer (did I mention a multiple-Emmy nominee?  I didn't?  oh.) who happens to do quite a bit of work in Nashville, so I asked him what we should see while in The Music City.  Stan texted back - "ME!"  Stanley, in the dream job of the century, had just flown in from London, where he is lighting the iTunes Festival.  He was in Nashville for one day only to light country singer Luke Bryan at the Grand Ole Opry for Jimmy Kimmel Live that night, and flying back to London the following morning so he could get back to light Coldplay and Linkin Park and such.  Loser, right?

Stanley and Oldest Daughter being Shiny Happy People.

In the happiest of accidents, Stan got our White Trash Express through the backstage guard hut and inside the GOO on the best backstage insider tour ever.  My children now despise me and CH, and are petitioning Stan for adoption.  Here are a couple of pics:

I told The Son to hit the power to the

entire building.  Good boy.

The lighting was perfect, the family unprepared.

The closest OD will get to being onstage

with Jimmy Kimmel.  For now.

My thoughts exactly.  It's like this guitar

WANTED me to steal it.

CH does a little camera work.

So much fun, best time ever.  We left our friend and the GOO behind us and drove the White Trash Machine to the hotel, where we spent the rest of the night in the pool, soaking our bunions.


The next morning was The Big Day.  It was time to teach the children how to be good groupies.  I am a hug fan of The Black Keys.

Yeah, these goofy looking guys from Akron who

have a fatass gritty sound.  Love them.

So Dan Auerbach, guitarist for The Black Keys, recently built a studio in Nashville.  I know this because I am a very thorough stalker.  And I found the address, even though the Keys would prefer it is secret, because it is not a public studio.  You might as well be waving a donut and a latte in front of my face, because there I was, parked in my Iowa minivan with my family behind the studio at 11:30 a.m.  The Black Keys are currently working on a new album in said studio, and took a few weeks off of touring in July to work on said album.  Here is what we are looking at from the van - back of the studio, barbed wire on top of the fences, and a lovely deck above where one might go to have a drink and a smoke in between takes.

Cool vintage green station wagon-type vehicle

with a brand new BMW X3 next to it.

But I didn't write down the plate numbers

because I have standards.  And didn't think

of it until we left.

While we are sitting and contemplating our next move, an Escalade pulls up to the keypad and rolls down the window, and a dude looking suspiciously like the producer Danger Mouse, who produced the multi-Grammy winning album Brothers for The Black Keys, taps in a code and waits for the chain link gate to open.  He stares at us.  We stare back at him.  He pulls into the compound and the gate closes.  The kids start getting nervous.  "Mom, we need to leave before you get arrested."  "No way, we are getting a picture in the front."

Security camera?  Check.

Prison lighting?  Check.

Large padlocked mailbox? Check.

Huge peephole in a steel door?  Check.

Mom climbing the chain link fence?  Undocumented.

It is 10:36 on a work night and I have to get up at 6:30, and my server is now rejecting new photos, so I promise I will finish this vacation series tomorrow and never mention my damn trip again.  Part 4, Conclusion, tomorrow night.

It's Tragic, But I'll Miss You All

What started out as a terrific weekend is sure to end tragically for me.  I should've known. 
Things were Too. Damn. Perfect.

First, I read The Bloggess's post on her 5' Metal Chicken, Beyonce. 

Honestly, one of these days she is going to

force me to stalk her. More than I currently am.

And it was funny.  And then it went viral and she has over 2000 comments on it, with about 50 of them from crazy men who are telling her to obey her husband, and that she is a dumb wasteful bitch, and is she donating the same amount of money to charity that she spent on her chicken?  (This, toward the woman who single-handedly raised over $42,000 in gift cards for those in need at Christmas last year.)  They were funny to read until I had a couple of drinks and then I was just pissed off.  So I started posting counter-comments to those comments.  It's really nothing to be proud of, but it was fun while it lasted.  I love the Bloggess, and even on my puny little blog I got one comment once that was so nasty and awful, and even though it was months ago I can still recite it word for word.  (Someone out there is NOT a fan of Whoreticulture Friday, and CH has been invited to bend her over so he can enjoy sex again.  I've left a number of messages to take her up this offer, but oddly no callbacks.)

Then I spent the rest of the weekend reading the entire Hunger Games trilogy, which was, indeed, AWESOME.  I highly recommend if you haven't read it, because your teens probably have.  When did YA get so kickass?

Then I met an old friend in Iowa City at the coffee shop that made me fall in love with espresso circa 1995, Java House.

And at a charming metal bistro table in the outdoor cafe, this was breakfast:

The cinnamon rolls?  Made out of croissant dough.  Bliss.

I'm sitting there trying to do some writing before my friend arrives, and this pesky bug starts  buzzing around me.  It's sort of moth-size, so I don't pay a lot of attention to it, until my leg hurts and I look down and this mo-fo is biting me. THROUGH MY JEANS.  I try to kill it, and soon I am flailing around the outdoor cafe, looking like another multiple personality disorder patron of Downtown Iowa City.  It is life and death.  I finally kill it, and then decide I have to take a picture of it in case my friend has to take me to the emergency room and then they will know how to treat me.

Die, motherfucker. And tell your friends.

It was HUGE.  Size meant something.  It was about as big as a dime, looked like a mosquito, and had tiger stripes on it.  It was also wearing a Limp Bizkit t-shirt and had a patch over one eye. 

So this is the part where you think I'm exaggerating.  But here is proof that The Wife may have sipped her last chardonnay:

 Yes people, that is the bite,

the size of a dime, administered through my jeans.

But it's even worse than I thought.  I couldn't really SEE the bite before, but now this photo shows some alarming evidence that the bite is causing blue veins to pop out of my leg, and stretch marks to appear.  Even more indicative of some horrible insect-vermin-borne disease is the apparent shelf of cellulite that has developed, and is now melting off of my thigh like some iceberg that has fallen prey to global warming.  If you look closely, you can see a small polar bear on there, looking for food and mating grounds.  The bottom of this shelf seems to have turned green and is cracking.  That's it.  I have gangrene.  Shit.

Well people, it's over.  This was a fun ride.  I'm getting dizzy right now, and all of the Quarter Pounders I've ever eaten are flashing before my eyes.  Wow.  Long list.  My Quarter Pounder habit might actually be prolonging my life.  Not done yet.  There is hope after all.

Get Me On Vh1, I Had The Best Week Ever!

Okay, I'm just going to say it - I'm a terrible mother.  My kids were gone all week last week, with one at a cello camp in northern Iowa and the other two at grandparent for the ENTIRE WEEK, and I loved it.  Instead of using it as an opportunity to go through their diaries or throw out meaningful things they got from classmates three years ago or get rid of their favorite shirt that no longer fits, I used the time to practice my gluttony skills.  I ate my way through the Quad Cities regional gastronomic district.  Let's recap the road to my first bypass surgery:

If music could still play on this blog, it would be "The Way We Were" by Barbra Streisand.  So much wine.  So much cheese.  So much delicious seasoning.  So much sleep.  It was terrific.

Then we picked up the kids and within an hour they were fighting and someone got hurt and someone had an upset stomach and someone forgot something at Grandma's house.  Goodbye, Kid Free Week.  But then we got settled in and everyone started laughing, and George the Superpet was happy again, and there was frolicking and donuts.  And there is nothing wrong with that.

I think Current Husband is sort of happy the week is over, because Mother Nature prevented him from a week of fornication.  Instead, he was subject to digestive disturbance due to my need for dessert and drinks. I also managed to get an entire dinner party to pound out the rhythm to "We Will Rock You" in a mockery of CH.  (Note to readers, do not take me to dinner parties.)

The kids were shocked when they came home because the house was not clean, and the sink full of dishes.  It's not so much that they house being a mess surprises them, but the kids are expected to do the dishes every day, with stern warnings about how dirty dishes draw ants and mold and syphillis.  The Son said, "Mom, you didn't do ANY dishes while we were gone?"  I just shrugged and said, "It wasn't my week."

Today we were back to business.  The house was cleaned, the dishes done, laundry started, and Home Depot visited for essentials. 

Bonus?  I once again have someone to hold

my purchases while I pull the van around.

In sum, I suppose the point here is to say that no matter how much sleep, fun, wine, and delicious food one might enjoy while their children are gone, nothing beats having small indentured servants to clean and mow and load five bags of mulch.

Okay, eating and drinking and ribaldry does indeed beat that, but I'm glad to have them back, partially because I gained about 30 pounds while they were gone, and the madness had to stop.  But oh, such delicious, saucy madness.

Happy Father's Day to CH and to my father, Grumpy, and to all the rockin' Dads out there.  Have a great week!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 64

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.


Today's topic: The Flapper

This week, the most awesome thing happened - I got invited to an adult bris.  For you non-Jews or people who just don't get interested in things related to genital parties, a bris is the ritual circumcision of an 8-day-old baby to solidify his covenant with God, and to do as Abraham did.

Technically I am not going to a legit bris, as the man is nearly 50, he's a lapsed Catholic, and he's doing it for health reasons.  But still.  If a guy is getting his foreskin cut off and there is liquor in food involved afterward, well then Mozel Tov at the faux bris.

The only thing that's a little squirm worthy is that I wasn't aware that he is uncircumsized because I wasn't there on "Gentiles Show Their Genitals Night" in the hood, and now I have a penis visual for him.  I am not sure if I can talk to him without staring at the crotch of his pants.  I will probably be thinking,

"There's a party in your pants
and everyone's coming!"

and I'll think it so long that it will sound funny in my head and I'll blurt it out and once again realize that things that sound funny in my head are frequently not.  Funny.  (Did anyone else notice I said 'head' twice in a foreskin post?)  Perhaps I should show him a photo of my naked vagina so we are on equal footing.

Actually, the flapper shedder isn't even aware of the bris yet.  I think this is a Surprise Bris, which cranks up the novelty level.  He's just getting old and like women in menopause whose uterus falls out and dries up (It's REAL, people, check this post for reference), apparently a man's dick toupee dries up as well and can chafe and crack and cause issues that cannot be solved with a tube of Chap-Dick.  So he'll be going to outpatient on one evening, and then the next day, "SURPRISE!  We all know what your dick looks like!"  I plan to come up with a list of awkward and personal questions to ask, such as:

1. Does your dick hurt?
2. Does this mean you are no longer cock-blocked?
3. Can I put some frozen peas on your pod?
4. Was the Doctor hot?
5. Did you save the foreskin?
6. Can I see it? 
7. Can I have it?  Because it would look great next to my stuffed squirrel.

I also plan to randomly shout out things at the party, like:

1. FORE...skin.
2. Off With His Head!
3. Let's all have a moment of circumcision.
4. Sheath! Don't be tho othended.
5. No more yanky my wanky! The Donger need food!
6. Freebird!

My other problem?  What does one get for someone at their faux bris?  Certainly not condoms because those will just remind the penis of the foreskin that got away.  Underwear with a soft panel inside?  A hat?  I know....Liquor.

I'm thinking Southern Comfort.

And now I shall leave you with one of my favorite movie bits - it's The Penis Song, from Monty Python's Meaning of Life, sung by Eric Idle.  I've actually been known to randomly sing this at parties.

Of Mussolini, Motherhood, and Margaritas

If we're going to be clear about anything on this blog, let it be this - as a mother, I'm not an A+.  I wouldn't even say I'm a B+.  I'm probably a pretty solid B, with some B- days.  A lot like my college GPA, but I tried a lot less there.  (Sorry Mom and Dad.  It's true.  I was a world-class slacker.)

I hope you all had a lovely Mother's Day.  Let me tell you about mine.  The only real requirement I have for Mother's Day is that I get to eat out somewhere.  Usually I prefer it's somewhere I like, which means they serve alcohol in one of the four meal drinking groups:  Bloody Mary, Beer, Margarita, Wine.

8 a.m. -  Current Husband grumbled "Happy Mother's Day" as I got out of bed to make coffee for myself.  By 9:15, I'm drinking the coffee I made, watching the kids start to eat Garden Salsa Sun Chips because everyone is hungry, and eyeing CH, who is still asleep in bed.  "Fuck it", I think to myself, and make everyone pancakes.  CH smells pancakes, rolls out of bed and comes to the table, and Youngest Daughter says, "Happy Father's Day!"  The other kids quickly shush her, and angry whisper, "It's MOTHER'S Day!"  An uneasy silence descends.  They quickly throw a card about feral cats and a Starbucks gift card at me.  I am temporarily sated.

10 a.m. - I announce everyone is going outside to do yardwork.  The Son picks up a shovel, puts it in the ground, and comes around the corner, holding his shoulder and wincing.  Here is what he says:

"Um, Mom, I know how you hate it when we hurt ourselves, but I think I've done something really bad to my shoulder."

OUCH.  Do I really have such a hissy fit when they get hurt that their first impulse is to swallow back the bile of pain and apologize for inconveniencing me?  I guess that makes me a summa cum laude graduate of the Mussolini School of Mothering.  So I call CH out and tell him to take The Son to Urgent Care.  Hello!  I made the pancakes!

11:00 a.m. - They leave.  Breakfast is off the table, and so is brunch.  I go to Home Depot and buy 15 bags of sand for the flagstone walkway I want, four bags of wet potting soil, and four bags of mulch.  I carry said bags of sand, soil, mulch, and flagstone. 

3 p.m. - CH and The Son come home - his arm is in a sling, and they say he needs an MRI.  Last week, Oldest Daughter came home from school with a headache, and the school suggested I take her to a neurologist, so I'm not sure if everyone is trying to save themselves from potential lawsuits or they think my children are Seconds From Disaster.

4 p.m. - I am now sweating like a hog and have two days of stubble in my pits and three weeks of stubble on my legs (I know - CH is one lucky son-of-a-bitch).  The men announce they are hungry after three hours in urgent care, and I don't have time to shower, since everything will fill up shortly.  Anywhere that serves liquor is going to require a shower, unless we take the kids to a motorcycle bar, and honestly I would probably get kicked out of there as well.  The Son is hungry and slinged up.  "This is not about me," I have to repeat to myself.  "If you choose a margarita over your son's comfort, you are a rotten bitch who deserves food poisoning AND chlamydia."  (Note:  I do not currently have either of these maladies.) 

4:30 p.m. - We go to Sonic.  I sit in the front seat, stubbled legs holding a cheeseburger and onion rings (yes, like Velcro), chocolate malt in my hand, and listen to my kids laughing in the back of the van.  Okay, this isn't so bad.  I can drink all I want when they move out of the house.  Naked.

"QUACK."

There she was.  A mother duck, outside of my van window at Sonic.  She picked my window, probably because she got up at the ass crack of dawn, gathered up all the waterbugs herself to feed the ducklings, cleaned up the nest, and all she wanted was a margarita and saw a kindred spirit.  I threw a big chunk of bread out of the window, and then another, and another.  It's Sonic for both of us, honey.  They'll leave the nest soon enough, and then I'll take you out for a jumbo margarita.

Someone Ate The Baby

"Someone ate the baby,
It's rather sad to say,
Someone ate the baby
And she won't be out to play."

This is from one of my favorite poems, called "Dreadful" by Shel Silverstein, and just to flaunt my obvious coolness I will tell you that I placed fourth in Nebraska State Speech in the category of Children's Literature, or "kiddie lit", in the late 1980's.  I know.  You had no idea you were reading the blog of a STATE SPEECH FOURTH PLACE FINISHER.  In Nebraska, no less.  That's right, be jealous.


As much as I want to frighten you into thinking I'm going to eat your baby, I actually won't unless I can order your baby at the Drive-Thru window at Taco Bell with a Mountain Dew.  If that is the case, however, I suggest you hide your children, because I am currently on a Gluttony Marathon.


Back in the day before I had a Full Time Job I Can't Blog About, I scorned most fast food.  That is a 'special occasion' meal!  Instead, why don't you enjoy some of my June Cleaver Pork Chop Casserole!?  Or some Barbara Billingsly Chicken A La King!?  Occasinally some Carol Brady 'I'll Watch While You Eat Alice's Cookies, but never Gloria Steinem Burgers in Paper!  Now that I'm fresh out of time and motivation, we do a lot of Frozen Pizza or Delivered?  This weekend, however, crossed over the line.


It started on Saturday with Starbucks.  Current Husband and I took Youngest Daughter out to buy a new bike for her birthday, which is tomorrow.  We stopped at Starbucks to power up with some coffee and delicious reduced fat coffee cake.  Two hours later, YD had convinced us to get her ears pierced two years early, and we celebrated with frozen pizza.  CH then took YD and two of her friends to see Hop, which The Son declared is "The Worst Movie I've Seen in My Entire Life", and they had candy and popcorn.  The girls came home, and two hours later I went out to get them, and myself, McDonalds.  We then had a Dairy Queen ice cream cake for dessert.  Oddly enough, the girls were up until 2 a.m.  Have any of you Mandatory Reporters left the blog to start filling out your paperwork?  Stick around, it gets better.


I think sometimes when one overeats, there is a perception that somehow one cannot help it.  Like "the Quarter Pounder was halfway gone before I noticed what I was doing".  I have been a victim of this very syndrome.  In this case, though, I have to say that I went above and beyond to sate my need for fatty acids and sugars.


Sunday morning dawned, and after my refreshing five hours of post-slumber party sleep, I thought "I'll get the girls donuts!"  I got in my car and noticed bright orange cones all over the place.  I started driving and noticed that there were police officers at both ends of my street.  I had been imprisoned by a bunch of Fun Run Participants.  For a moment, I felt guilty.  Here are these Healthy Living Exercisers, up at the ass crack of dawn, ready to be even healthier than they were the day before.  But then I got a little cross.  What about MY rights as a Sunday Morning Donut Lover?  Was I to sit quietly and let these fitness people fence me in?  I think not.  I drove to the nearest police officer and rolled down my window.


PO:  "Yes?"
ME:  "I have some 8-year-olds who need donuts ASAP. (LESSON #1:  Always use the children)
PO:  "They start running in 10 minutes, so I'll let you out."
ME:  "Okay, thanks!"
Thirty minutes later, I returned with the donuts.  I saw my first police officer and figured he would not be sympathetic to my cause.  I COULD have offered him a donut, but I only had a dozen and Momma needs her fair share, and I doubt he would be so cliche as to eat a donut in front of a bunch of Fun Runners. I drove around the five blocks to the other end of our neighborhood to a new cop.
PO:  "Yes?"
ME:  "I just live around the corner."  I'm pointing and starting to roll my window up.
PO:  "But the runners will be here soon."
ME:  "But I live about fifty yards from this spot, and there are hungry 8-year-olds waiting for me."
PO:  (skeptical)  "I guess..."
ME:  "Thanks!" (LESSON #2: When you sense you are winning, leave.)


I roll up the window and drive around the cones.  Here come the first runners.  The police officer looks a little panicked, so naturally I step on it to get around the corner before the runners could get to me.  They looked like fast bastards. 


I pulled up in front of my house, and realized that I had just duped two police officers, instigated defensive driving manuevers around saftey cones, and accelerated my car to beat healthy people so I could continue on my Gluttony Marathon.  But those donuts were sugary deliciousness squared.


Did the madness end there?  No.  No it did not.  Tonight Oldest Daughter had a cello solofest at her school, and I didn't have time to put together dinner, so while we waited for her results, I took her to Taco Bell, because Crunchy Cheese Gorditas with Beans are vegetarian friendly.  I ate a Nachos Bell Grande in front of her to remind her how delicious meat can be.  She got a blue ribbon in cello, I got a blue ribbon in Home Economics - Crappy Mother Division.


Before you organized people comment, I have two crock pots and both editions of "Fix It and Forget It", but I tend to Forget It before I Fix It.  I've been to the "Freeze 40 Dinners Ahead of Time" boot camp, but my family only really liked about 10 of the meals, the other ones ended up sort of soggy and lame when they were prepared.  It was like a sad parade of Good Dinner Intentions Gone Awry.  When I have time, I make pretty damn good homemade Crab Rangoon and Garlic Chicken, and get out of my way with the lasagnes, manicotti, and homemade meatballs and garlic bread.  I even do awesome gourmet pizzas and breakfast nights.  But who has the time?  And who will clean it up?  It's like the Little Red Hen around here -

The story of my life.

"Who will prepare this meal?" said the Little Red Hen.
"Not I", said the Cat.
"Not I", said the Dog.
"Not I", said the Mouse.


"Who will clean up this meal?" asked the Little Red Hen.
"Not I", said the Cat.
"Not I", said the Dog.
"Not I", said the Mouse.


"But who will eat this meal?" asked the Little Red Hen.
"I will!" said the Cat.
"I will!" said the Dog.
"I will!" said the Mouse.


And then the Wife said, "Oh Hell No" and ate every last Nachos Bell Grande herself.

The End.


This week, I promise to try to make healthier meals.  But I just might eat those words.

Seeking Stove Assassin

I know I haven't posted since last week, Mom, but you and the two non-English-speaking co-workers you coerce into reading this blog are going to have to accept some news - Whoreticulture Friday and I are on a break.  Like Ross and Rachel.  And maybe we can see other days of the week, but then we really want to be together, but circumstances beyond our control just somehow keep us apart.  Maybe in the future, when I'm making a commitment to Wednesday, I'll accidentally call it Friday, and then Wednesday will storm out on me and go back to England and I'll stare out of a window with the U2 song "With or Without You" playing and it will ruin that song for me forever.

I'm not saying I'm quitting Whoreticulture Friday.  I ain't quittin' you.  But I think we need to see other days of the week for a while.  Every once in a while I'm sure I'll go on a binge and drunk dial you and we'll end up together for the week, but it's going to be an open relationship.  Like Bill and Hillary.

Last week was kind of hectic at Current Full-Time Job, and I had a few days where I might have considered kicking a kitten and needed a Xanax intervention if I took Xanax, so by Friday night I paged Dr. Blue Moon and Orange Slice and I planned my strategy for NCAA basketball watching.  (My bracket, by the way?  Totally blown since the Sweet 16.  I needed you, Ohio State and Kansas.  I needed you both bad.  But I am now all VCU and Butler, because who can't get behind a Cinderella story?)  The strategy included more beer, guacamole, cheese, blue corn chips, and some homemade buffalo wings from the Barefoot Contessa cookbook.

Saturday morning (okay, around 10 when I actually got up) I made cinnamon rolls from a tube and coffee and laid out the ingredients for my feast.  I melted the sweet dairy butter and added the cayenne pepper and kosher salt and Frank's Hot Sauce until it was melted and buttery and delicious.  I took out the wings, pulled the saran wrap off, and...

Sweet Baby Jesus, these are rancid!!

But wait!  There's more!  So was the milk, and the mayo, and the dip...are you getting the theme here??  Yes, my damn refrigerator was as lukewarm as the public's support of Chris Brown's new album.  I know you aren't supposed to play favorites, but my fridge was my top appliance.  My dishwasher is a lazy sack of crap, the microwave doesn't have a rotating tray (Hello!  When did they stop making those, 1995?) and the stove is a flat surface, which takes about 20 minutes to boil water and then 1 hour to cool down.  Since we moved into Current House, I've been dying to replace all of the appliances - except the fridge.  Et tu, Frigedaire.

Did I worry about the fridge?  No.  I drove to the store for more wings and $5 of lottery tickets.  I started formulating ideas about the kitchen.  Here is a transcript of my brain on the way to the store.  The fridge has been known to be dead for about 10 minutes:

"Okay, so as long as the fridge is a goner, I might as well replace it with French doors and a pullout freezer below, and I want the model with the ice maker/water dispenser I used to have at Previous House.  I suppose I should get it in stainless steel because even though it shows fingerprints the resale will be higher in a kitchen with stainless appliances.  As long as the fridge is being replaced, I might as well get a gas stove, new microwave, and dishwasher with stainless tub like the one at Previous House, and they all have to be stainless steel because they all need to match.  Resale, of course.  And I'm sure it will be cheaper in the long run to buy them all now because we'll get some kind of 0% interest deal if we spend over $3000, which we are sure to do.  Maybe I can get my British/Australian installer back, he was fun.  Then, as long as the fridge is out and the other appliances too, we  might as well rip out the vinyl floor, replace the questionable plywood flooring underneath left by Previous Owner, and then tile it in my beloved black/white checkerboard squares.  Wow, this fridge thing is a bummer, but I'm sure it will work out for the best.  Yay, me, and my new kitchen!  For resale value!"

By the time I got home, I had mentally prepared to spend approximately $8000.  And have a party celebrating my new kitchen.  Current Husband, on the other hand, had been Googling "Broken refrigerator" and had The Son using a blow dryer to defrost the coils in the freezer.  Apparently they can freeze over with frost, blocking the cold air that goes up into the fridge to keep everything cold.  By Sunday afternoon, the fridge was fixed.

yay.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm happy to not spend the money.  But in the words of Air Supply, I'm all out of love with the old kitchen now.  I have New Kitchen on the brain.  The clock has started.  It's only a matter of time before something else dies and I am forced to completely remodel my kitchen around the dead appliance.   Consider yourself warned, CH.

Does anyone know how to accidentally break a flat surface stove?

I've Got Four Minutes

I took Monday off work because the kids are on spring break this week, and I wanted to sit around in flannel pj's, drink Starbucks, and put together a 750-piece puzzle with the kidlets, which we did in four hours.  We are totally hardcore when it comes to our puzzles.  Oldest Daughter DJ'ed so I could hear her latest musical offerings (she currently has a huge crush on The Fray), The Son showed us some breakdancing moves, and Youngest Daughter made a mixture of Dots, Sour Patch Kids, Gummy Life Savers and Twizzlers for our snacking pleasure.  It was so awesome that I missed my days of being a relatively unemployed freelance writer, hanging out at home with George the Superpet and the kidlets. 

*sigh*

However, the lure of hooking pulls me back, and Current Husband took the chilluns to the Wisconsin Dells.  I texted him today to ask if he was having any luck hitting on single moms in bikinis, and he replied "Beluga whale in a seal colony", which is untrue but made me laugh.  He's a funny one, that CH.  I stayed home because the Hooker job only allows me 10 vacation days a year, and I've used two, and CH and I are going to see The Black Keys over Fourth of July weekend (YAHOO!!!) and that will take two vacay days, and with my six remaining days we want to do a couple of trips with the kids this summer.  I only have four (FOUR!!) summers left with my oldest at home, so it's quantity time with a nice dose of quality.

Did you read between the lines here?  I am home.  ALONE, save for George the Superpet, who is really good at cuddling.  I am so rarely home alone.  Last night after work, I met a very dear friend whom I haven't seen in a while, and we had deliciously cold white wine and some spicy basil chicken noodles at a Thai restaurant.  Outstanding.  Tonight, I am meeting another very dear friend to have a facial and a pedicure with a gift card I've been carrying around, and then we are going out for a margarita!  Whoo-hoo!  Then I go home to cuddle with George the Superpet.  Tomorrow night I am staying home and cleaning and going through things of the kids' while they are gone, hello Goodwill, and then they are home late. 
I miss my lovely family, of course, but HELLO!

Sheer. Bliss.

Nothing like a few days of decadent fun to recharge your batteries.  So take a little time for yourself, Wifers, if you can.  It's spring!  Time to bloom.

Have a terrific week, I'm raising a muy delicioso margarita in your honor tonight!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Daylight Savings Time Edition

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats. Or the people who read this post last year.


Today's topic: Real Housewives

I'm a bad blogger.  I recognize this, and according to AA, admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery.  However, Charlie Sheen followed the AA program, so apparently I'm still 14 steps away from declaring I am a warlock with tiger blood, so that's a relief.  (BEING Charlie Sheen would give me topics for Whoreticulture Friday for the rest of the year. Sex with the goddesses?  VD from the goddesses?  Denise Richards? HEIDI FLEISS!?!?)  Anyway, after extensive traveling the last two weekends I sort of went into blogger meltdown and haven't done much writing-wise.  I'm sure you hardly noticed, but still.  Apologies.

Since it is Daylight Savings Time, I'm going to spring back to Friday and pretend this post is still on time.

I'm not a Real Housewives watcher.  Honestly, I'm not much of a reality TV watcher because I tend to get so frustrated with or embarrassed for the people on the shows that I just can't take it.  Project Runway is my only exception, mostly because the show is more about the talent than the personalities.  Besides, I think, "those people are just the Hollywood types who are trying for their 15 minutes of fame".  Then I went out for margaritas with a friend last Thursday and realized they are REAL.

These women are conservative compared to what I saw Thursday. 

My friend and I went to Los Agaves, a Mexican chain restaurant in the Quad Cities, for a few overdue margaritas.  We're mid conversation when suddenly my friend stops talking and her jaw drops.  She says "Behind you. Look behind you and tell me you see what I see."  I turned, and there they were.  The Real Housewives of the Quad Cities.  Women in crotch-skimming hemlines, six-inch heels, makeup by Tammy Faye Bakker, and hair-up-to-there.  There were about eight women.  The youngest could get away with saying they were Jersey Shore castmates, and they inspire second looks and gawking.  The oldest was a woman who had to be in her 50's, tottering on her skyscraper heels, lycra skirt, and was just...sad. 

I'm not saying you can't wear whatever you want.  Really.  Do it.  But if you don't want the entire Hispanic wait staff at Los Agaves to stand around the corner, pointing and saying things in Spanish about your coochie, follow these pointers:

1. If you feel all breezy in the vajayjay, your skirt is too short.
2. If you have on more makeup than Zsa Zsa Gabor, don't act surprised when people look for the other 13 clowns to get out of the Volkswagen after you.
3. If your 'do is tickling the top of a room with over 7 foot ceilings, it is too high.  And you are probably a fire hazard.
4. If you are showing over 75% lean breast, you might end up in a sandwich.  And not a delicious one.  Slathered in mayo...if you catch my drift.  And maybe you like mayo, and that's okay, but that particular mayo is NOT going to be back to condiment your next sandwich.
5. If the entire staff of a Mexican restaurant is catcalling at you, it might be time to wrap a tortilla around your burrito.
6. If your grandchild is texting you during your second Blow Job shot, it's time to go home.

We were two thirds of the way through a pitcher, and my friend needed to visit the ladies' room.  Two of the Hoochie Mamas had just headed that way, and my friend couldn't resist the opportunity to see what they were talking about.  After she left, the two women in the painted-on dresses walked by, and my friend came back disappointed.

"They didn't talk about anything, one of them left the toilet unflushed and the other one took a dump.  Total waste of my time."  Hmm.  Not something they cover on Real Housewives.  I can totally see why.

Happy Daylight Savings Time!  Have a great week!