I've Eaten and I Can't Get Up

I love food.

I mean really, really love food.  Lately, I don't like to make food or clean up from cooking food, so I just order a lot of food.  Fatty, salty, or chocolately food.  And it's all been delicious.  But it's time for the party rockin' to stop in this house, because there is a whole lotta wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle hey going on in my pants.

I break down the gluttony into a few nicely compartmentalized issues:

A)  GIRL SCOUTS - Those little girls in green get right under my radar every year, with their deceptively sweet sales pitches and pictures of them going to camp or whatever.  This year was yet another banner year in my house, with the purchase of at least 16 boxes of Girl Scout cookies.  I can pack away a half box of Thanks Alot before I even REALIZE the box is open and 10,000 calories are shoved in my pie hole.  Don't even get me started on the Shortbreads.  Thankfully I'm not a Caramel Delights fan, but they are crack to Current Husband.  We're gross.

B)  FRIENDS - all of my friends also love food, and since we never have time to get together we tend to schedule it around meals.  Hey, let's meet for a margarita, and a bucket of chips and a trough of salsa and maybe a vat of cheese.  I love my friends, what am I going to say, NO?  I think not.

C)  BOOK CLUB - I love book club, and not just for the kick-ass chicks in my group, but also because they all make great snacks.  So I pack away 3/4 of a bottle of wine and six handfuls of peanut M&M's and that key lime dip with the little graham crackers and the little bruschetta and some kind of delicious meaty thing ...oh, what book did we read?

D)  KIDS - Because I'm almost NEVER going to say no to McD's or pizza or ice cream.  When you're eating like you're 15 but moving like you're 70 and have the metabolism of a dead person, you're going to keep that Canadian Bacon pizza around your waist to keep you warm in the winter.  It's like I'm one of those Doomsday Preppers, I'm just storing the food in my body because I don't have room in my house.

E)  CURRENT HUSBAND - Because I blame him for everything.  Duh.

So about a month ago, a co-worker was complaining about how fat she's getting and I was all, "Oh I'm getting fatter than you!" and we turned it into one of those woman "whose fatter" smackdowns.  We agreed to a few simple rules to try to make ourselves stop eating the 7th meal and lose a few pounds before we had to show some calf:  Weigh in on the Wii Fit, Drink 900 ml of water per day, exercise 30 minutes PER WEEK.  I mean seriously, it's almost embarrassing how low we set the bar.

I go home and get on the Wii Fit Board to weigh in.  First, I get chastised by the woman voice, as in "Well, is this Julie?  It's been 123 days since you last checked in!"  Yes, yes, save the guilt, I've been busy eating Mexican and Girl Scout cookies.  I get on the board and she gives me the surprised groan, "Oooh!!??" Like WHAT THE HELL, FATTY but she can't say it because I'm the customer.  I cringe and wait.  "You've gained 13.8 pounds since your last visit.  It looks like you've passed the deadline for your goal.  Would you like to set another goal?"

Um, yeah.  I'd like to lose 13.8 pounds and appreciate November Julie more.

So far, I've managed to avoid the Y entirely, because I've had pre-planned dinners out with friends, so instead of getting on the elliptical and listening to Kanye, I've been riding a barstool and listening to the sound of fajitas sizzling.  I am down to 200 ml of water left from my original 900 ml from last week.  I have two lunch dates and two dinner dates scheduled in the next three weeks, and Youngest Daughter's birthday is coming, my birthday is coming, and OD's musical is coming, which means people visiting from out of town to see the musical and me making fatty delicious things for the guests to eat, because I'm a giver that way.  It's all about them, of course.

Unless a burqua comes into fashion in the US for Summer 2012, I'm screwed.  It's all very depressing.  What's an instant mood lifter!?  SUGAR!  I'll just eat this last Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and plot my new strategy.  Like a tape worm.  Or amphetamines.

I'd Post, But I'm Watching the Oscars

So we got home from Disney, and then I was in charge of my elementary school's Variety Show with a bunch of other parents and we had dress rehearsal Thursday night for four hours and then the show on Friday night for four hours and then Oldest Daughter had her Turnabout Dance on Saturday night with her handsome yet sweet beau:

Oh my gosh, these kids are so sweet I could sop them up with a biscuit.

Let me tell you something I really love and appreciate about Oldest Daughter - she isn't afraid to be wacky.  Clearly this is something I hold dear in my offspring.  So when I say, "Do a crazy pose!" and she immediately does this:

I mean, seriously people, I'm so proud.

After the dance all the kids came over to our house to watch movies and they were here until 1 a.m. and today I have just been an absolute sloth.  Girl Scout cookies are here, and there were thousands of calories to be consumed, and the Oscars are on!  So I have failed you.  I'm assuming my Mom and the six people who read the blog are watching the Oscars as well, so really, there are no losers in this scenario.

So quickly, on the Oscars:

1. Was I the only one who thought Jennifer Lopez's boob was falling out?  I SWEAR there was nipple.
2. Loved Cirque de Soileil.  It was pretty awesome.
3. Chris Rock was hilarious.
4. I'm a little over Hugo.
5. Christian Bale is going to punch Billy Crystal at the Vanity Fair parties.
6. And then Jonah Hill will shove a cupcake in his face.
7. I love Meryl Streep, but Glenn Close has NEVER. WON.  That is just not right.
8. I hope The Help wins Best Picture.  But I loved Midnight in Paris too, but I just can't seem to get over Woody Allen sleeping with his adopted daughter.  Okay, The Artist just won.  I guess I'm going to have to see it.

I'm pretty excited to see the Jimmy Kimmel after Oscars show, and then I shall sleep.  See you later this week!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 72

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 anyone who lives within 10 miles of me.





Today's topic: Grab Your Balls, Mate



Can I just tell you how unprepared I am to be an adult?  I'm 42, and just not quite there yet.  I leave tomorrow a.m. for another hooker convention in Nebraska, and I have not packed a thing, I don't have all of the paperwork I need, and I am dead tired, but I'm still putting it off to blog, because ORGANIZATION and ORGANIZATIONAL ACTIVITIES repel me.
I have, however, planned when I am stopping for my first Salted Caramel Mocha of the day.  It will be at approximately 8:45 at the Starbucks in Duck Creek Plaza.  I've also arranged for my friend Meem to deliver another one to me at the hooker convention on Friday.  I DO have priorities, people.

So, since I am tired and behind, I'm making this short but sweet.  I stole this from The Bloggess, as usual, because I have no originality because she is so clever.  Really, she's enabling me, and everyone else, to not be their best selves, because she will bring the funny to the people.  Go over there right now and read her posts about the Missing Rattlesnake.  It's okay, I'll wait.


So I'm reading her weekly wrap-up, and came across this.  Watch it to the end, it's worth it.  You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll cringe, and you'll have a ballsack stuck in your head.  You can't buy that kind of experience at Target, people.



I'm going to go out and feel someone's balls RIGHT NOW.  Current Husband is SO going to wish he hadn't gone out with a friend.  I'd like to know where I can buy a set of balls like these, because they would make GREAT stocking stuffers this holiday season.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

The Case of the Disappearing Graphics

So yesterday, I pull up the blog, and ...Hey....where is my banner?  My signature and coffee cup were also missing.  I clicked on the icon for the person who designed my stuff, and it says "No longer exists". 

WWNDD?

(What would Nancy Drew do?)

I'm going to tell you what Nancy would do. She would put on her sensible pumps and march right over to the web designer's house and rap on the door and tell the housekeeper that she would like to call on said designer, and then politely but firmly inquire as to the whereabouts of her graphics.  She would have some tea, check her slim gold watch her father, locally prominent attorney Carson Drew, gave her, and move on to her next appointment, which happens to be a date with Ned, where she would dance and flirt with him all night and then send him home with balls bluer than Nancy's cerulean eyes.  Problem solved.

However, this is 2011, so I put on my sturdy but practical Dansko clogs and used my paid time at work to investigate my personal issues online.  I probably contracted a virus for my company's server, and minimized my screen anytime anyone walked by my cubicle.  I checked my cell phone for the time, blogged about my problem, and then am going home to cook and bitch at Current Husband about how my graphics have disappeared on the blog and send him to bed with balls bluer than Nancy's cerulean eyes.

It's weird, but I actually saved this post and did some actual work at my hooker job, and when I came back, my "A Day In The Wife" graphics were back after being gone for a day.  Now I'm back to suspecting Blogger for the problems.  Or caged zoo monkeys.  You can always count on those fuckers to mess with you.

Since this is a lame post lamenting something that has already been solved, I'd like to direct you to another blog with something funny to say, because I'm a marketing genius.  "Hey, MY blog isn't funny today, let me send you somewhere else!!" Do you see that, McDonalds?  Hire me to do your marketing and Burger King's sales will go up by 10%.  No wonder nobody is picking up rug hooking right now.  But?  This blog post made me laugh today,and the author is really brave, because I would be terrified that the other mothers would find out I blogged about it.  Some of the moms at YD's school eat other moms for brunch for lesser transgressions than this, trust me.  I'm missing three fingers and a kidney.  Enjoy!

http://www.thebeardediris.com/2011/09/27/just-the-tip-tuesday-dont-be-an-asshole/

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.

The Last 100 Pages...

Although I had many, many things I needed to do today, I finally started the third Stieg Larsson book last week, and I spent the ENTIRE day reading it.  I am now in the last 100 pages, and I Just...Can't....Stop.  And so, I leave you tonight to see what happens to Lisbeth Salander.  Hope you are all having a great weekend!  Did everyone else love this series?  Are the movies any good, or do I bother ruining a perfectly good book with a bad movie?

Day 12 - Soul Surfer

First I would like to take a moment to say Thank God it's Friday, and not in a chain-restaurant kind of way.  We celebrated the evening by driving the 2004 Chevy Venture Status Wagon to a local dealership because I liked a 2010 Sienna that had leather and DVD and a sunroof, only to find that said dealership was closed and said van has disappeared.  Instead of grieving the loss of my Swagga Wagon, I took it as a sign that I should drive Old Faithful for another year since she is fully paid for, and instead pour the Swagga money into finishing my basement.


We went to Qdoba to eat, it's a chain restaurant, and because some friends of ours own it and we want them to go out and buy a new Swagga Wagon on burrito money.

Here I am, eating my burrito with my man hands and awkward facial hair.

After quelling my Minivan pain by stuffing queso and a burrito in my craw, we came home and I made a deal with Youngest Daughter that if she rubbed my shoulders and brushed my hair for 30 minutes I would pay for on-demand Soul Surfer.  Nothing is free, kids.  I'm thinking, "Ha!  Brush my hair, SUCKA!" and then I start watching the movie and crying.  Damn you, Soul Surfer, and your inextinguishable optimism and bravery!  And suddenly,  I seem like a big fat loser sitting on my couch and taking advantage of my third grader.


I get up off of the couch, crying and insipired and motivated - I CAN do everything I want!  It's 11 p.m., and I'm going to make all kinds of china mosaics tonight, and write the first chapter of my novel, and start hooking the rug I just drew the pattern for, and I can do it because I have BOTH arms and if Bethanny can do it, so can I!  I walk downstairs and turn on the light in my studio, and then I think, "I'm old and tired.  My back sort of hurts and I'm in the middle of reading a good book.  Perhaps I should let the Soul Surfer be the accomplished one, and I shall be The Appreciator.  The Sofa Surfer.    The Soda Sipper.  The Slothy Stalker.  Wow.  It really drained me to think of those names.  I think my work here is done.


Here is the parade of the people who have popped into the studio while I am trying to work:

Wednesday.

Thursday.

 Friday.

But it's okay.  I'd probably get kind of lonely down here.

The Post Where I Rub It In

Let me preface this post by saying I love my children.

What's not to love?

That said, OMG, this kid-free week is the

Best. Week. Ever.

Seriously.  Why don't I send them away more often so I can love them more?  The night we drove home from dropping them off at their respective posts, Current Husband and I stopped for ice cream.  Lovely.  The second night, we went to the grocery store together, picked out some steaks and asparagus and wine and little mini apple pies and cinnamon ice cream and had a fantabulous dinner and then watched True Grit.

Ah.  A film about death and punishment. 

Isn't it romantic?  Hold me...



CH then stayed up to play Modern Warfare on XBox 360 and I went to bed to commence with reading "Commencement".  Bliss.

Today we met for lunch, and tonight we attended a fine arts meeting for the school, and then went out for wine, stuffed mushrooms, bruschetta, tiramisu, white chocolate bread pudding, and Irish coffees.  I'm getting a quick blog post in, he's playing more Modern Warfare, and I'm going to bed to hopefully get another 50 pages read in my book. 

Have I mentioned how KICK ASS this is?

I'm truly not wishing it away - I love the kids, and I don't want them to grow up and move out.  I will cry like a big baby when they graduate.  Some of my friends have kids who are starting to graduate, and honestly I get a little choked up thinking about THEIR kids graduating.  But.  There is something magical about having a little time to oneself.  Pair it with some booze and delicious desserts and repeat.  SWOON.

What I am currently digesting.  Nom-nom.

We talk to the kids every day, they are doing great, so that is helpful.  We know we will see them all on Saturday, so that is helpful.  We are sleeping soundly, so that is helpful.  We are eating delicious food and drinking delicious wine and getting some project done.  This whole damn thing is a win-win.

I guess I have no real point here except to brag about my gluttony, so I'll sign off.  But I'll sign off all warm and fuzzy and rested and well fed.  HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!  I love camps and grandparents!  And it's only Tuesday!

Have a great week Wifers!

I Want To Be A Crappy Housewife

First I'd like to address how craptastic Blogger is - apparently very few people can actually comment on my blog, and I get e-mails all day from people who are like, "What the hell?  I had something really funny to say and I lost it!" and then I'm all "What the hell?  I want to read some funny comments and Blogger ruined it!" and oddly enough I'm tracing the latest issue with commenting back to when I took off the word verification. 

Then I started noticing the ads for the dating sites and Hot Mormons Who Want to Do You, and I realized that I no longer really control my own damn blog.   I notice that some days I have hundreds of page views, and no comments, which doesn't really add up.  If it's any consolation, there are days I can't comment on my own blog.  I'm looking for a new host site, so I can crash the whole thing and start over with just my mom and her two non-English speaking co-workers reading it.

Before we go any farther here, you really need to see this to make sense of it all:



Oh yes.  This is the kind of thing that just makes my day.
Thank God for Norwegian pop-star-wannabes.

There are so many layers of wrong here, but I'm going to tell you Tonje, from watching that video, I'm thinking your only three career options in life right now are:

1)  Badly kept and bitter mistress.
2)  Customer Service Rep
3)  Crappy Housewife

I can see that instead of being a crappy housewife, you prefer to be a crappy lip-syncher.  I particularly love the two douchebags who get out of the Corvette (when is the last time you saw a Corvette in a music video???) in their work boots and stainless steel chains and Fresh Prince hats, they are mouthing something no one can hear, and then give the worst rap ever recorded on You Tube in front of six of their closest friends.

Before you go getting all judgemental, I have news for you Tonje:

Being a crappy housewife is the
BEST. GIG. IN. THE. WORLD. 

Since long sentences are hard for you, let's bullet this one out:

• You don't have to show up at a crappy job.
• You don't have to shower that often.
• Fuzzy bathrobe and rollers, standard.
• Scotch on the rocks for breakfast.
• Dog shit on the floor? Leave it.
• Chicken pot pie is the best you can do.
• People EXPECT you to swear.
• Those dishes might actually wash themselves. 

It's my understanding that the expectation level of a crappy housewife is pretty low, but the rewards are very high.  I'm going to tell you right now that when Breaking Dawn came out, I spent two solid days drinking merlot, ordering pizza and shushing people, and it was among some of the best 48-hour periods of my life.

So Tonje, as your American friend, let me ask you to reconsider.  Being a crappy housewife might be just the ticket.  You are one unplanned pregnancy away from your dream job.

We Interrupt This Blog Post

School was out for my kids over a week ago, and I can tell you I haven't finished a sentence since...What?  The Twilight: Breaking Dawn preview is on the MTV Awards? ...Okay, I'm coming in to ...yes, I'll get you some cranberry juice.  But you're old enough to do it your...yes, but even if you're small, you're tall enough to reach the...yes.  Yes, I would be mad if you spilled it all over the kitchen.  I'm getting it.  I SAID I'M GETTING IT!

So Breaking Dawn has it's preview clip, and I'm all excited except it doesn't come out until November, and that isn't nearly soon enough for...What?  No, boys don't have maiden names.  Even if they're vampires.  Edward's name was Masen.  When he was a human.  Now it's Cullen because of Carlisle.  I guess it's like a maiden name, but Edward isn't a maiden.  It was just his name before he was a vampire.  Because that was his name.  Because Carlisle's name is Cullen, and he's the leader.  It's like Carlisle adopted him.  No, it wasn't a maiden name.  I see your logic, but it...Oh for Christ's sake, it was his maiden name!  No! You cannot have any more cranberry juice!

And this pretty much sums up my summer so far.

I've done so much time answering the Mom Crisis Hotline in the past two years that I started thinking I have a hearing problem.  I truly could only hear about half of what they were saying, and then it trailed off into the ether.  I would squint (because isn't that the LOGICAL thing to do when one can't hear?) and tilt my head and say, "What? I can't hear you!" and the offending family member would roll their eyes and sigh and loudly repeat what they said.  I actually went to an audiologist about a week ago to get my hearing tested. 

I went into the office, and the audiologist called me back into a tiny room full of toys with a window in it.  I noticed right away that she is a big enunciator and a power smiler.  She indicated that I should sit in the kindergarten chair and explained that she will do the beeps in my ears and I should raise my hand if I can hear it, and then she is going to say words and I should repeat them.  She then had me put on my Disney character earphones and the testing began.

I kept thinking I was hearing beeps, so I just kept throwing my hands in the air (and waving them like I just don't care).  Then she had me repeat words.
HER: "Apple"
ME:  "Apple"
HER:  "Seashell"
ME:  "Seashell"
HER:  "Hypochondriac"
ME:  "Hypo...what the hell!?"

She walked out of the booth, smiling, and showed me a chart. I took this as a sign to remove my Disney headphones.  "Here is normal hearing - this line right here.  Here are your scores, and you can see that they are all significantly above that line.  So your hearing is fine.  If you still think you are having problems, call us in six months."  She stopped and smiled at me.

"So...you're saying my hearing is actually above average?"  I asked in disbelief.

"Yes."  She continued to smile.  "Thanks for coming in. Have a great day!"

I went home and shared my results with my family.  "Okay people, not only do I NOT have a hearing problem, I am a GIFTED listener.  So you all need to quit mumbling and talking to me while I'm vaccuming or standing next to the running dishwasher or while I'm on the phone with someone else before you convince me that I'm completely insane!"

Current Husband looks at the kids, and then looks at me and says, "Well mmmmmmrphm do that muurphgringler." And they all start laughing.  I'm thinking, "was that a joke or have they all purposely been fucking with me for over a year?"  I still don't know for sure.

What's that honey?  I'm blogging.  I'm not sure, I checked the account on Friday.  You want me to check RIGHT NOW?  Sure, I'm all over it.  Yep.  Still the same balance as on Friday.  No, they don't change anything over the weekend.  I didn't understand any of your words after "a thousand".  No, my hearing is fine, you have to speak up.

This is my first summer working full time in five years, and I'll be honest with you, it sucks balls.  If I hadn't been off the last five years being the Head Counselor at Camp Kidlet, I wouldn't probably notice so much, but now when I get up in the morning and drink my coffee and look outside and feel those warm summery breezes, I think, "Damn, I could have been home hanging out with the kids today."  Even though they never let me finish a sentence and they are giving me early onset Alzheimers and making me think I have a hearing problem, I still miss them during the day.  Because even if they are crazy, they are MY KIND OF CRAZY. 

What?  I already tucked you...but we went over that already.  Okay.  Okay, I'm coming in.  What?  I can't hear you.  No, you can't have any more cranberry juice.

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.

Don't Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

If the blog still had playlist.com and Vanilla Ice hadn't personally crashed my computer, I would be playing The Beatles' song "I'm So Tired".  Just thinking about John Lennon singing that song is making me tired.  I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink, I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink. I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink, no no no....zzzzzzzz.

(She wakes up, wipes drool off of mouth.  She is a drooler and occasional mouth-breather.)

((Isn't it creepy when people refer to themselves in third person? She thinks so, too. Or it sounds like Silence of the Lambs..."It will take the lotion out of the bucket....it will put the lotion on...."))

Where were we?  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Last weekend was So Much Fun Best Time Ever.  Why?  Because we had nothing going on.  Nothing!  Other than dance pictures on Friday night and baseball on Sunday, we were able to lounge around when we wanted and stay in bed as late as we wanted and work on the house or basement or do other things we wanted.  It was loveliness squared.  All that sleeping in and blissful relaxation and non-adherence to any schedule really screwed up this week for me, because on Monday morning at 6:30 a.m. when the alarm went off I realized that I do indeed still have a full time job.

Sunday night was the beginning of the fatigue.  The dinner dishes were cleaned up.  Current Husband and I had tucked in children of tucking age and sent the teen to the Teen Lair and had enjoyed some deliciously cold white wine.  I was sitting down to write a blog post and then I heard a whining in the distance.  No.  It can't be.  Yes, it is.  It was the Tornado Siren, going off across the river.  A few minutes later, our siren started.  George the Superpet assumed his position in the middle of the house, pointed his poodle snout north and let loose with his dog wail of warning.  He sounds like an old man being strangled when he howls, so it really tends to amp up the stress level.  This made all of the children freak out a bit, and we sent them all to the basement with bottled water and copies of our will pinned to their shirts.

We found out about 10 minutes later that it was only a Thunderstorm Warning, and that they now sound the sirens for those as well, which I think is a complete and utter crock.  As a girl who was born and raised on the tornado plains of Nebraska, I will tell you that a lifetime of tornado sirens meaning there is an actual tornado on the ground and cows and silos flying through the air will send me to the basement by habit.  Finding out it's just a thunderstorm makes me feel like I've been duped.  So get your big girl pants on, National Weather Service.  Thunderstorms don't frighten me, tornadoes do.

At about 3 a.m. CH and I both jumped out of bed because of a crash in the house.  It turns out that George must have leaned up against the fireplace on his cushion, and caused the fireplace insert to fall out when he moved.  Hmmm.  Another thing that must have eluded inspection when we bought this house last fall.  Needless to say, George was up for the night, and kept jumping on our bed and pacing because he was still mid-stroke from the crash.

Last night I was all for getting into bed in my pj's and watching the basketball game, but The Son asked me to stay up and watch it with him, and he's so damn cute I can't deny him much, so together we yelled at Butler to quit trying so many 3-pointers and to work your way into the paint!  Try some 2-point shots!  But it wasn't meant to be.  We went out separate ways to bed, only to have Youngest Daughter get up with a bad dream in the middle of the night.  She comes in to spoon with me when these things happen, and she seems to fall right to sleep, while I absorb her kicks and thrashing around sticking her hair all up in my face.  I usually wake up about 45 minutes later with my neck frozen at a 45 degree angle from my shoulder and no covers, while YD sleeps soundly in my spot.

All day today I dreamt of going to bed.  I could feel the warm covers, my cushy pillows, the lovely darkness, my acid reflux.  But now that 11 p.m. draws near, I'm wide awake.  DANG.  If only tomorrow could be a snow day.

When that alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow?  Don't wake me up before you Go-Go.  I'm perfectly fine with being solo.

Girl Scouts - The Second Oldest Profession

Girl Scout cookie season has come and gone, and here I sit at the computer with a fresh muffin top rollin' rollin' rollin' over the top of my pajama bottoms.  Effing Girl Scouts and their irresistible crack in a box.

Let's get in the Way Back machine and talk about the root of my initial bitterness with the Girls in Green.

When I was of Brownie age, I wanted to sign up.  I mean, please.  Who wouldn't want to belong to something called "Brownies"?  I would join a group TODAY called Brownies.  Perhaps I will start a club.  It will be open to women over the age of 30, and we will earn badges in things like "100,000 Taxi Miles on Minivan/SUV" or "Fastest Drink Maker" or "Least Conflicted Children" or "Best Camoflauged Eye Bags".  We'll call ourselves something snappy like "Shrimp Cocktails" or "Mocha Lattes" or "Post-Bloody Marys", and once a year we'll sell fellatio tickets to our husbands/boyfriends.  Who wouldn't give it up for a good cause?  The cause  - a Group Retreat somewhere sunny next to a pool.

Time to get off the Tangent Train - the Brownies wouldn't let me in.  The story was that I lived too far out of town, but I think it had more to do with the fact that I looked like Laverne DeFazio.  I was crushed.  No cookie sales for me.  sniff.

Fast forward past years of therapy to deal with my non-Girl Scout life, and I've just given birth to my first child.  We've been home from the hospital for about 48 hours, and the hormones are out of control.  I'm standing in the kitchen, weeping and looking at my Play-Doh post-baby stomach, when someone knocks on my door.  It's a little Girl Scout, with the 12 boxes of cookies I had forgotten I ordered.  Current Husband came home from work, and I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, holding the baby, with an empty box of Shortbreads and another empty box of Peanut Butter Patties.  I had ingested about 10,000 calories, and I don't believe I've known a moment of satisfaction like that one since. 

All was forgiven, Girl Scouts. 
You saved me in my time of need.

I've never looked back.  I cannot resist a Girl Scout cookie order.  I used to tell myself it was because I support the Girl Scouts, and that I just can't say no to a girl with a green sash at my door with an order form.  This year, however, I realized that I did not order ONE BOX of GS Cookies directly from a Girl Scout.  All 22 boxes (seriously), were ordered from adults.  Parents of the Girl Scouts, who were sent out by their little dictators to sell! sell! sell!  For this reason, I am suggesting that the Girl Scouts change their cookie badge to a Pimpin' Badge, because little sister is sending out her girls (and men) to bring home the money.  They sit at home playing Wii and waiting for their stable to bring back the goods.  My proposed Pimpin' Badge will look like this:

Yo. Here's your boxes of Thanks Alot.

Because those cookies?  Are full of Flava.

God Bless you, Girl Scouts.  You are the epitome of the American Way.

Stage Mom From Hell

It's official, I've become the Stage Mom from Hell.

This isn't because I want my kids to be famous, or to even be on the stage so much - it's because I'm the mom who coordinates the Variety Show for our elementary school.  This is my fourth year of involvement with the show, and every year I think,

"WHO IN THE HELL LET ME BE IN CHARGE OF ANYTHING?!?!"



I am an incredibly well-intentioned disorganized pre-Alzheimers perimenopausal woman.  It's a miracle some days that my own three kids get fed, clothed, and sent to school, so being in charge of other people's children scares the beJesus out of me.  I don't know how teachers do it.  It's harder to yell at children you aren't tied to by blood.  You can't say things like, "Practice lip-synching that Taylor Swift song better - I'm not your personal DJ!" or "Clean up that act, I'm not your maid!" or "Mommy needs her wine right now".

So the dress rehearsal is tomorrow night and the show is Friday night, at which time I will be walking around with huge red hives on my face, swimming in my own sweat and considering throwing up.  I don't know why I get so worked up about it.  I guess I'm always a bit of a PTA reject, and I enjoy the kids, but I fear judgement by other moms.  You think you're done with all of that craziness in Junior High, but I've learned that the mean girls are just as mean at 40, they're just more sly.  Most of the moms are great, but there's always The One.  I tend to make a spectacle of myself and then go home and think "WHY WHY WHY" while drinking my wine.  *sigh*  Then I hide for another year and come out of the cave when the Variety Show starts again.

I'll try to get Whoreticulture Friday in yet this week, but it might end up on Sextastic Saturday instead.  I hope you're all having a great week!!
 
p.s. The Son is doing "The Evolution of Dance" from You Tube, right down to the Orange Crush shirt, and if I may say so myself, he is nailing it.  That kid cracks me right up.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 57

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: I'm lame. Ditto.


I'm sure many of you are thinking "Ditto? Oh goody, it's a post on Patrick Swayze in "Ghost"!" but unfortunately, Wifers, I am not that clever this evening. This day started at 6:30 a.m., I hit the ground running, and it's 9:40 p.m. and I just got home from running kids and I haven't had dinner and I'm on Day 3 of God's Punishment for Eve and no one did the dishes and I'm gearing up for one of my famous "Martyr Mom" performances in about 10 minutes.


SO. I'm going to re-post last year's Teddy Bear post from Valentine's Day. Because I liked it, because I need to remind Current Husband not to get me a teddy bear, and because I am lame-O. However, I will leave you with this one small Oldest Daughter Teen Nugget Of Wisdom before I plagarize myself - we were talking about cliques at school, and she said that it was the majority opinion that many of a certain group of girls in the school are 'whores'. I said, "I thought most of those girls go to church regularly" and she said, "Mom, the only difference between the church girls who are whores and the non-church girls who are whores is that God is watching the Church Girls with more disappointment." From the mouths of babes....

Happy VD, Wifers!

Today's topic:  I love Teddy Bears!

Valentine's Day is upon us, the most whorish of all holidays, because if you don't find a meaningful way to profess your love to the one you're with, you could get dumped.  And while I love flowers and sex, I actually don't like to get either on Valentine's Day because it feels so contrived.  I do, however, love seeing the commercials that come out around VD to let us know how exactly we should be sharing our feelings with each other.  

I've learned that you can never, never go wrong by giving an overpriced teddy bear in lieu of a professional massage or nice jewelery or a lovely dinner or a nice bottle of wine.  That bear will be there forever, reminding you that someone cared enough to get you a stuffed animal.  And nothing gets a guy laid faster than a grown woman getting a teddy bear in boxer shorts or with a parrot on its shoulder delivered to her office in front of her peers.  When you pull up in your 1988 Econoline van with the blacked out windows to pick her up she won't be able to keep her hands off that bear...or you.  That bear says, "This guy is a keeper".  Because what woman older than 25 DOESN'T have a teddy bear on her wish list for Valentine's Day?  We all do.  Every one of us.

DISCLAIMER:  To those of you receiving a teddy bear for Valentine's Day, that's super, really, and you are probably getting more than I will, but I can't help but poke some fun.  Teddy bears are sweet.  Like puppies.  I'm just a bitch that way, and I am sorrier for it than you will ever know.  CH is likely going to read this and return my teddy bear, and I won't get anything but "I read your blog, you insensitive bitch".

A Valentine's Teddy Bear says "I am mature" or "I think you're 14" or "I'm almost ready for commitment" or "I love you almost as much as my mother" - but it can say so much more.  For just $50-$300, plus shipping, you can decide what message you want to send this Valentine's Day:

 

The "I Plan to Abuse You" bear, $49.95.

 

The "Be in My Polygamy Compound" bear, $49.95.

  

The "Devil Worshiper Who Still Needs An Adult Diaper" bear, $59.95

The "I'm Not Giving Up Porn After We're Married" bear, $200.

The "I Actually Love Another Woman" bear, $65.95

 

The "I Am More Masculine Than You Think I Am" bear, $59.95

 

The "I Still Play Dungeons & Dragons" bear, $74.95.

  

T

The "I'm Actually Gay" bears, $200.

 

The "I'm Likely To End Up in Prison" bear, $75.95

 

The "I Expose Myself to Children" bear, $95.95

 

The "I Hate You So Much I Bought You a Redneck Bear" bear, $49.95

The "Date Me Or The Puppy Gets It" bear, $54.95

The "Stick Your Hand In My Candy Bag And See if You Find a Sucker" bear, $125

 

The "Guess What's in Her Right Hand" bear, $250

and last but not least,

 

 

 The "I Don't Know How To Tell You Your Coochie Stinks" bear, $300

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and Happy Valentine's Day!