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.

Slacker Monday!

I do have a post, but it won't go up until tonight.  Until then, I am slacking, big time.


(Side note:  My friend Tricia actually invented the word "Slacker" in 1988.  If she didn't invent it, she introduced it into the mainstream.  I put royalties of one dime in a Mason jar every time I say it, and will present her with $5,000 worth of dimes upon her retirement or menopause, whichever comes first.)


SO.  It is Slacker (cha-ching) Monday, and here is your entertainment until late this evening:


This little nugget of awesomeness comes from Regretsy.com:

Bella Swan, about to deliver her half-vampire baby, travels to Sharpie Island and immediately grows a third breast. After forcing Edward to smell her T-shirt, she attempts to crush him with her massive thighs, but only succeeds in shrinking his feet.

http://www.regretsy.com/2011/04/11/twilight-zone/

And to really phone it in, I'm completely lifting this from The Bloggess, because it's so damn funny I can't stop saying, "Honey Badger don't care.  Honey Badger don't give a shit."  You Bloggess people know EXACTLY what I'm talking about:







See you later, alligators!

It's Whorticulture Friday! Issue 61

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: My scary tool.

I swear, the song going through my head all week is “If you like pina coladas, and gettin’ caught in the rain….”. I need a Me-cation. (When I typed that, I realized it looked like “medication”, which I could also probably use.) This is the view from my desk:

The map is there so I can chart where my distributors are located. But instead, I find myself gazing at it and thinking, “I’d really like a long weekend in Santa Fe. Or Savannah, Georgia. Or Napa Valley….” I want to get on an airplane, fly fly away, bring the two big ass books I’m reading (Keith Richards’ “Life”, and the recent biography of Grant Wood), sit in a hammock on the beach and drink champagne or an extremely cold white wine or a very icy salty margarita, and chill out for a few days. Current Husband optional, I’d love to have him if he can just lie quietly on the beach next to me and accompany me to dinner and be available for nocturnal activities. (PERSONAL NOTE TO CH: I know you are reading this. Do you see that I am actually instigating nocturnal activities away from home? Just like back in my slutty days!) Poor CH. What do I need to do to bring back the magic?


I’m checking e-mail today, and I’m waiting for a message from someone I’m interviewing for an article, so I check junk mail just in case it was filtered. You can find out a lot about yourself if you check your junk e-mail once a month – the Internet really KNOWS me. There are multiple messages from:


• Restaurants announcing I’ve won a week of free meals.


• Airlines announcing I’ve won tickets to tropical destinations.


• Free shipping on American Girl products (possible I got on that list during my night of drunken Jen Lancaster stalking.)


• Virus protection.


• Dating services.


• Messages from Facebook, even though I’ve specifically gone into my account on FB and checked the “Do Not Send to my E-Mail Account” button.


• Travel with my sorority, of which I haven’t actually been an active member in since 1991.


• Ways to enlarge my tool.


Apparently, my tool is not very large, which explains a LOT. The most informative of these e-mails was the one whose subject was “Promo Enlargement”, and the message was “Scare people with your tool today.” I would love nothing more than to scare people with my tool. The website has “growinpants” in the address, but I’m thinking why hide my light under a bushel? No. I’m gonna let it shine. Like the finest chia pet, my enlarged tool should be available to be watched, because it’s interesting in its unpredictability.


Oh Internet, you’ve found the way
to perk up my mundane existence!


This weekend, I’m accompanying my kids to the local hardware store to sell raffle tickets for their school fundraiser. What better place to let out my new gigantic scary tool? I see new computers for the entire school, because there are lots of guys who will pay for the chance to see what would normally be growing in my pants. Tools and hardware stores go together like cats and stirrups.


Sunday the kids have a piano recital at the local retirement home. Somewhere between “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and “The Theme From Hogwarts”, I’m going to whip out my enlarged scary tool, because old people get bored in those homes, and they probably haven’t seen a good set of tools in a long time. I ask you, what octogenarian doesn’t like a good scare?


Tuesday is Youngest Daughter’s birthday, and her birthday party might be a good place to scare people with my tool. Those little girls have been sheltered for too long. See your future, princesses. It’s scary!


Finally, I think a date night with CH might be a good place to unleash my large scary beast. We’re together. We’re in love. There’s innuendo, and then playfulness, and then minor romping, and then POW! MY SCARY TOOL IS REVEALED! CH screams like a little girl and curls up into a ball in the corner of the room, weeping.


And that, people, is how Golden Anniversaries happen.


“If you’re not into yoga, but you’re into champagne….”

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.

Real Drivers of the QCA

For those of you expecting Whoreticulture Friday, I’m sorry to tell you that WF and I are on a break, like Ross and Rachael. I’m sure we’ll get back together and resume our dysfunctional relationship soon.


Today, I’m writing about my kids, which I recently promised myself I wouldn’t do anymore. I also say I’m going to exercise more and eat fewer donuts and drink less wine, but that doesn’t happen either.

Oldest Daughter recently turned 14, and instead of finding a secret boyfriend or a stash of Cosmo magazines in her room (“14 Ways to Enjoy Kinky Sex!”), I discovered rather quickly that she has been secretly studying the driver’s manual.


Things could be worse – it could be Youngest Daughter, who will surely break curfew on a regular basis and secretly date a vampire. Oldest Daughter has always been very responsible and has a healthy dose of fear of operating large equipment. I find it interesting that in our house, Current Husband is a little more afraid of her driving than I. He sees this:




On the other hand, I see a future where I’m not driving everyone around everywhere. Those nights when I’m making dinner and I find I’m out of onions? No problem, send OD! Running a little behind from work that day and might get the kids to piano late? No problem, send OD! Cello camp starts at 7 a.m.? See you later OD, I’m sleeping in! A mom can dream, no?

 CH has taken OD to practice driving before. The Hobby Lobby parking lot is the best place to go because it’s closed on Sunday, it’s big, and the only obstacles are the lampposts, which our Jetta probably can’t knock down. Probably. But CH is a little nervous about his baby driving, so he’s a little ramped-up when they get in the car. They practiced at the Hobby Lobby lot for a little bit, and then a police cruiser pulled into the lot, and CH told OD to stop because she doesn’t have her learner’s permit, but OD managed to slam on the brakes and skid out a little, and then she freaked out because she thought the po-po was coming to write her up. She got home and vowed never to practice again.

That attitude is NOT going to help me lose my Taxi Driver designation. It was time to take matters into my own hands.

Last weekend, I told OD that if she would practice with me at Hobby Lobby, I would buy her a malt at Whitey’s afterward. OD is easily bought with ice cream, and she agreed. We drove to the Hobby Lobby lot, where there were two other wanna-be’s practicing, and OD got behind the wheel. We spent the first 10 minutes practicing great-grandma driving at 5 mph and power-braking. I opened the door and pretended to throw up. OD asked what I was doing, and I said, “That’s what all of your passengers will be doing if you drive like this.” We picked up the pace a little bit, and then she hit a pothole in the parking lot. She looked at me, nervous, and I said, “Now you yell ‘Damn government! Where do my taxes go?’.” OD said it, and smiled. It felt good to get that repressed anger out. And really – where DO our taxes go?

Then the other drivers left the lot, and it was just the two of us. I told her to get in a place where she had some space to drive, and then floor it.
OD: “Floor It?”
ME: “When you put your foot down on the pedal and go fast.”
OD: “I know what it is. I don’t want to do that.”
ME: “You have to. It’s for safety.”
OD: “How is that safe?”
ME: “Don’t you watch ANY TV? Everyone is involved in a car chase eventually. This is how you will escape the terrorists. Or a bad vampire who is determined to kill you to anger your good vampire boyfriend.”
OD: “Oh. Whatever.”

We can always communicate when we speak Twilight.

Then OD let me know that she was ready for Whitey's, so we switched back. She got her seat belt on, and I turned up the radio, pulled out my cell phone and started to text, and then floored it. We’re shooting across the parking lot, Lady Gaga is yelling at us that she was just Born that Way (does anyone else hear Madonna singing “Express Yourself” when they hear that song?), I’m texting, and OD is yelling, “MOM! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?! STOP!” I stopped the car and looked at her.

ME: “Were you scared?”
OD: “OMG! YES! Why did you do that!?”
ME: “To show you why you shouldn’t text or talk on your phone and drive. Did it work?”
OD: “You could have just said it. Sheesh.” And rolled her eyes, because she is 14 and obligated to do that every time we have a conversation.

We got home, and CH asked how it was. OD indicated that it was terrifying, but fun. I imagine this is what it was like to date me in high school. 

Have a great weekend!