Extreme Home Makeover: Hell Edition

Have you ever seen the show Extreme Makeover: Home Edition? Where Ty Pennington comes to your house, and using a bullhorn, announces to your household (as well as the neighboring 3 counties) that you've been chosen for a remodel. Then he shoves you in a limo, you go on vacation for a week, and when you come back there's a fabulous new house. Do you know why all these people were sent on vacation? Because living through home remodeling projects is HELL.

I'm probably my own worst enemy when it comes to renovation slash fix it projects because my motto is "The more, the merrier." If I'm going to be miserable having my house torn apart and creating chaos, why not just do it all at once? That sounds very logical, doesn't it? And yet my husband actually had the nerve to ask me if I thought we would be able to accomplish more if we both worked on one project at a time. Um, no, I really don't. If the credo states that two heads are better than one, than why can't two projects be better than one? Or three be better than two? Hell, let's just take a sledgehammer to every room in the house and just get crazy with sheet rock. Okay, I might be getting a little carried away here....

The thing is, this man is married to me. And has been for a long time. He knows I'm only three steps away from a white padded room most days. Why he thought I would suddenly start to think like a man all of a sudden is beyond me. Especially if he can't give me irrefutable proof that he's right. Logically I think that having at least 2 projects makes sense. If you are stalled for some reason in one room, move on to the next. See? No wasted time. Efficient AND effective. Bam! I'm like the Emril of the home improvement world. Besides, my twisted thought process considers 10% of progress on three projects better than 30% progress on one project. (Yes Captain Mathmetician, I realize it's the same percentage.)

Since I've been living with drywall dust and compound goop and paint samples and have not blown a gasket, I'm thinking I deserve a party. Or a medal in the very least. A twinkie? A piece of gum? Come on people, that's got to be worth something. I haven't even threatened to kill my husband one single time since we've started these new projects. That's huge progress. Maybe I should ask for a medal for that too. If you doubt what a huge accomplishment this is, ask my co-workers how often I've mentioned certain people should be stabbed in the head with a fork. Voila! Free frontal lobotomy! (I blame my bloodthirsty nature on Wile E. Coyote. If only I hadn't seen him try to kill that road runner week after week.)

Maybe my lack of responsiveness to the craziness that has become my house is a sign of maturity. (Which means I'm suing Toys R Us for their promises of not having to grow up. Damn false advertising!) Then again, it could just be that I'm too tired to give a crap because I've been doing home improvement products. At any rate, if you do come for a visit, please don't be alarmed that one side of the house is leaning more than the other. I'm pretty sure that's completely normal........

Diet Is A Four Letter Word

So it's been a couple weeks since I started to "eat better". I hate using the word diet because, well, it's a four letter word for a reason. A diet conjures images of lettuce leaves and gallons of water and always being starving. Hence the reason I prefer to say that I'm eating better. The only problem is, a few weeks into this, and I'm starting to get a case of the diet cranks. If you need an explanation of this, see below:

I'm not sure why, but there's something about trying to eat healthier that makes me want to eat unhealthy. Yes, I know, that sounds totally absurd. But think about it. If you told your daughter she absolutely, positively cannot dye her hair purple, how much more does she want to dye it purple? I can tell myself that I don't really want a bacon cheeseburger but my inner fat girl is saying, "YOU may not want a cheeseburger but I do. And send along a chocolate shake and some steak fries with that." Which means I spend the rest of the day imagining a chocolate shake and a burger that aren't on my eat healthier menu. Unless it was a tofurkey burger with a soy milkshake. But just the thought of that makes me throw up a little in my mouth. I'm still not convinced that tofu is a real food.

And people wonder why women are so mean? It's probably because we're perpetually on a diet. Diets make you mean. Mean like a snake. A venomous viper. Getting between a dieting woman and her single bite of chocolate that she's allowed herself each week? Well, you're pretty much taking your life into your own hands. 

It doesn't help that all the really yummy foods are terrible for something. Cholesterol, blood pressure, salt intake. They have more damn reasons NOT to eat a piece of fried chicken and not enough good reasons to make me feel like brussel sprouts are a good substitute. If we've managed to send a man to the moon, why can't we make vegetables taste like desserts? Is that really so much to ask for? 

And who was the person that elected cottage cheese as the international diet food mascot anyway? Cottage cheese in, in my opinion at least, nasty. It gives me the creeps just looking at it. Why are lumpy white curds of spoiled milk tasty? Was chocolate pudding out sick the day they threw their hats into the ring for this position? Imagine how lovely a world could be with chocolate pudding as the face of the new diet campaign. If that's not enough, here's a twisted little piece of irony: When women have lumpy cellulite on their thighs, it's likened to cottage cheese. Now explain this to me, because didn't we just establish that cottage cheese is THE diet food. I'm confused. There's too many rules to this game and I don't want to play anymore.

So I'm taking my diet cranks and finding a bakery window I can stand in front of. It's always fun to see them frown at the drool marks I leave on the window.

The Great Zumba Experiment

Apparently my health insurance has something called a "wellness benefit". This is where they give you 20 classes for Zumba and, well, I know definitely Zumba. Maybe they don't allow anything else, I'm not really sure. However, they said the magic word: free. It could be a Chinese Water Torture class and if it was free, I'd probably give it some serious consideration.

So of course, since it was advertised in the workplace, a few other co-workers jumped on board as well. I'm not sure if they're also fans of free or if they enjoy torture (I'm going by hearsay on this, but I guess Zumba is a wicked work out.) but we've decided that if we're going to make fools of ourselves, (I mean try something new) that we should do it together.

Now the most important thing for a woman to consider when taking an exercise class of any sort is, of course, wardrobe. A co-worker that has done this class before suggested shorts because "you will sweat". Um, no thanks. Have you seen how white these legs are? It's February in New York. Any paler and I might qualify as a vampire. Plus, then I'd have to worry about shaving and let's face it: Winter is hibernation for bears and my razor. Since no one other than the hubster sees the gams in winter, I don't have to worry about shaving as much. Bonus for me! Not so good for any innocent bystanders that might get caught in the crossfire.

The wardrobe worries don't end there. Now I'm thinking I definitely want pants. Check. But what about the shirt? I don't care how much I am going to sweat, I am NOT wearing a tank top or a sports bra. I'm no 400 pound woman, but I do have a small bakery going on in the midriff area. (A muffin top, a few rolls, you know what I'm saying.) So the obvious choice is a t-shirt. But it has to be long enough to cover the unsightly bakery and short enough not to look like I'm wearing pajamas. Boy, men have it so easy regarding wardrobe options, don't they?

The second most important factor is not looking like an idiot. You'd think this would be the most important, wouldn't you? But I'd be okay looking foolish if I was dressed cute enough. My biggest worry is that I'm going to be 3 minutes into it and fall into a red faced, exhausted, panting-for-breath hot mess on the floor. All the other girls would be Zumba-ing their way around me as I lay dying at their feet. I know I'm not going to be a pro the first time out of the gate, but I am fervently praying that I can at least look like I'm able to keep up the pace.

My last concern is that the other two women I am going with (who are Zumba virgins also) will walk in and five minutes into the class look like they could lead a fitness video. One of the main reasons I am willing to go as a group is that we'd all be novices and if I look stupid, I can take comfort that they probably do too. If I'm the only one looking like an uncoordinated, wheezing monstrosity, I'm going to be one pissed off chick. So be at your worst ladies and we'll do just fine. (Or if not your worst, at least slightly unwieldy with a few haphazard hand movements.)

The best case scenario is that this whole Zumba thing works magnificently and I can lose the entire bakery. If not, maybe I can at least go from large bakery chain to small town, mom and pop size shop.

My Life's a TV Sitcom..or Maybe a Movie Parody?

I swear, lately my life is turning into a National Lampoon's movie. If something can malfunction, be forgotten, break, or go wrong, then the universal law of movie parodies says it must be so. It's gotten to the point where I'm pretty sure I could start writing weekly episodes and sell them to a sitcom. I'd be the adorkable, organized Mom with my goofy big man child of a husband. We'd have the older nerdy son, the trouble making middle daughter, and the rambunctious youngest son.

For instance, picture Mom (I'll play that part for this scenario) grocery shopping with the middle daughter like child. Baby boy wanted to go but Daddy took his booster seat out and forgot to put it back in mom's car. He now has to be pacified with a "treat" which turns out to be nutritionally delicious Spaghettios and m & m's. (I can't make this up. That's truly what he wanted.)

An hour and a half later, we return home to find Baby boy and big brother waiting to see what goodies Mom has brought them. We cannot find the bag with the Spaghettios. We check the car. Nope. We check the rest of the bags in the house. Nothing. Hmm. After a quick call to the store, we find out that a bag was left there. Great. One job and I blew it. Thank heavens that the m & m's weren't in the same bag or I'd really have been in trouble.

Or how about: The oldest son is scheduled for oral surgery. Both Dad and I are home and I'm thinking this is going to be a piece of cake. Until Baby boy wakes up crying that morning complaining of a stomach ache. Now I'm running around trying to get ice packs and ice cream for one and a blanket and some Tylenol for the other. In between I'm trying to make jello, fold laundry, wash dishes, and ask Baby boy for the 37th time in an hour if he's sure he doesn't feel like he has to throw up or go to the bathroom. I'm contemplating the benefits of cloning for situations such as this while feeding the oldest painkillers and the youngest juice.

Want more?  Fast forward to later that night. I've gotten ready for bed and am just about to crawl into the bliss that is my cozy bed when hubby comes in to say that he thinks Baby boy might have had an accident because "he walked by his room and smelled poop". Great. Because what I REALLY wanted to do at 11:30 at night was to wash out shitty SpongeBob underwear while Baby boy gets a hiney tub scrub from Daddy. Ten minutes later he's clean and in fresh jammies and I'm scrubbing my hands with antibacterial soap fourteen times like Lady Macbeth while muttering, "Out damn crap scent, out!"

Every month we could have one show about the current malfunctioning or broken gadget in our house. Because there's always at least 1 (or 7). We could have guest appearances from the Toilet Paper Troll and the Milk Monster. (Their PR firm did mention they needed more positive publicity.) Hey, now that I think about it, this might not be such a bad idea after all. If anyone's going to profit from the hilarious mayhem of our lives, it really should be us, right?

Is there an agent in the house?

I Can't Hear You With That Gauze in Your Mouth

So, the oldest boy needed his wisdom teeth out. All 4. At once. And I scheduled it for his winter break from school. Yes, I know. I'm probably not winning any mother of the year awards with this one. Moms think pragmatically in terms of not missing school, having the time off to recover, and making it easier on their schedules since they are already off for Presidents Day. Fifteen year old boys think, "This is gonna suck."

And because he's a boy, he had some serious anxiety about the procedure. Kind of like when your husband gets sick and he's the sickest person that has ever existed in the world, much sicker than you were when you had it two weeks ago and still cooked dinner, ran carpool, and washed 18 loads of laundry. While outwardly I was supportive Mom, inwardly I was thinking, "Suck it up cupcake. You're young, healthy, and this is going to be a blip on your radar in 6 months." But I can't say that because that's mean, insensitive, and I'm supposed to be developing his sense of self or some other happy crap like that.

The whole reason they have to come out, years before they're making an appearance, is because when they do pop up to say hello, they are going to undo $5,000 of braces. He's had them off for almost a year and I don't even own them yet. I still have two payments left. I'll be damned if I have to re-brace this kid's teeth. They got to come out. A-sap.

He was consoled some upon hearing about this medicine that they give that makes you "loopy" and could possibly "make you lose the whole day". I'm not sure why, but the boy seemed really excited that he might not remember the entire day. In fact, the morning I gave him the meds he said, "See you tomorrow." So imagine how pissed he was when he remained totally cognizant and did not, in fact, forget the entire day.

Since they relegate moms to waiting room status, I sat there stressing out about my poor boy for about 45 minutes until they finally called me into the waiting room. He's sitting up, chipmunk cheeks stuffed with gauze, angrily trying to tell me that he is NOT loopy like the nurse kept insisting. (Although, he did have a slight glassiness to his eyes. I didn't tell him that to add fuel to his indignant fire though.) I can not understand a word he's saying. He's drugged up, numbed down, stuffed with gauze and trying to tell me he's fine. I'm trying my hardest not to laugh because I seriously can NOT understand what he's saying. This doesn't seem to be a deterrent since he keeps trying to shift the gauze to a better position to get actual recognizable words out. It's not working. I lose the battle and start laughing only to have him shooting daggers at me with his eyes.

He insisted again today that he was not loopy and that the nurse was really condescending because she kept insinuating that he was, and his mom was laughing. I had to tell him, "Oh sweetie, I wasn't laughing because you were loopy, I was laughing because I couldn't understand you and you kept trying to talk." Oddly enough, that seemed to pacify him. I guess I'll never understand fifteen year old boys.

The Clampetts Hit the Big City

Our town has a rinky dink little podunk mall. It's so small that our food court now consists of a pizza place, a Chinese place, and a cupcake store. We used to have a Subway and an Arby's but I think they were so embarrassed to be in our teeny tiny mall that they left in the middle of the night without even leaving a note. They just packed up their crap and left.

Because of our itsy bitsy mall, once or twice a year we head South an hour and go to a huge two story mall.  Have you ever been a tourist in your own state? It makes me feel like Ellie Mae Clampett when we go there.  "Aw shucks Pa, did you see that there store? They sell pretty sparkly things that you can wear on your ears and fingers. Isn't that a hoot?" Of course, the kids aren't helping our Clampett image because their favorite part of the mall is the escalator. You'd think they've only lived in one story buildings and have never seen a need for a means of getting to the next floor. I'm pretty sure hubby and I could have used it for a babysitter. (Damn! We should have done that! Why do I always have these great ideas after the fact?)

This year, our annual redneck family vacation to the mall was an utter disaster. We were late getting started because a quick trip to the car wash turned into 40 minutes waiting in line. And as soon as a car pulls up behind you, there's no changing your mind and turning around. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, just sit your ass in line and wait for your turn to get your car washed. Then hubby tells me that if we want to upgrade our phones, the guy is only there until 4. Sigh. Another hour there. By now it's way past lunch time and we still have an hour to travel to our destination. Let me tell you, being so hungry you could eat your steering wheel can cut a good 10 to 15 minutes off your travel time. There's some sort of relationship between your stomach being empty that makes your foot really heavy.

So the first thing we do when we get to "The Big Mall" is eat. Nothing like travelling to get some lunch. So we eat at our favorite 50's type diner place because they have the best burgers ever. We're back on track. We're going to shop til we drop and tourist it up. Baby boy doesn't eat but 5 bites of lunch. Hmmmm, he didn't eat much breakfast either, and he was whiny last night before bed. That gives the Mom Radar a giant ping. Now I'm praying I'm wrong, but by kid # 3, those sick warning signs are imprinted on my brain. I silently cross my fingers. He made it much longer than we expected he would. About 90 minutes into it he started getting teary and stubborn so we got a drink, sat down, and re-grouped like any good tourists.I look at my boy and get another Mom Radar ping. Baby boy's starting to get sick eyes. So we press our luck a little bit, finish shopping, and manage to get out of there just before Baby boy hit his "I don't think I feel well and I'm cranky because of that and I will throw a tantrum even though I'm 5 if you don't get me the hell out of this place right now" limit.

At the end of the day, the Clampetts were quite a few dollars lighter and everyone got a little something for themselves. Baby boy managed a nap on the way home and Mom's prayers of not having throw up in her car were answered. And I could have sworn, as we were leaving, I heard someone say, "Y'all have a good day now, ya hear?"

Color Me Overwhelmed

I'm looking at paint colors this week. I'm trying to decide which one to put in the kitchen. I've narrowed it down to green, now it's just finding the right shade of green. Should be easy right? No, what it means is that I have about 600 of those paper paint swatches around my house. I spread out 30 of them right in a row and sit there muttering to myself, "Ok, something earthy like sage. Not mint like hospital walls. Nothing dark. No yellow greens. No blue greens. Where the hell are the green greens?"

I'm going to close my eyes and pick "Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mo" style.

As I'm looking at these swatches, I'm looking at some of the names they've given these shades. Some make sense. I'm looking at greens. So there's Fine Pesto, Desert Aloe, and Deep Woods. But others don't make much sense at all. Venetian Mirror? I'm going to guess I've never seen a Venetian mirror if I didn't know it was this really light shade of green. Essence of Light? That's a light green tint too? Personally, I'd think yellow or a white would be Essence of Light. Yes, a sunshine-y yellow color makes me think "Yes, that wall is the very essence of light." If I looked at a really light green wall I'd more than likely think faded green wall, not essence of light.

Some of them just crack me up. No matter how nice a color it is, I'm not sure I could ever put Dillweed on my walls. "This is a nice color, what is it?" "Dillweed." "Why are you calling me names?" And the one that's called Dancing Leaf sounds like a Native American name. "That wall is Runs with Clover, the other three are Dancing Leaf." My favorite though, is Knee High Grass. Apparently knee high grass is a different green than ankle high grass, otherwise, it wouldn't have it's own shade. (I couldn't find ankle high grass to check this though.) Ducketymud? Would someone actually paint their walls a color that has mud in the name? "Yes, the carpet is Mud Puddle, the walls are Ducketymud, and the curtains are Cowpile."

I think the people trying to come up with all these different names must have gotten tired and punchy at one point. This would explain some very bad puns like Extended Olive Branch, Scattered Grassroots, and Kentucky Bluegrass. After a long day they just threw out names to be able to go home. Thus the reason for: Green Saddle, Quaint Village Green, and Northwest Passage. I want to know how you get hired for this job. Do people get interviewed for color naming positions? "Can you tell me what experience you have?" Well, I own a box of Crayola crayons, the big one that has all the colors and the sharpener in the back. I've been studying the names all week." "Congratulations, you're hired." I think I could be good at this. I could name paint colors Frogger (after the video game), Fuzzy Green Beans (those are the ones from the garden), and Ugly Bridesmaid Dress Chartreuse. See, I'm completely qualified!

Next week I get to look at tans, taupes, and beiges. I can't wait to see what names they've come up with for these ones. Burnt Toast, Coffee With Too Much Milk, and Yellowed Newspaper? (Okay, perhaps I'm OVER qualified for a color naming position.)

Do You Know the Way to San Jose?

My stationary exercise bike finally went to that big gym in the sky. It had been wheezing and limping its way through the last few months. The last time it sputtered to a stop my husband threatened that he was fixing it "for the last time".

Even before the pedals stop spinning their last spin, my husband gleefully dashes out to buy a new one. I left him to it with only two basic directives: I don't want anything really expensive and I don't want anything really fancy. Men, however, see buying new equipment of any kind as a sport. This explains why, when he returned home with the new bike, it had a water bottle holder, a pulse monitor, and a jack to plug your iPod into. Even better, now hubby gets to be a manly man and put together his lady's new exercise bike while said lady sits nearby, batting her eyelashes and swooning over his big, manly strength.

Okay, now it's assembled. Boy it's pretty. Much nicer than the cheap piece of crap we had before. Hubby urges me to get on so we can see if the seat is the correct height. It isn't. We adjust. Still not right. Adjust again. Nope, liked it better on the last setting. Adjust one final time. Okay. I'm in business now. I'm pedaling on my fancy, new exercise bike. I'm......slogging through quick sand. What the hell? Geez, what setting is the tension on? 10? Nope, 2. Okay, let's just pop that down to 1. Okay. Better. For a minute. Until I start looking for a negative 1 for the tension setting. Surely the beginning setting isn't THIS hard.

Meanwhile, hubby is standing next to me, a happy smile on his face, waiting for my reaction. "It's good! Much better than the old one!" No way am I telling him that my legs are ON FIRE. After only three minutes. I feel like I'm riding uphill. In a snowstorm. With a gorilla on the handlebars. I'm not going to look like a wuss. I can do this. "Woo, this is a much better work out than the last one gave me." Hubby says, "Yes, and if you press this button you can start the 8 week weight loss plan it has programmed into it." (What am I? A sadist? I think I'll skip that.) After minute 6 I tentatively say, "Wow, my legs already feel like spaghetti." Hubby smiles, "Would you rather ride 40 minutes barely breaking a sweat, or 20 and get a good workout?" Okay, I'm no dummy. Cutting a workout in half and still getting good results? I'm in.

Twenty one minutes later and I'm crying uncle. I feel like I've ridden to San Jose and back again. My legs are rubber bands and I'm not sure I want to try standing on them. I don't know that they'll hold me up. According to my handy little electronic gauge I biked 5 miles. Awesome! Way to go me! And let's see, I burned....93 calories? What?!? Okay, I'm taking it back, it must be broken.

Mayhem at the Mall

Quite often, because my weekday mornings are so tight (I have to stop being so friendly with the snooze button), I will do my blog the night before and post it in the morning. Tonight (or tomorrow morning when you're reading this) I'm sitting here, planning on blogging, and my mind is utterly blank. It's as if someone erased the whiteboard that had all my creative ideas on it. I couldn't look any dumber if I painted myself blue right now. And do you know why? Because I spent two hours walking around the mall.

It all started with needing to get some jeans for baby boy. He only had 3 pairs that he hadn't outgrown and even though I meant to get him some more, I keep forgetting. Crunch time came this week when he came home and had ripped through the knee of one of his pair of jeans. And not just an "Oops-I-caught-my-pants-on-something little hole, but "I-was-abducted-by-pants-eating-aliens-and-barely-made-it-out-alive huge tear. I mean, they were almost shorts on one side. Now I'm desperate since he's down to 2 good pairs of school jeans and I HAVE to motivate myself to go to the mall.

Ugh, I hate shopping at least ninety nine percent of the time. If it's not online shopping (which is perfectly acceptable to conduct in pajama pants and slippers), I'm probably putting it off as long as possible. Since I was going within a 5 foot radius of a store that might sell something she could convince me to buy her, the daughter asked to come along. We're in the first store for 20 minutes and already I'm ticked off because the jeans here are not acceptable prices. Baby boy wears size 6 jeans. They want me to pay $17. I'm not even convinced there's $17 worth of material IN these jeans. I'm thinking surely there's cheaper jeans. I'm not going to pay a lot of money since the pants eating aliens chase him every few months.

So we head to Target. Not because it's my favorite place to shop, but because it's in the mall. And I need laundry detergent and paper towels anyway. Now I'm doubly irritated because even though I found $8.99 jeans, they only have one pair in his size. And daughter's found another thing "I would wear". Because that's how we pick her clothing now. Would you wear this to school? Or would you be so horribly embarrassed to be seen in public in this that it would cause you to have no social life and require ten years of therapy? Meanwhile, I have yet to get paper towels and we've made 23 laps around the store looking at stuff we don't need.

Two hours later, we return home with a bunch of crap we didn't set out to buy and one pair of jeans. Sigh. I guess that means I'll be returning to the mall again tomorrow. Lord help me now.

Resolving to be resolute in my resolutions

Every January, people are making lists of things that they plan to do (or in some cases, not do) for the upcoming year. This is akin to making a wish before blowing out your birthday candles. You KNOW it's not going to come true, but it's a tradition that you carry on every year. Those poor New Year's Resolutions have gotten such a bad rap too. Nobody seems to follow through anymore and our resolution attention spans have shortened to, oh, about 38 and a half minutes. "I'm going to eat healthy for half an hour and consider that a resolution well fulfilled. After that it's dinner and cocktails with the girls. I'll have to tell them all about my resolution success."

This year, however, I decided it was the year of change, baby! I was going to shake things up and actually stick to a resolution or two. Yeah, I know, I'm a rebel! I'm a rule breaker! You might even say I'm walking on the wild side! Being a woman, there's really only two resolutions we ever make and rarely stick to: Changes in our diet and/or exercise. Since I'm such a rebel, I decided why not be adventurous, (torture myself) and conquer both?

So far I've surprised myself. I'm sticking with my exercise regime. (This is extremely shocking to anyone who knows I consider exercise to be a vile and evil word that should be expunged from the dictionary.) And believe me, I pat myself on the back for this constantly. You'd think I won the tour de France (without the aid of performance enhancing drugs of course) instead of riding a stationary bike for 40 minutes. And if I add another walk during the day? You'd think I saved babies from a burning building. That's how proud of myself I am. (I know, pitiful isn't it?)

The diet part though, that's been a little harder to adhere to. I'm not eating badly. But I can usually talk myself into having a bad eating day once a week(end) or so. I only fall off the diet wagon on days that begin with S though, so it's okay. Monday hands me back my discipline that I left on the floor Friday night and I trek back onto the diet trail, feeling guilty for undoing some of my hard earned progress. So I'm thinking things are going well this week. And then I see this:

Chocolate peanut butter bites of heaven!

Some evil bastard who's sole purpose in life is to find new ways to make women unfaithful to their healthy eating habits comes up with DARK CHOCOLATE PEANUT BUTTER CANDIES. I have never tasted one but already I know we could be best friends. I want to curl up inside their chocolaty peanut buttery goodness and sigh in utter feminine contentment. I might even want to marry them. (No offense honey. But look at them. You get it, right?) I could plan long, intense afternoons around them, a cup of coffee, and a good book. Perhaps a hammock on a beach with a glass of wine and a sunset. Or more realistically, a box of Tampax, a Valium, and "my friend" who visits every month. They're so versatile that they could work for any of these scenarios.

So I'm putting on my diet chastity belt (A.K.A. covertly checking my cupboards for ingredients) and keeping that lusty appetite in check. After all, it's only Wednesday. The weekend is 2 whole days away! Which gives me just enough time to run to the store for a few things.....

A Quick Trip to the Store

Have you ever mentioned that you have to run to the store and your spouse has offered to go for you? After a quick internal debate, you politely decline. The internal debate probably goes something like: If I send him for laundry detergent he might not get the kind I like. So then I'll either have to take it back and get the one I wanted or suck it up and use detergent I don't like for a month.

Now my husband, thoughtful guy that he is, will often offer to run to the store for me. (Especially if I'm already in pajama pants. My husband has reconciled himself to my pajama pants love affair.) There are times I will take him up on his offer. But I've learned, after all these years, that there are only certain things I am comfortable with him getting. Milk, toilet paper, the newspaper. Other things I'm really picky about. I only want the orange kind of Palmolive. I know that it's probably the same thing as the green kind, but I like the smell of it. With as often as I wash dishes, I think I'm entitled to a pleasant smelling dish liquid. This is something that guys don't think about. They see Dawn dish detergent and think, "That one looks good." The same goes for laundry detergent. I understand that Tide is expensive. But I've found that 3 kids can get stains on clothing like nobody's business (What does that even mean anyway?) and Tide works great. But there are a dozen different kinds now, not to mention special detergent for high efficiency machines. There's just something about that mountain scented Tide that grosses me out. I just want the plain (original) Tide for non-high efficiency machines. (Because we like our dinosaur washer. Or because a new one isn't in the budget. Either way.)

By the same token, men don't count generic brands as actual products. They see a name they recognize, that's the one they're getting. Even if it is $2.00 more. Now because I like my high end detergent, I tend to cut corners on things that aren't as important. Like generic paper towels. I don't care who makes them, I just like them as cheap as possible because there's a creature in my house that eats them like candy. (He's a cousin to the toilet paper troll I think.) My husband will see the name Bounty and know that's a paper towel. End of story. I once sent him for quick oats so I could make no bake cookies. I usually buy store brand because they're cheaper and this is my most requested pot luck dish. (And I go through quick oats like nobody's business! Still not seeing it. Might have to Google this phraseology later.) He brought home the Quaker oats brand. Because the creepy old guy on the box is familiar! See, that's how men's brains are wired.

Now, if you put those two issues together, you'll see why I never send my husband to do the grocery shopping. It would cost him twice as much and I'd have a house full of name brands, most of which would be the "wrong kind". And I can't yell at him for trying because that would be like kicking a puppy for fetching a newspaper. It's just mean. But on the other hand, I don't want to spend 10 minutes explaining how to recognize the brand I want. And since I really don't have a specific formula for which things are special enough to be bought as name brands and which ones are generic, he'd just be confused. Plus, I'd probably have a coupon for it and even if he brought it, he'd probably forget to use it and then we'd get into an argument about how he could have saved 75 cents on it! (Married couples can fight about some stupid crap, let me tell you.)

Basically, what I'm trying to tell you, is that my house usually has quite a few "quick trips to the store" every week. And unless it's toilet paper, milk, or the newspaper, I better put a bra back on because I'm going into public again. Sigh.

1-800-What-Did-You-Say?

So the internet thing was really starting to drive me crazy. Since I'm already bat shit crazy, I figured I probably couldn't afford to lose any more of my precious sanity. Hubby and I decided it was time to call our service provider to help us figure things out.

The funny thing about customer service is 99% of the time they ship you to some hut in India. Some guy with more sounds than letters in his name will come on the line and say: (Now, for visualization purposes, imagine the guy speaking sounds like the guy that runs the Qwik E Mart on the Simpsons.) "Hello, my name is Bob, how can I help you today?" What I really want to say to him is: "Yes, BOB, can you connect me to someone who speaks American English please? Someone who doesn't speak with an accent from some middle eastern country that I probably cannot spell, let alone find on a map. And could you do it NOW and not after I've tried to explain what I need three dozen times? Thanks, you're a peach."

Hello, my name is Bob.

But I don't say that. Instead, I go through my problem three dozen times, getting increasingly frustrated that this guy who probably has never even heard of internet, modems, or Company X is just running through the script given to him. And yes, it's a script. If I'm trying six different ways to explain what I mean to you, and you give me the same answer, verbatim, six times, you really can't help me.

And another thing. I shouldn't have to press 2 for English. That should be a given. I should have to press 2 if I'm willing to deal with Habib's butchered English. Do you know how much happier a society we could be if we didn't have telephone frustration? If I could call about whatever service issue I'm having and speak to a Texan? Or a New Yorker? We'd probably be happier with our spouses, then they'd go to work and be happier with their co-workers, work place productivity would increase, their bosses would notice and give them a raise and then you and your entire family would be happier. See how much unhappiness could be avoided just by letting us talk to Americans?

It isn't just limited to services now either. Insurance companies, big businesses, you name it. They're all shipping your asses overseas for your customer service needs. Are we giving these jobs to these guys because they work for 3 fish and a bag of wheat? What's the deal?

In summation, if you know I'm about to do telephone battle with any company, you might want to give me a wide berth. I'm pretty sure I'll have a case of phone rage when I'm done, and that could lead to someone getting a punch in the forehead.

Internet Dating for Old Spinsters

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, I've been thinking about love and couples and all that happy hearts and crap. I came to the conclusion that I am really happy that I'm married. I've done the whole "search, find, reject, repeat process" junk. I can't imagine having to start over as a thirty something mom.

Well, actually, that's not true. I DID think of how awful it would be to have to start over. In this day and age, everyone's finding love via the internet. (Which is not at all creepy or scary.) How many commercials have you seen lately for couples who found love with the help of online dating sites? And they're becoming quite specific to the group they're catering to. I saw an ad for "Christian Mingle" which is specifically for God fearing Christians to find love. (Or God fearing spinsters looking to get lucky in a legally binding biblical commitment. To-may-to, to-mah-to.) And yet, when I did a search, I didn't find one single "Spinster Love Connection" or "Old Ladies Seek Someone to Love and Likes 9 PM Bedtimes" or even a "Frazzled Moms Who Just Don't Care to Try That Hard to Find a Guy Because They're Unwilling to Squeeze Into a Pair of Skinny Jeans When Sweats Are More Comfortable Anyway".

Why Spinster Love Connection? Because once you hit a certain age, (like having 3 kids) you're just tired. I have an awesome, loving husband and I'm glad because the thought of putting myself out there again and trying to find someone new that can put up with me is terrifying and overwhelming. This man, lucky guy that he is, already knows my quirks and habits, and STILL loves me. I just don't think I could get that lucky again.

Like I said, I'm tired. Want to know how my spinster ad would read? It would go something like this: "Mother of 3 children seeking someone who likes being a homebody and watching a lot of pointless television and sappy romance movies. Must love lazy weekends and be able to deal with my total absorption into various books, which happens often as I love to read. Also a plus if party tolerance is under 2 hours so that you won't complain when I want to go home. Must be able to deal with being second to my children because they are my world. If you have an aversion to women in pajama pants every minute she's not out in public, please don't apply."

Yes, that's a sexy picture. I'd end up with every 40 year old virgin who still lives in their parent's basement vying for my hand. Considering I haven't liked a picture of me since I was 21, it wouldn't be a current picture posted with the ad and I'd probably get sued for misrepresentation, go bankrupt, lose my house, and we'd all have to live in a van down by the river.

So, this Valentine's Day, I'm going to be extra thankful for hubby. After all, he's all that's standing between me and a van down by the river.

A Guy's Guide to Gift Giving for his Gal

Valentine's Day is coming up on Thursday. I know, I know, this holiday doesn't rate as high on the cool factor for guys as say the Superbowl or Monster Truck Rally Day. But for guys in a relationship, Valentine's Day means you need to buy your gal a present. Since I am such a nice person (in print at least), here is my gift giving guide for guys.

CANDY. Now, chocolates are pretty much a staple for ol' Cupid's Day. You can't go anywhere in December (Yes, it starts that friggin early now.) without seeing boxes of foil wrapped hearts containing that lovely nectar of the female species: chocolate. This is a potentially dangerous gift guys. If your girl has been extra sensitive about her weight after the holiday gorge fest, this might not be the best gift. And absolutely, under no circumstances, should you buy the ginormous deluxe box of chocolates. Unless your lady has the metabolism of a cheetah, this is probably getting you in trouble.

FLOWERS. Yes, it's a beautiful sentiment and roses are really gorgeous when those savvy florists are done with the arrangements. Personally, my hubby is under strict orders NOT to buy me flowers for Valentine's Day. Those same savvy floral arrangers also know to mark the price up so much for this holiday of love that you could probably adopt a small country for what you pay. I can't justify the expense. Now January 29th? Or August 3rd? Or even April 15th? Go nuts. Buy me flowers. At least I know that you didn't have to promise our first born in order to pay for them.

LINGERIE. No. This is not a gift for us, it's a gift for you. Unless you have a sex kitten for a girlfriend, (Notice I did not say wife! We all know the sex train stops after the honeymoon!) this is a volatile gift. All lingerie sold in February should include a warning label that says: Caution! Buying this as a Valentine's Day gift could result in serious bodily injury.

JEWELRY. This is another potentially dangerous gift. If you're girlfriend has been hinting at engagements, handing her ANY jewelry box that is not an engagement ring could lead to you sleeping on the couch for the next month. For those married gals, they're probably stressing about grocery budgets and college expenses, so don't be stupid and buy an insanely expensive piece of jewelry. (Unless you have already gotten wife pre-approval.) For all Valentine's Day rookies, you'd probably better steer clear of this gift.

CARDS. I actually prefer cards for Valentine's Day. They can be kept for years so that, when I'm pissed at hubby and considering where I could hide the body, I can pull them out and remember he's really a decent guy and no, I shouldn't kill him. This time. That being said guys, make sure you know what kind of cards your lass likes. I like funny cards because those sappy ones just irritate me, or make me cry, which irritates me more. Some women might feel you're making light of your relationship if you get a funny card, and you'll STILL end up sleeping on the couch.

And for all you gals, the one gift that you can get your guy for Valentine's Day.....well, I don't really have to tell you, do I? It's starts with bow and ends with chicka wow wow.

Batten Down the Hatches!

When you live on the East coast, weather is a very big deal. Especially if there's a winter storm coming. It's such a big deal that the weather men (Oh sorry, weather people) have half a dozen terms for the word snowstorm  There's blizzard, clipper, nor'easter  snow squall and probably some others but that's all I know. (Hey, I'm not a weather person.)

Because we live in the East, we get the benefit of having four seasons. (Winter, A little warmer than winter,  summer, and almost winter again) We're lucky enough to get the "weather variety pack". Snow, sleet, hail, thunderstorms, wind, sun, rain......and sometimes we have a few different weather types in a single day! However, none are more entertaining than the snow storm.

The East coast is going to "get slammed by winter storm". (That was one of the actual headlines I read today.) When a big storm is predicted, it's like the Oscars. There is constant news about when it's going to start (The pre-Oscar red carpet walk complete with interview with some B list celebrity), total accumulation (what designer everyone's wearing), temperatures (who's hot and who's not), and which areas are going to get the highest amount of total snow (some boring foreign film took home half the awards). For days, it's all anyone can talk about. The newscasters are gleefully reminding you to stay tuned for the "latest on the storm". That's news gold baby! And it's all people talk about for DAYS. "Did you hear about the storm? It's going to bring anything from eighteen inches to six feet." Um, no, it's not. We're supposed to get 10 to 18 inches but we'll probably end up with 15 and people will act like it's 36.

No snow storm would be complete without the shrieking sallies who love to panic and swarm grocery stores for their bread, milk, and toilet paper that they probably don't need but plan to stock up on "just in case". In case of what? A 3 month power outage? You realize you have 60 rolls of toilet paper in your cart, right? Are you buying a case of prunes and know you'll need the extra rolls? And the 3 gallons of milk you're buying.......if the power goes out, how do you expect to keep it from going bad? Chug a gallon at a time? You can't put it in the snow, because not only is it camouflaged but you'll have to bring a shovel every time you want a glass of milk. We're talking 1 to 2 feet of snow people.

I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to go to the store. I just realized I only have 14 rolls of toilet paper.

Just Another Day in Mayhemville

Have you ever had one of those craptastic days at work? One of those days where you wish you were independently wealthy and could tell your boss to take this job and shove it? When you buy a lottery ticket and instead of dreaming of all the nice, shiny things you'd buy, you start picturing all the ways you'd storm into work and quit? The kind of day where you feel like you're in the rat race and aren't even getting your reward of cheese? Yeah, that's the kind of day yesterday turned into.

Now, bad work days are different from plain old bad days. Bad days are: home stinks, traffic's rotten, and work bites the big one. Bad work days can be limited to just: it sucks at work. Home's great, traffic's fine, and your kids didn't even annoy you at all (which frankly, makes me wonder if they've been replaced by pod people). But everyone at work is an a-hole, you can't take the complaining and whining anymore, and one of your projects turned into a nightmare because of your software vendor. What starts out as a perfectly nice day just got flushed down the crapper in 4.3 seconds.

The bad thing about this is, I LIKE my job. 99% of the time at least. So having days when I start fantasizing about walking in, flipping everyone off, and saying, "Suck it losers. I'm out!" means the day was a colossal disaster. And if you work in a place like I do, the negative Nellies of the bunch make it even more miserable and you start fantasizing about THEIR big quitting scene. (Because you just know if that one person wasn't there, your work life would go so much more smoothly. Until another one takes their place. It's a vicious circle.)

Even the days where things are going along okay can turn into crud in an instant. You could almost make it out the door and someone is a complete ass to you and then poof! Instant work rage. Now you wish you could tell that person what you really think, but since the mortgage and the light bill are still requiring payment, you're stuck going back and therefore, cannot afford to get fired for dropping a few f bombs and telling someone to kiss your ass.

After seriously craptastic days, you dread going to work the next day because trepidation sets in. You start wondering, "Will today be a repeat of yesterday?" Or will the sun be shining on your drab little cubby hole and make the universe right again? It's a roll of the dice. You never know. It could be you still want to stab the person who pissed you off yesterday, it could be someone entirely new who is taking their bad work day out on you.

So, buck up little soldier and have hope. There's only 21 more years until retirement. (Oh crap, I'm in trouble.)

Hum a Few Bars and I'll Sing Along

Does anyone else think in song lyrics? Really? No? Huh. The nice doctor at the institute said it was completely normal......

I'll bet you didn't know that I am extremely musically talented. I play the radio, the iPod, AND the compact disc. Now, now, don't be jealous. I realize that not everyone can be this special. Although I don't play an actual instrument, I LOVE music. Not all music (80's hairbands and I had an argument about a decade ago and we're still not talking to each other.) but a lot of it. And even songs that I might not love seem to lodge their way into my subconscious. Since I adore music,  the lyrics, song titles, and artists seem to stick in my head. Seriously, it's like Trivial Pursuit up there sometimes.

Because of this quirky facet, it's the smallest things that make me revert to songs. If my husband had a day off and asked me please wake him up when I leave for work, I'd instantly think, "Wake me up, before you go go. Don't leave me hanging here like a yo yo." And then that song would be stuck in my head for hours and it would totally irritate me because of it's upbeat tempo and matchy-matchy lyrics.

Okay, need another example of my "special talent"? If someone even mentions the word hero I think of either Bette Midler ("Did you ever know that you're my heeeeerooooo?") or the Foo Fighters. ("There goes my hero, watch him as he goes.") Of course, of those two, I'd definitely prefer the Foo Fighters to be looping around that warehouse of a brain of mine as I'm not totally in love with 'ol Bette. Someone who's leaving and says, "I gotta fly" and now I'm thinking of Steve Miller Band's Fly Like an Eagle. If anyone says Oh my God guess what's there? The intro to Sir Mixalot's "I Like Big Butts". Now THERE'S a song to have stuck in your head. I don't even LIKE big butts and now I'm telling myself that yes, indeed I do, and I cannot lie.

Sometimes when I'm bored, I'll change the lyrics to the song and sing something completely different to the tune. I do this often in traffic if my kids are in the car. (Because face it, if they aren't in the car, I'm probably dropping a lot of f bombs and a-holes. Have you seen how people drive? Unbelievable.) For example, take Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody". The part that says "I see a little silhouette-o of a man, Scaramouche, scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?" turns into "I see a really stupid man on the road. Yes he is! Yes he is! Can't believe he got his license." Upside? Arguing kids will now side with each other on how weird Mom is.

To top it all off, and make sure you realize what little normality myself possesses, I wake up every day with a song in my head. It doesn't even have to be a song I've heard recently. I once woke up thinking about a song I hadn't heard in years. Sometimes I wonder if there's a tiny little neuron in charge of things up there and, to keep himself from getting bored, he throws a funky song out once in awhile to see if I'm paying attention.  Mostly I accept these wake up songs but there are times I have a song I don't like stuck in my head or worse, one that I only know 1 line to. Then that one line loops around like a record player that skips. Annoying. And you wonder why I'm crazy?

So please be careful what you say to me. The song locator in my head might make me think of the B 52's Love Shack and I seriously hate that song. (I know, I'm probably the only one.)

Handsy McToucherson Strikes Again

My youngest son, my "baby", is five years old. He turns six in May. I'm pretty sure that he's trying to either drive me crazy or give me a full head of gray hair. Maybe he's going for the bonus round and shooting for both.

So that you don't think I'm a completely terrible parent, I'll start with his good qualities. He's a cuddle bug, he tells his Dad and me that he loves us at least half a dozen times a day, and he has the most incredible baby blues that are going to be trouble for me once he learns how to use them to his advantage. The kid also has touch issues. He seriously cannot walk by something and pass by. He has to stop, look, and then touch and/or play around with it.

Exhibit A. I'm making cookies last night and the cookie dough is sitting on the counter with two spoons in it for dropping the dough on the cookie sheets. He walks over and starts playing with the spoons. "Don't touch that." Away he goes, I'm guessing to annoy his older brother or sister. (He's making it into quite the art form!) Ten minutes later he comes into the kitchen again. This time he's playing with the plastic wrap on the cake that's sitting on the counter. "Stop playing with that." Again he wanders off, probably plotting more mother madness and covertly peeking at my hair to see if there are any new grays. The third time he comes into the kitchen, he starts playing with the measuring spoons on the counter. "Do you HAVE to touch everything?" Now he pouts and leaves the room, probably whispering ancient voodoo hexes on his mean mommy.

At this rate, I'm telling this kid at least 5, 6, 7 times a day to stop touching things. (I'm tempted to get a tape recorder and play it on loop for all his waking hours.) I'm hoping it's a phase. If he's 25 and still cannot walk into a room without finding some object that needs to be poked, pinched, twirled, tugged, or petted, I'm going to, going to, well, I don't know. Probably feel like a failure as a parent, start binge drinking, and become the drunk Aunt at all the Christmas parties who's amusing but a little sad.

Not only does he need to touch things, he can't see a container of any sort and not try to see what's in it. Purses, bags, backpacks, it doesn't matter. If you leave a grocery bag with anything in it in his vicinity for more than a minute and a half, he's poking through it. I'm trying to decide if he's nosy or curious.

So now you know, if you visit my house, you'll see the almost 16 year old comedian, the pre-apocalyptic 12 year old, and Handsy McToucherson. It's like living in a circus sometimes. But I think I'll stay here. There's never a dull moment at least!

Act Now and We'll Double Your Order!

Here's a handy little trivia fact about me: I LOVE infomercials. If that sounds dorky, well, I'll own it. Hubby once banned me from watching them. (Actually, I might still be on restriction. I should check on that.) I'm sure he did this as a result of my telling him I want ______. Fill in the blank with the Ronco Food Dehydrator, the Magic Bullet, The GT Express Sandwich maker and so on.

Does this seem really random to you? Well, it's really not. My oldest came in to tell me a joke he made up. It goes like this: Bad Idea #2: Arithmetoilet! Do you struggle in math? Do you think going to the bathroom is a waste of time? Then buy the arithmetoilet now and start turning number 2's into number 2 plus 2's! (Are you laughing? This cracked me up.) So of course, I start thinking about infomercials and how charismatic those infomercial guys are and how they could pretty much sell me anything. Even an arithmetoilet.

It's just that I get caught up watching them. Did you ever see the Oxyclean infomercial? I loved that one. I've seen it probably 3 dozen times. They had like 16 different dirty things they used the product to clean. There was something mesmerizing watching the grout on the bathroom floor turn white. I tried Oxyclean once it was "now sold in stores!" It didn't work as well as it did in the infomercial. Probably because it didn't come with the handy demonstrator guy. Maybe it would have worked then. Looking back, maybe I liked the idea of someone coming in to make everything clean, not actually doing it myself. That doesn't seem as fun.

Then there was the Magic Bullet infomercial. I'm pretty much a sucker for any product that will tell me how to cook really easily AND have a comedic infomercial. They suck you in with the "It's the size of a coffee cup and won't take up much room on your counter!" deal. Ok, I have like 4 feet of counter space but I could have a coffee mug on my counter! What's that you say? It makes smoothies, mixed drinks AND can blend omelette ingredients? SOLD. Of course, I ended up talking myself out of this one when someone I knew told me it didn't live up to it's name. SAVED! No wasted money this time.

Probably my most favorite infomercial was for the GT Express sandwich maker. I STILL want one of these things. I have yet to be dissuaded. It has two crescent shaped sandwich wells that just look like they could make me some awesome edibles. If you watch them touting the product they will show you that you can make delicious sandwiches out of last night's leftovers! Well, good. We mostly just let them sit there for 3 or 4 days until I need room in the fridge and I throw them out. I'm sure we'd eat them if only I had a GT Express! Feeling a little snacky but don't want to make an entire cake? Make a mini one! As a special treat, hide a mini candy bar in there for a special surprise. (How much of a surprise is it if I'm the one who put it in there?) And wouldn't this be great? A snack cake for one! I'm sure eating cake all the time is on my diet, right? I poke fun, but if that infomercial came on right now, I'd be glued in front of it. Look, it even comes with a handy recipe book for tons of great things you can make in your GT Express! Omelettes! Cakes! Sandwiches!

Oh GT Express, how I covet thee!

And if you think I'm bad just watching the infomercial, wait until I get to the actual ordering part. "If you call within the next 4 minutes and 38 seconds, we'll give you TWO of everything! That's right! TWO sandwich makers so you can make four sandwiches at once! AND we'll throw in this little bent spatula that makes getting your crap out of the GT even easier! Not sold anywhere else folks, so pony up your credit card information and call today!"

So, if you ever come to visit, don't be surprised if I'm whipping you up a delicious smoothie in my Magic Bullet and making a sandwich in my sandwich maker. (I have to get my money's worth for these damn things that I paid three easy installments of $19.99 for!) And if you go to the bathroom, expect to be quizzed by the Arithmetoilet.

Mayhem for the Superbowl

Today's a big day in our household. It's the Superbowl. If you don't follow sports, today is the New Year's Eve of the football season. One last chance to have a little fun, as well as be crowned this year's winning team, before they all retire to their post playoff havens. Actually, it probably IS a lot like New Year's Eve for the winning team, complete with a huge after party and killer hangover the next day.

Because my husband is such a jock, he loves sports and football is his pet (with basketball being the red headed step child). Each Sunday of the football season is a big deal with him pulling out 2 televisions to add to our living room (for a total of three!) and him having the season ticket on DirecTv so that he can watch EVERY GAME. So as big a deal as each individual Sunday is, the Superbowl is a B.F.D.

Not only do I win "awesome wife points" for allowing the chaos of three televisions in my teeny tiny living room every Sunday of football, but I also win major points by having a Superbowl party at the culmination of the season. This year, with the frustration of the house and various repair projects in limbo, I decided against having the party. (Though my husband took it like a champ, I think I did see him whip out the notebook and deduct some points.)

Now I'm thinking I'm getting out of this easily and I can have a relaxing, normal weekend. Until I remember that my oldest son loves one of the party dishes I make and has been haranguing me to make it. I've put him off, telling him I only make it for the Superbowl party. Well, now I have a giant case of mom guilt, so I decide I can at least make that dish. I can't disappoint him after promising him this for months! What kind of mother would I be then? A heartless monster who makes and breaks promises at her whim? Okay, so just the velveeta potatoes dish.

Well, making just one dish seems kind of odd. We can't have that as dinner. And it's too heavy to stand as an appetizer. Okay, so maybe I'll make some meatballs and sauce and get little rolls and some mozzarella cheese and we can have mini meatball subs. The youngest loves my meatballs and with those two dishes, I can count that dinner. So, just the meatballs and the velveeta potatoes. That's not too bad. It's less food than I would have made for a party. Still pretty relaxed. Okay, good.

Oh, I have the salsa I made at the end of the summer. I promised hubby he could have a jar at the Superbowl party. This was before I cancelled the party. I can't go back on my word, not after he's told me half a dozen times how much he LOVES my homemade salsa. Well, that's easy enough. Just get some chips and dump the salsa in a bowl. Okay, that could be the "appetizer" and then we'll have the meatball subs and the potatoes.

Wait, I did buy those little cocktail weenies to make pigs in blankets. Maybe I could just make those for dinner one night? No, that sounds weird. What would I make to go with them? That's not really a dinner food. Well, how hard is that? Wrapping them in crescent rolls and popping them in the oven? I can do that. I'll have the daughter to help. She's already offered to help and I can use slave labor. Okay. So the salsa and chips and the meatballs and the potatoes and the pigs in blankets.

Should I have a sweet too? I did buy those butterscotch chips because they were half off, and I DO have two bags. I could make a batch of oatmeal scotchies and then the kids would have after school snacks this coming week too. And it doesn't take long to whip up a batch of cookies. I have the daughter to help and she likes baking. Okay, so just the pigs in blankets, the meatballs, the potato dish, the salsa and chips, and the oatmeal scotchies for a dessert kind of thing.

So at the end of it I realize I really AM having a party. Food wise at least. The people might not be coming but I could have fed them had I decided to invite them. But hosting a party is devilish....hey, deviled eggs. I haven't made those in awhile and the hubby REALLY likes them. Maybe I can add those too........

Beefing Up America in 60 Second Intervals

So I've resigned myself to my 40 minutes of nightly exercise torture on my stationary bike. It's almost a game lately because I like to get it done as early as I can, freeing the rest of my night up AND inflating my sense of accomplishment. So now I'm cramming blogging, dinner, dishes, and exercise into the three and a half hours between getting home from work and my little guy's bedtime, which coincides with my shows coming on. (This makes me feel like a little old lady. Remember they used to watch their soap operas and they called them "My Stories"?)

Sometimes, I have so much going on that I get my little guy into bed and THEN exercise. This happened a few times last week. So here I am, quarter after 8 at night, huffing and puffing and pedaling away. I'm watching my shows at the same time so I don't have to think so much about how much I hate exercising. (#*!*%@* evil exercising  Good for your heart my ass! I'm dying over here.) And an ad for Red Lobster comes on. What the hell? It's after 8 at night and now I'm snackish. I'm STILL exercising, not even done pedaling away my half a pound that I'll manage to scrape off one of my thighs, and now I want to add 5 pounds worth of delicious, greasy, fried shrimp. Luckily, it's a stationary bike, so I'm not getting anything other than aches in muscles that are protesting my anti-atrophy movement.

Ten minutes later, it happens AGAIN. Only this time it's a Taco Bell commercial. Still I'm thinking, "What the hell? Do they expect us to get in our cars and drive to Taco Bell at 8:30 at night?" Well, maybe. But more than likely, it's the only time that they reach the majority of people for their advertising purposes. This backfires on Americans though because it's now 9:30 at night and you wish you had a burrito and can't figure out why you want one so badly (not realizing your subconscious has taken in those 4 commercials for Taco Bell). So you go to the kitchen, and since you don't have a burrito, grab another snack. It's never anything good for you either. It's not rice cakes or carrot sticks or a salad. It's ice cream, chips, or cookies. It's like that devil on your shoulder duct taped the angel's mouth shut so you can't hear the good snack suggestions. Meanwhile that devil is whispering, "Put chocolate syrup on your ice cream. Oh and whipped cream! No, no cherries, that's a fruit, it's good for you. How about sprinkles instead?"

See? And they call America an obese nation. Sure we are. All we see are car ads and food commercials from 8-11. So, we get in our car and drive to a fast food restaurant. Then we come home, eat our bad food, brush our teeth, and go to bed. Ta da! Building fat asses one ad at a time. And while they irritate me normally, add a diet and exercise regime (So I can be a "healthier me". Ugh.) and now I'm furious. Do you realize how many food ads they have out there in these "prime time" hours? There's Red Robin, Red Lobster, Burger King, McDonalds, Wendy's, Outback Steakhouse......the list goes on and on. I'm trying to watch The Biggest Loser and fuel myself on to being a big loser myself, (Oh, wait, that didn't sound as good out loud as it did in my head.) but instead I am inundated with burgers and steak and fried seafood ads.

So basically, American wants to be that two faced high school cheerleader. To your face, she laments how sad it is that Americans are overweight and how it's a growing epidemic and blah blah our poor fat kids and  boo hoo hoo. But as soon as you walk away she'll be whispering sweet nothings about cheeseburgers and milkshakes to your subconscious and telling you all the bad things your diet said about you behind your back.

The Giggling Gaggle of (Middle Aged) Girls

So, I have a girls night out tonight. This trend has become more popular in recent years as a method for women to have someone to vent to so that they don't end up stabbing their spouses, co-workers, or mother-in-laws. The venue varies but invariably it will involve food, possibly wine, and always laughing.

My husband is tickled pink that I'm having a girls night out. Since I tend to be anti-social and he can't meet enough people, he never understands my "I've reached my quota of being nice to people in a social setting, it's time to go home NOW" attitude. I think he's secretly relieved that I'm occasionally "normal" and that he won't end up as a story on that Lifetime show Snapped. (This is a show where woman have gone psycho and killed their boyfriends, husbands....anyone with a penis basically qualifies for their rage.) Even knowing that he has to feed all 3 kids dinner is not daunting enough to sway him from his happiness that his wife is not a house hiding hobbit.

Since I'm bringing the dessert (carrot cake), my house had the lovely smell of cinnamon and nutmeg and was basically taunting me. "You know you want to eat a bad snack that would totally offend your diet's sensibilities". As I was hovering around the oven, ready to pounce on the cake and stab it to death with toothpicks (not for taunting me, but to check if it was done. I'll get my licks in for teasing my damn diet when I "accidentally" stab it when I'm frosting it.) and debating the merits of payback, the phone rings.  My parents invited us to dinner Saturday night. For months I can exist in a social drought, with barely an invitation here or an outing there and now I'm being social TWICE IN ONE WEEKEND? Do I get bonus points for being pleasant to friends AND family in a 24 hour period? I might have to ration it so I don't spend too much pleasantry at one place, thereby short changing the other.

Yes, yes, I know. I sound like a miser. A grinchy loner who sits alone in a dark room muttering to herself. But it's not that I don't like people, it's, well, yeah, that I don't like people. But not all people, just most of them. So you have to understand how big of a deal it is for me to come out of my cave. (It's dark in here but I have plenty of books!) With so much to do and since my request to add 4 extra hours to each day was denied, I usually get to the important things first and the not so important ones last. Because I almost qualify as a hermit (I'm just missing the beard and the suspenders), I always forget about social interaction. It kind of slips off the list.

And I don't know why I'm such a loner either. It's mystifying because my kids, my husband, hell even my dog LOVE people. I'm more "Meh, take 'em or leave 'em." I'm convinced that I might be missing a specific chromosome that deals with party enjoyment. (I think it's chromosome number 21)

So I just want you to know: I'll be keeping score. The more points I earn by being a great guest THIS time might save me when I lose points for telling someone that her hat is hideous the next time.