Friday, October 26, 2007

Do you want fries with that?

I love fast food.
I don't care WHAT it is - it's better if it comes in a paper bag and someone asks you "Do you want to value-size that?".

It's greasy, it's fatty, it's life-threatening, and I love it so.

Why am I dead-set on making my arteries scream for mercy?
I blame it on my childhood.

(What? I'm not allowed to do that anymore? It's not Politically Correct?)
Well, tough. I don't feel like taking responsibility for the fact that I'll eat crap on a stick as long as it's deep-fried.
So, to hell with it. I'm pulling out the freshman Psych. card and blaming it on my Mother. (*grins*)

After all, isn't that what Mothers are for? Isn't that what I have to look forward to?

(Considering that there are more charges for Chick Fil-A on our debit card statement than there are rednecks at Wal-Mart, you can see that I am doomed to the same fate when my offspring get their first Lipitor prescriptions.)

But eh.
You know, I'm usually so brain-fried by dinner time that on some days it's a wonder that I don't accidentally microwave the cat for dinner... so it could be worse.
The kids should be grateful! I'm actually doing them a favor here.

Chicken soaked in peanut oil is a damn sight better than singed cat hair any day of the week.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

A Glimpse Into The Golden Years....

Ever wonder what life will be like when you grow old?

I used to....

I used to wonder, but now I have my answer - the Senior Citizen years are like being a SAHM, but without the food throwing and snot.

Your work consists of wiping asses (children or spouse - it doesn't matter).
You long for interaction with other adults who still remember you.
The highlight of your day is having a meal out with someone who has all their teeth.
You hang out at the YMCA several times a week - not necessarily to get fit, but for a change of pace.

It admittedly feels rather strange to be in the locker room after my workout surrounded by almost NOBODY who isn't eligible for the Early Bird discount at Golden Corral. But hey... on the bright side, I have the best skin and perkiest bits of anyone in the locker room - a feat I haven't managed for quite some time!

The saddest part?
I think the 90 year-old woman that I regularly run into in the locker room (after her water aerobics class) is in better shape than me. I console myself by thinking that she obviously must have a sweet young thing at home. Nobody who wipes butts and spoon-feeds puree to another human being 24/7 is that light on their feet. No one.

So yeah. The YMCA is pretty good for an ego boost sometimes.
If you can avoid watching your cellulite jiggle in the mirrors of the workout room, that is.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

I'll have my usual, please.

I am such a creature of habit.
A stalker's dream, really.

I do the same things every morning, noon, and night. I order the same dishes at restaurants (over and over and over again), and I even dress the same pretty much all the time (think 12 shirts, exactly the same, but in different colors. Yeah. I'm daring). In short, I am a walking Excel spreadsheet.

Yeah. Anal much?

Now if only I could apply that discipline (cough*obsession*cough) to things that actually matter... like, oh, I don't know... laundry? Cleaning? Filing?
But alas... I fear that I am doomed to be completely anal-retentive only about the supremely inconsequential. And I wonder why my kids won't go to sleep without nightlights, humidifiers, and a bath before bed. (lol) Apple... meet tree. You didn't fall very far.

Before you know it my house will be a condemned structure... but eh... who cares? I've already had a glass of wine, had a bath, and put lotion on for the 27,000th time today. The important stuff is taken care of. Life is good.

Needless to say, if you look up the word 'Flexible' in the dictionary, you will not be seeing my picture.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Straight up, please.

It's a martini kind of night.

There are fresh juice stains on the floor, and even though the beastly ones are in bed I still hear the vague echo of shouting and tantrum-screams in my head.

Make mine a double.

I need a powerful anesthetic to forget that lately my kids can be so rambunctious that I have become a walking ad for birth control. One look at my brood having a simultaneous tantrum in Wal-Mart is enough to send any blissful young couple high-tailing it to the condom aisle - for the Value Pack.

To put it succinctly, I am freaking beat.
Today was the kind of day that makes boot camp look appealing - I could use a little R&R.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

The Winning Streak

Two good things in one day - I'm on a roll!

I had a Dr. appointment today to get a 'growth' on my neck checked out.

The verdict? It's a sebaceous cyst. The doc reached right out and popped it. Voila - no more lump. I felt pretty damned undignified, obviously. Here I was entertaining visions of lumpectomies, cancer, chemo, hospital bed rest (hey, a girl can dream), the works... and it turns out to be a nasty fluid-filled cyst.


I did get a flu shot while I was there though, so at least I didn't completely waste that $20 copay.

But wait, there's more! After that, the really good thing happened! (What, you thought being pronounced cancer-free was the best thing that happened to me today? Ha!)

BOTH of my kids are now taking a nap. Both of them. Lately that happens about as often as Britney Spears washes her hair, so you can see why I am so excited.

The house is so blissfully quiet I could cry... after I look to see if Ed McMahon is here with my check yet, of course. (Hey. It could happen. My kids are both napping - did I mention that?) I think Ed must be coming soon... I'm obviously heading into a winning streak here.

Maybe I should go buy a lottery ticket.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Bring on the Chinese Water Torture... please!

Some days being a SAHM feels like war torture.

Imagine this: Your CD player is malfunctioning, stuck on repeat. You have no choice but to listen to the song "Wannabe" over and over again until you can disconnect it. Now. Imagine that you CANNOT STOP IT, and you have my morning.

"Wan cowwwah? Wan cowwwah? Wan cowwah!" ("Want to color" for those not versed in baby-speak.) Constantly I hear this. Even when the crayons and paper are right in front of her! What does this munchkin want from me? Am I supposed to color FOR her? Or maybe I should use my Mommy-magic to have the crayons perform tricks... or perhaps I should miraculously defecate some new yet-to-be-invented colors for my budding artiste.

Well... eventually the kid has to nap, right?

She finally conks out (no doubt dreaming about the superior nature of Crayola to Prang), and now we get to my afternoon.

The artiste is sleeping, so I'm alone with Anna for a couple of hours. So, being the optimist that I am, I decide to embark on another (different) artistic pursuit with her.

Oh boy.

The artistic pursuit? Priming the laundry room. (The previous homeowners were SEVERELY taste-challenged) I knew I'd have 'help', and boy was I right. She attacked the walls with gusto - a little gummy bear-fueled painting machine. Great, right? Well, yeah... except that the minute I turn my back, she smears the door with her paint (the door she was expressly warned AGAINST painting).

OK, chickie. Paint time over.

So yeah.
My day was long. Long and 'interesting' for lack of a better word. Ask me in the morning, though, and my kids will be angels again. :)
It's the blessing (curse?) of parenthood - your own kids are always angels.

(And even if they aren't, you still have to say it. The doctors make you sign a contract as the head is crowning... they can't have you screwing up that whole 'propagation of the species' thing by telling the truth.)

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

Clean is overrated

Given that I'm a 'housewife' I suppose I should be more into this homemaking thing. Ya know, fresh bread, clean floors, clean children, freshly ironed towels... the whole Donna Reed spiel.

Honestly though, I just don't get it when people speak of cleaning products in the loving manner I reserve for a triple-fudge brownie, or a really kick-ass cocktail.

Like the other day - a friend of mine was waxing poetic about Mr. Clean Magic erasers... they took the grime around her sink right off! What miraculous little pieces of heaven!

My thoughts went a little something like "Huh. You're supposed to wipe that stuff off?"

It's a conspiracy.

I've been watching Trading Spaces and Antiques Roadshow for years... and I know that filth is in! You just have to learn how to sell it to others.

*Nosy neighbor makes a comment about your ring-around-the faucet? Fix her with a pitying stare and inform her that it is verdigris, not grime.

*Your husband is skeptical about the cleanliness of the stainless appliances, and remarks about the food crusted on them? Roll your eyes and ask him if he hasn't ever heard of a little something called patina. Then inform him that patina greatly increases the value of antiques... someday he'll be grateful.


I'm proud to say that I am one step ahead of the game. Magic erasers be damned - I am patina-rich thanks to my two wrecking balls I sometimes refer to as children. Hey, they have their uses. Thanks to that spaghetti sauce and fruit leather patina, I'll be a rich woman someday.

Monday, October 8, 2007

King Of The Germ Heap

My kids are angels.
Why other kids cannot follow suit and be un-annoying angelic creatures, I'll never know. (insert sad headshake)

Take this afternoon for instance:
My girls and I go to Chick-Fil-A for lunch (where we go waaay too much, but I digress) and then they play in the play area for a bit afterwards.
In said play area, I encounter "Annoying kid, type 1" - type 1 being the goody two-shoes RULE ENFORCER.

(Not to be confused with type 2, which is the KNOW-IT-ALL, or type 3, which is THE TATTLER.)

So, apparently I made a big mistake by letting my kids wear their shoes in there - after all, we were leaving in just minutes, and they never climb on the equipment anyway... they just play with the ground level toys. Well, Mr. RULE ENFORCER busy-bodies himself right on up to me and informs me that shoes ARE NOT ALLOWED, and my kids would have to TAKE THEIRS OFF!

Well, who died and made you King of germland?

We left shortly thereafter. I had to get out of there before the urge to pummel that kid with my gallon-sized drink cup took over.

From my experiences at various activities, I am left with but one conclusion: Once they start to talk, I mostly dislike any kid that didn't emerge from my hoo-ha.
The End.


People without children have asked me a time or two "What's it like?"

What's it like....
Kids are a force of nature - raw, unfettered, and strong. And raising them is a lot like attempting to tame the wind... the best you can hope to do in either instance is to harness some of it, and redirect it to where you want it to go.

And this is where I am - chronicling my attempts at taming the wind. And I dearly hope that I don't screw it up. :)