About 8 weeks ago I had a Dr's appointment. It was supposed to be a "well" visit. But, after having to get on the scale to have my weight checked, my blood pressure registered 152 over 101. And, I guess that's not good because they made me sit in the office for another half an hour so they could check it again. (I had explained that it was so high because I was shocked at my weight. But I don't think they bought it.) So, after resting for awhile, it came down to 149 over 90. Which, still didn't make my Dr. very happy.
Anyway, I convinced the Dr. that I really think it is stress more than anything. (A house, 3 kids, a business . . . .hellooooo???!) So, she suggested that I try some anti-anxiety pills for a while. I kindly explained to her that when she put me on Lexapro after my father died, I thought I looked like a supermodel and was so happy to spend money that I maxed out my credit card buying craft supplies. So, I was very hesitant to go that route. But, she suggested a combination of a daily happy pill, and a different happy pill (Xanax, how FUN!!) that I take when I get really stressed. (OK, so 2 daily happy pills??)
So, I have been taking these happy pills for about 8 weeks. And, I can say they are working because I'm a lot less stabby, and I haven't hurt any of the kids. However, they have made me really, um, well, um amorous. (In other words, I am hornier than a bag full of Rhinos.) Seriously, I just can't get it enough. My husband thought this was great . . . at first. Now he mumbles things like "stalker", "stop violating me", "nympho", and "hotline" or something like that.
What he fails to realize is that after 12 years of marriage and 3 children, he is the FRIGGEN LUCKIEST MAN ON THE PLANET to be dealing with such a problem. All he has to do is walk in the room and I am instantly turned on. The sight of him in his ripped boxer briefs and stained college t-shirt actually makes me swoon. When he came home from basketball the other night and saw the candles and heard the mood music, I think he actually started crying and screamed "AGAIN???????"
I guess you can call this a healthy dose of my own medicine. I mean, we have always had a very healthy relationship in that way. (We have 3 lovely "accidents" as proof.) But, I have been guilty of few "not tonight," "I have a headache," "I'm too tired," and "If you touch me again I'll stab you." So, now I can totally relate, and I will make an honest effort going forward to be more mindful of his feelings in this area. (Yeah, right.)
So, I was sharing this story with some of my Girlfriends, and naturally, they all have appointments to see their Dr's for the same pills. (Not that any of us need help in this area, but, a positive mental well being is so good for everyone. And hubby's that get it more frequently are so much less cranky.)
One Girlfriend has a sister that is a pharmacist, so she called to get the dirt on my miracle happy pills. Honest to god, the warnings for my pills are "causes weight gain and decreased sex drive." Ok, so I can blame the pills for my fat fanny (even if it was technically fat before the pills), but the decreased sex drive?? HUH???? Am I a freak or something? (I will know soon enough because 2 Girlfriends just got their scripts filled.)
To take my mind off of my need for luvin', I read. A LOT. Like a book a day. (To my credit, I am a fast reader.) I will read anything and everything that someone gives me. And, I will re-read it if I don't have another book handy. It is because of my sudden reading obsession that I was introduced to the Twilight series. And can I just say . . .
I love Edward Cullen. I mean, I pink puffy heart LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE Edward Cullen.
For those of you have haven't read Twilight, it is a tweenie book about vampires. But not the blood sucking scary vampires. Yummy, good-looking, school-boy vampires. And, if you haven't read it, go out and buy it and read it otherwise you will never, ever get my obsession with Edward Cullen. And, currently, I am obsessed. Don't we all need a good-looking vampire in our lives?
I'm so crazed, I even went to see the movie. I haven't been to the movies since Titanic, so needless to say it was a big deal. I didn't catch on to the Twilight craze until after the movie had been out for a while, so my niece and I had to drive an hour away to an ancient theatre to watch the movie. The theatre barely held 40 people, but the tickets were only $3. The only bad part was that the seats were so narrow, that neither me nor Heather could fit our fat behinds in them, and we weren't able to move for the entire movie. Seriously, we both got stuck in the seats. (We also had to wait until everyone left before we could get up because we weren't sure if the chairs were coming with us or not.) But, the boy playing Edward Cullen in the movie was so yummy, that it was completely worth hip bruising and numb feet.
This week I am reading a bunch of books by Jen Lancaster, which a Girlfriend let me borrow. She is so snarky and bitter that I am sure we are long lost soul sisters. However, she doesn't have children, so she might not get me. I was reading "Bright Lights, Big Ass" last night, and there is a part in the book where she calls Rachel Ray "Tittie McHighBeams." And, I am STILL laughing about it. I actually snorted. I thought I was the only one who found Rachel Ray to be highly annoying. But, to my surprise, there are others out there. (Titty McHighBeams. . .hee, hee, hee, hee, hee)
So, the moral of my blog today is that ya'll better start sending me some books or I might be in jail for spousal abuse. . .
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Girlfriends
Before I begin, I have to aplogize for my offensive language used in previous blogs. When my lovely mother joined us for a gourmet mac-n-cheese dinner last night she brought it to my attention that I was using "garage talk." "Now Jenny, when you are flogging," (Isn't she adorable?), "you really shouldn't use potty mouth." Huh? What did I say? "Jenny honey, you can call it making potty or going pee, but you really shouldn't use the (low whisper) piss word. It's just not very lady like." Isn't it cute that my mom still thinks I'm a lady? I kinda thought she would've caught on by now. "And, Jenny sweetheart, don't go flogging about me tomorrow." Oh, mother, I would never do such a thing . . .
Oh, and the mac-n-cheese I made last night totally rocked so I will post the recipe at the end of this blog. (Um, it was DIET mac-n-cheese)
So, onto my Girlfriends. I have to show you all love for the wonderful support you all have shown me over the years. Honestly, I don't know what I would do without you all. (I am quite certain I would have stabbed someone by now, but we all know I have a little stabby problem.) I have the most wonderful crew of Girlfriends: some that have been my Girlfriends since birth; some that have been my Girlfriends since Elementary School & High School; some that have been my Girlfriends since college; some that have become Girlfriends after working with me; some Girlfriends that I have met through my kids; some that have been forced to be Girlfriends because they are related to me; some Girlfriends I met through my bad golf game; some Girlfriends I have met through other Girlfriends; some Girlfriends I have met through my gay Boyfriends; and Girlfriends I have yet to meet but know that we will be close someday. You are all the best.
My Girlfriends are the type that would not only tell me that I have something stuck in my teeth, but they would also totally lie and tell me how great I look when they know I have gained 10 pounds and have had to leave my pants unbuttoned. My Girlfriends are the type to forgive me for not staying in touch as often as I'd like, and when we do connect, we just pick up where left off. So, to you my Girlfriends, I salute you with a toast of my baileys and coffee. (Hey it's another snow day and the kids are home, so I am starting early.)
I had the pleasure of going out with a few of my Girlfriends this weekend for a much needed night out. We started out having dinner and martini's at another Girlfriend's fabulous restaurant. Our waitress too was a Girlfriend, so our 2 1/2 hour dinner was tons of fun, needless to say. After our wonderful dinner we decided to go to our local bar. Actually, it is the ONLY bar in town, and it is what most folk would refer to as, well, a dive. They have Pabst on tap, and many patrons actually arrive on snowmobiles or tractors. So, I think you get the picture. It is a bar that everyone is my hometown is familiar with, and of course, we all have crazy stories.
My story began many moons ago when I was a bartender at this bar. It was my first bartending job, and I was so excited to learn how to bartened because I had heard all the stories about how much money you could make. Little did I know that the most exotic drink I would ever make would be a screwdriver. But, it was a fun place, and the locals tipped pretty well. And, since I was still legally unable to drink, it was a great place for me and my friends to get drunk.
I chose to go there Saturday night for the sole purpose that if I drank too much, I could always have my mom come and pick me up. (It wouldn't have been the first time, unfortunately.) For a big girl, suprisingly, I am a pretty cheap date. I am the life of the party after just a few coctails.
Upon entering my old stomping ground I was suprised to see that absolutely nothing had changed. Except the patrons. I was concerned that many in the crowd were up well past their bed time. They all looked 12. And, of course, they ALL turned to look at us as we walked in the door. Naturally, I yell something like "the FUN has arrived." (In the same tone as Rosie O'Donnell in the Tarzan movie.) And, I head to the jukebox to play $5 worth of old songs that we can sing along to at the top of our lungs. (Obviously, I am getting old, because $5 only gets you 9 songs nowadays. What a rip-off!)
So, my Girlfriends and I find seats at the end of the bar. (Actually I had to move chairs and coats, but I figured no one would dare mess with me on my old turf.) As we sit down to enjoy our $3 citron-and-sodas- with-a-splash-of-lime-juice (yes, another great reason to visit your local dive bar - top shelf liquor for $3 a drink!!!!! Wooooohooooo!), I can see that a small group of youngen's at the pool table keep looking over at my group of Girlfriends.
Naturally I assume that they are all looking at my fabulous new bangs thinking how amazing my hair looks and how young it makes me, so I don't give it much thought. After a few minutes one of the cute boys at the pool table starts walking right towards me.
I'm smiling to myself. Thinking "hey, even with an ass (oops butt, sorry mom) that hangs over the sides of the bar stool, you STILL got it girl. oooooooooh, these bangs are bangin' and so are you! you are one hot mama!" As you can tell, I am able to think a lot of things in a short amount of time. But, hey, a cute boy is heading right towards me!
"I know who you are." this cute boy says to me. Wow, my reputation proceeds me. I must be a legend here. I am so honored. "You are Mr. Paco's wife." Ugh, nothing like having the wind taken right out of your sails. "um, yes I am." I humbly reply. "He was the best counsellor ever. He's one of my favorite people!" mr cutie-pants gushes. "um, that's so nice. I'll be sure to tell him." And, I kindly spin my fat-bootie back around to face my Girls.
Ok, so I am in MY old stomping ground, with MY Girlfriends, listening to MY sing-along songs on the jukebox, with MY fabulous new bangs and STILL my ever perfect hubby has to come into play. Ugh! The joys of being married to a local legend.
But, true to the nature of a real Girlfriend, one says to me, "he was totally flirting with you." Exactly what I needed to put some air back in my sails, even if it was a blatant lie.
So, anyway, several other Girlfriends join us and we have a FABULOUS time. So much fun, that I think it should be a weekly ritual. I forgot how much I LOVE the song Ice Ice Baby. Good times.
So, the moral of the story here is (I'm not sure there really is one, but . . .) THANK YOU all for being my Girlfriends. (Or my special Boyfriends - you know who you are.) You make every day as a crazy wife, mother, business-owner, scatter-brained wackadooo seem, well, NORMAL. So, thanks. I never knew how many people have gone to work with 2 different shoes or scraped toothpaste off a ceiling, so it is so wonderful to know that I am not alone. I love you all.
Now, for my fabulous gourmet mac-n-cheese recipe. (I consider anything that involves chopping and doesn't come out of a bag or box gourmet. ) If any of you are Food Network junkies like I am, you will totally get it.
I call it Barefoot Paula Mac-n-cheese
Pour 2 cups white wine if your favorite glass. Sip. If you are going to cook, you should always have wine . . .
Boil water and add a box of pasta. Whatever you have on hand will do. I happened to use mini-penne because it's so darned cute.
While the pasta is boiling, melt 1/2 stick of butter in a sauce pan. Add about 1/2 to 1 cup chopped vidalia onions and sautee until they turn clearish. (You don't taste the onions for you onion-haters)
Add 2 cloves chopped garlic and stir for a minute.
Add about 1/4 cup flour and mix well for 1 minute.
Add 2-3 cups milk (or whatever is left in the jug as I did) and whisk well for a minute or so.
Add a few shakes of salt, a pinch of dry mustard, several grinds of pepper, and a large splotch of dried parsley.
Stir well.
Add one brick of chopped Gruyere cheese. (Or swiss if like me you are too cheap to splurge on a $7 hunk of cheese. ) Probably around 8 oz's.
Add several good hunks of velveeta cheese, probably another 8 oz's.
Add about 2 cups of mozzarella or an italian blend cheese.
Mix well.
To the boiling pasta add 3/4 of a bag of frozen peas, and about 2 cups of chopped ham. Let cook another minute or 2.
Drain pasta mixture and mix with cheese mixture.
Put into a pam-sprayed casserole dish, or a bunch of small ramekins or small casserole dishes so everyone can have their own dish.
Melt the other half of the stick of butter and mix with about 2 cups of panko or other bread crumbs. (I happen to LOVE panko). Spread over the top of casserole.
Bake in the oven at 350 for about half and hour. Until bubbly.
And, it is so friggen yummy. The kids finished every bite. I'm not a big fan of swiss cheese, but you can't taste it. I promise. Enjoy.
Oh, and refill your wine glass already.
Oh, and the mac-n-cheese I made last night totally rocked so I will post the recipe at the end of this blog. (Um, it was DIET mac-n-cheese)
So, onto my Girlfriends. I have to show you all love for the wonderful support you all have shown me over the years. Honestly, I don't know what I would do without you all. (I am quite certain I would have stabbed someone by now, but we all know I have a little stabby problem.) I have the most wonderful crew of Girlfriends: some that have been my Girlfriends since birth; some that have been my Girlfriends since Elementary School & High School; some that have been my Girlfriends since college; some that have become Girlfriends after working with me; some Girlfriends that I have met through my kids; some that have been forced to be Girlfriends because they are related to me; some Girlfriends I met through my bad golf game; some Girlfriends I have met through other Girlfriends; some Girlfriends I have met through my gay Boyfriends; and Girlfriends I have yet to meet but know that we will be close someday. You are all the best.
My Girlfriends are the type that would not only tell me that I have something stuck in my teeth, but they would also totally lie and tell me how great I look when they know I have gained 10 pounds and have had to leave my pants unbuttoned. My Girlfriends are the type to forgive me for not staying in touch as often as I'd like, and when we do connect, we just pick up where left off. So, to you my Girlfriends, I salute you with a toast of my baileys and coffee. (Hey it's another snow day and the kids are home, so I am starting early.)
I had the pleasure of going out with a few of my Girlfriends this weekend for a much needed night out. We started out having dinner and martini's at another Girlfriend's fabulous restaurant. Our waitress too was a Girlfriend, so our 2 1/2 hour dinner was tons of fun, needless to say. After our wonderful dinner we decided to go to our local bar. Actually, it is the ONLY bar in town, and it is what most folk would refer to as, well, a dive. They have Pabst on tap, and many patrons actually arrive on snowmobiles or tractors. So, I think you get the picture. It is a bar that everyone is my hometown is familiar with, and of course, we all have crazy stories.
My story began many moons ago when I was a bartender at this bar. It was my first bartending job, and I was so excited to learn how to bartened because I had heard all the stories about how much money you could make. Little did I know that the most exotic drink I would ever make would be a screwdriver. But, it was a fun place, and the locals tipped pretty well. And, since I was still legally unable to drink, it was a great place for me and my friends to get drunk.
I chose to go there Saturday night for the sole purpose that if I drank too much, I could always have my mom come and pick me up. (It wouldn't have been the first time, unfortunately.) For a big girl, suprisingly, I am a pretty cheap date. I am the life of the party after just a few coctails.
Upon entering my old stomping ground I was suprised to see that absolutely nothing had changed. Except the patrons. I was concerned that many in the crowd were up well past their bed time. They all looked 12. And, of course, they ALL turned to look at us as we walked in the door. Naturally, I yell something like "the FUN has arrived." (In the same tone as Rosie O'Donnell in the Tarzan movie.) And, I head to the jukebox to play $5 worth of old songs that we can sing along to at the top of our lungs. (Obviously, I am getting old, because $5 only gets you 9 songs nowadays. What a rip-off!)
So, my Girlfriends and I find seats at the end of the bar. (Actually I had to move chairs and coats, but I figured no one would dare mess with me on my old turf.) As we sit down to enjoy our $3 citron-and-sodas- with-a-splash-of-lime-juice (yes, another great reason to visit your local dive bar - top shelf liquor for $3 a drink!!!!! Wooooohooooo!), I can see that a small group of youngen's at the pool table keep looking over at my group of Girlfriends.
Naturally I assume that they are all looking at my fabulous new bangs thinking how amazing my hair looks and how young it makes me, so I don't give it much thought. After a few minutes one of the cute boys at the pool table starts walking right towards me.
I'm smiling to myself. Thinking "hey, even with an ass (oops butt, sorry mom) that hangs over the sides of the bar stool, you STILL got it girl. oooooooooh, these bangs are bangin' and so are you! you are one hot mama!" As you can tell, I am able to think a lot of things in a short amount of time. But, hey, a cute boy is heading right towards me!
"I know who you are." this cute boy says to me. Wow, my reputation proceeds me. I must be a legend here. I am so honored. "You are Mr. Paco's wife." Ugh, nothing like having the wind taken right out of your sails. "um, yes I am." I humbly reply. "He was the best counsellor ever. He's one of my favorite people!" mr cutie-pants gushes. "um, that's so nice. I'll be sure to tell him." And, I kindly spin my fat-bootie back around to face my Girls.
Ok, so I am in MY old stomping ground, with MY Girlfriends, listening to MY sing-along songs on the jukebox, with MY fabulous new bangs and STILL my ever perfect hubby has to come into play. Ugh! The joys of being married to a local legend.
But, true to the nature of a real Girlfriend, one says to me, "he was totally flirting with you." Exactly what I needed to put some air back in my sails, even if it was a blatant lie.
So, anyway, several other Girlfriends join us and we have a FABULOUS time. So much fun, that I think it should be a weekly ritual. I forgot how much I LOVE the song Ice Ice Baby. Good times.
So, the moral of the story here is (I'm not sure there really is one, but . . .) THANK YOU all for being my Girlfriends. (Or my special Boyfriends - you know who you are.) You make every day as a crazy wife, mother, business-owner, scatter-brained wackadooo seem, well, NORMAL. So, thanks. I never knew how many people have gone to work with 2 different shoes or scraped toothpaste off a ceiling, so it is so wonderful to know that I am not alone. I love you all.
Now, for my fabulous gourmet mac-n-cheese recipe. (I consider anything that involves chopping and doesn't come out of a bag or box gourmet. ) If any of you are Food Network junkies like I am, you will totally get it.
I call it Barefoot Paula Mac-n-cheese
Pour 2 cups white wine if your favorite glass. Sip. If you are going to cook, you should always have wine . . .
Boil water and add a box of pasta. Whatever you have on hand will do. I happened to use mini-penne because it's so darned cute.
While the pasta is boiling, melt 1/2 stick of butter in a sauce pan. Add about 1/2 to 1 cup chopped vidalia onions and sautee until they turn clearish. (You don't taste the onions for you onion-haters)
Add 2 cloves chopped garlic and stir for a minute.
Add about 1/4 cup flour and mix well for 1 minute.
Add 2-3 cups milk (or whatever is left in the jug as I did) and whisk well for a minute or so.
Add a few shakes of salt, a pinch of dry mustard, several grinds of pepper, and a large splotch of dried parsley.
Stir well.
Add one brick of chopped Gruyere cheese. (Or swiss if like me you are too cheap to splurge on a $7 hunk of cheese. ) Probably around 8 oz's.
Add several good hunks of velveeta cheese, probably another 8 oz's.
Add about 2 cups of mozzarella or an italian blend cheese.
Mix well.
To the boiling pasta add 3/4 of a bag of frozen peas, and about 2 cups of chopped ham. Let cook another minute or 2.
Drain pasta mixture and mix with cheese mixture.
Put into a pam-sprayed casserole dish, or a bunch of small ramekins or small casserole dishes so everyone can have their own dish.
Melt the other half of the stick of butter and mix with about 2 cups of panko or other bread crumbs. (I happen to LOVE panko). Spread over the top of casserole.
Bake in the oven at 350 for about half and hour. Until bubbly.
And, it is so friggen yummy. The kids finished every bite. I'm not a big fan of swiss cheese, but you can't taste it. I promise. Enjoy.
Oh, and refill your wine glass already.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Amost Famous
For approximately 26 hours this weekend, I thought I was going to the Grammy's. You know, the big music award show with the big red carpet and all the fabulous musicians. Yes, Me, There. Or, so I thought . . .
My dear favorite niece Heather (who is more like my little sister for those of you who don't see us constantly together) actually won tickets for 2 people to go to the Grammy's on a local radio station. She even won airfare and hotel accommodations. Naturally, I was the first person she called screaming to tell me the awesome news, and when she came over to my house later in the morning, we jumped up and down screaming while she yelled "we're going to the grammy's!!!!!!" Then she backed my car into a snowbank and got it stuck, but hey, how friggen excited was I????????? I kinda thought she might take me since A: We are superclose, and she asked me to be her maid of honor B: I used to live and work in LA and I totally know my way around C: I would look awesome walking down the red carpet D: I would totally max out my visa and pay for everything.
However, there had to be some DRAH-MA. My sister-in-law (Heather's Mom) decided that she wanted to go to. (she thinks the black eyed peas are a vegetable - so you get the picture.) Somehow, what should have been an awesome and exciting time for my niece turned into a nightmarish decision of playing favorites. Me - the superfun aunt with the high-limit credit card, or her Mom - the-wouldn't-know-Justin-Timberlake-if-he-was-dry-humping-her-leg-country-music-fan. (I really don't want to be mean because I totally used to love my sister-in-law, but I'm feeling slightly bitter and homicidal at the moment.) So, it turned into this competition of who is more deserving and who makes more sense, and anyone and everyone was offering their opinions and before long, Heather was bawling her eyes out saying she wished she'd never won.
In my defense, I sent her an email stating that I was busy that day and couldn't go. I mean, this is SUPPOSED to be FUN!!! A once-in-a-lifetime trip. But secretly, every fiber in my body was screaming "pick me, pick me!"
Well, naturally Heather had to go all Switzerland, and she decided to take her friend from high school, Amanda. (How much hatin' do you think I have for Amanda right now?) I can totally understand her decision and I wish her tons and tons of fun.
The problem here is that in the 26 hours that I thought I was going I managed to A: order $400 worth of new clothes that I must now return because they are not PTA appropriate B: Spent $40 to download every grammy song to my ipod so that I could be well prepared (who knew the Eagles were still makin' music?) and C: I got a fabulous red-carpet worthy new hair-do that includes drastic highlights and BANGS!!
Now what am I supposed to do with these things? The last time I had bangs was in the 9th grade when I used to take extra strength aqua net and blow-dry "wings" off the side of my head. I feel so out of place. I look like a cross between lady ga-ga and cher. Don't get me wrong, the new do is super glamorous and fun. But, i constantly feel like a pack of spiders is sprinting across my forehead and I can't quite get used to it.
One of my dear girlfriends feels my pain so she is hosting an I-hate-the-grammy's party for me. I am going to get all dressed up in an old bridesmaid dress (so what if I can't zip it, that's what duct tape is made in colors for!) and I will get to wear my fabulous hair do and walk the seagrass area carpet through her front door. (She did tell me to bring a paintbrush because she picked out her living room paint, but still, its all about me, me, me.) So, I will be having a fun evening after all. Justin Timberlake will just have to be patient and wait for me.
Truly I do wish heather tons of fun and a fabulously wonderful good time. However, I wish Amanda an in-grown toenail and a big zit on the end of her nose, but, hey, I'm still bitter.
Oh, and on a side note, it has been brought to my attention by several people in the know that it was NOT my fault that the Cowboys lost this year as my husband has so frequently accused me. Jessica Simpson jinxed the team early on and anything I contributed was moot at that point. So, technically, I am off the hook.
My dear favorite niece Heather (who is more like my little sister for those of you who don't see us constantly together) actually won tickets for 2 people to go to the Grammy's on a local radio station. She even won airfare and hotel accommodations. Naturally, I was the first person she called screaming to tell me the awesome news, and when she came over to my house later in the morning, we jumped up and down screaming while she yelled "we're going to the grammy's!!!!!!" Then she backed my car into a snowbank and got it stuck, but hey, how friggen excited was I????????? I kinda thought she might take me since A: We are superclose, and she asked me to be her maid of honor B: I used to live and work in LA and I totally know my way around C: I would look awesome walking down the red carpet D: I would totally max out my visa and pay for everything.
However, there had to be some DRAH-MA. My sister-in-law (Heather's Mom) decided that she wanted to go to. (she thinks the black eyed peas are a vegetable - so you get the picture.) Somehow, what should have been an awesome and exciting time for my niece turned into a nightmarish decision of playing favorites. Me - the superfun aunt with the high-limit credit card, or her Mom - the-wouldn't-know-Justin-Timberlake-if-he-was-dry-humping-her-leg-country-music-fan. (I really don't want to be mean because I totally used to love my sister-in-law, but I'm feeling slightly bitter and homicidal at the moment.) So, it turned into this competition of who is more deserving and who makes more sense, and anyone and everyone was offering their opinions and before long, Heather was bawling her eyes out saying she wished she'd never won.
In my defense, I sent her an email stating that I was busy that day and couldn't go. I mean, this is SUPPOSED to be FUN!!! A once-in-a-lifetime trip. But secretly, every fiber in my body was screaming "pick me, pick me!"
Well, naturally Heather had to go all Switzerland, and she decided to take her friend from high school, Amanda. (How much hatin' do you think I have for Amanda right now?) I can totally understand her decision and I wish her tons and tons of fun.
The problem here is that in the 26 hours that I thought I was going I managed to A: order $400 worth of new clothes that I must now return because they are not PTA appropriate B: Spent $40 to download every grammy song to my ipod so that I could be well prepared (who knew the Eagles were still makin' music?) and C: I got a fabulous red-carpet worthy new hair-do that includes drastic highlights and BANGS!!
Now what am I supposed to do with these things? The last time I had bangs was in the 9th grade when I used to take extra strength aqua net and blow-dry "wings" off the side of my head. I feel so out of place. I look like a cross between lady ga-ga and cher. Don't get me wrong, the new do is super glamorous and fun. But, i constantly feel like a pack of spiders is sprinting across my forehead and I can't quite get used to it.
One of my dear girlfriends feels my pain so she is hosting an I-hate-the-grammy's party for me. I am going to get all dressed up in an old bridesmaid dress (so what if I can't zip it, that's what duct tape is made in colors for!) and I will get to wear my fabulous hair do and walk the seagrass area carpet through her front door. (She did tell me to bring a paintbrush because she picked out her living room paint, but still, its all about me, me, me.) So, I will be having a fun evening after all. Justin Timberlake will just have to be patient and wait for me.
Truly I do wish heather tons of fun and a fabulously wonderful good time. However, I wish Amanda an in-grown toenail and a big zit on the end of her nose, but, hey, I'm still bitter.
Oh, and on a side note, it has been brought to my attention by several people in the know that it was NOT my fault that the Cowboys lost this year as my husband has so frequently accused me. Jessica Simpson jinxed the team early on and anything I contributed was moot at that point. So, technically, I am off the hook.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Mondays are EVIL
For the record, I HATE mondays. I didn't used to hate them, but now they are evil. Mondays are the day that my children all regress to the terrible twos, and we need a minimum of 20 extra minutes to make it out the door. Inevitably there are forgotten snowpants, missing gloves, scattered papers, and lots of tears. (Usually mine.) And today was no exception.
I awoke at the normal time of 5:10, and instead of hearing the usual hum of my hubby running on the treadmill, I hear him cursing and stomping downstairs. I naturally assume that the treadmill is broken. (I figure it has died from the strain of hauling my fat ass . . .) So, I call down and ask if he is ok, and the from the profanity laced string of responses I get, I am able to piece together that A: The kids did not pick up the video games from yesterday . . . B: the dog peed and pooped downstairs. . .C:the dog peed and pooped on the video games that the kids didn't put away yesterday.
And of course, the is somehow ALL MY FAULT. (It is also my fault that the cowboys lost in the playoffs because I dared to ask my husband if he wanted a blanket in the third quarter, therefore completely altering the earths rotation and the outcome of the game. So, to all Cowboy fans out there - I humbly apologize.) I will admit that I was completely lax with the kids playing with the Wii yesterday, but in my defense, it was my father's deathiversay, and it is the one day a year where I traditionally lay around, feel sorry for myself, eat like a pig, watch sappy chick flicks, be bitter and bitch all day. (However, I also managed to make a gourmet dinner, dust the dining room walls, bake 3 dozen cookies - of which I only ate 1 dozen- wash said cookie making dishes, scrub the toilet, and finish 2 chapters of the book I'm reading. Yet somehow, that has all been conveniently overlooked . . .)
So, before I had even had one sip of coffee, all hell had broken loose at my house. and, unfortunately, it only got worse. Upon entering Kade & Derek's room, my loving husband also managed to walk into a 4 gallon pile of dog piss conveniently left there by our 100 pound lap dog, Sally. So, now it is 5:35, and all the kids are up, the dogs are cowering in the corner- fearing for their lives, my husband is stomping around mumbling something about dogs and murder, and I can barely even keep my eyes open.
So, I attempt to tackle the 4 gallons of pee on the boys carpet. I spray it with as much dog pee smell remover that I have left in the bottle, and I do my best to soak it up. Let me just tell you that Sham Wows are the biggest waste of money EVER. After doing the irish jig on top of the sham wow, there was barely a damp spot on the damn cloth. But, my socks were soaking wet. (Sorry, during one of my sleepless nights I became a sucker for Vince's charming sales pitch. And hey, I got the second set FREE!)
So, 2o minutes and 2 rolls of viva later, (and completely reeking of dog piss), I am finally able to sit down to my first cup of coffee. It is at this point my husband tries to sneakily pull a "reverse psychological moment" on me. (My husband is a very talented counsellor, and he is currently taking online courses to complete his administrative degree. Because he is type A and a complete perfectionist, he is spending no less than 30 hours per week on papers and prep work for 2 classes. - this in addition to working 45 hours a week at his job, jogging 1 hour every day on the treadmill, and playing bball one night per week - So, needless to say he is busy and stressed.) So, he uses the old "I am going to drop my class because I just can't keep up with the school work and the housework, and it's making me physically sick." Ooouuucch, zinger right in my gut. Ok, so he was legitimately sick this weekend, but could it not have something to do with the fact that he works in public education and he is exposed to all the nasty winter bugs that are making the rounds? I just couldn't help to think that the speech was more prompted by my lack of effort on the house cleaning and laundry this weekend. I will admit that I was a pathetically lazy bum this weekend, but it was well-deserved. I totally kicked ass scrubbing the bathrooms, dusting, and vacuuming LAST weekend. Does that not count for anything? Is it all MY fault that my children are discusting heathens that are capable of getting toothpaste on a 8 foot tall ceiling?
So, I use my nice wifey voice and politely say "oh honey, don't quit your class. I will take care of all the household stuff and you can concentrate on your class." eye twitch - eye twitch. "I know that I didn't do much this weekend, but I will have it all taken care of." lip quiver, eye twitch, lip quiver.
Needless to say, I am home spot -botting dog piss, scraping toothpaste from 8' ceilings, making ANOTHER gourmet dinner, scrubbing all non-porous surfaces with bleach, organizing toys into color coded bins, dead-heading all the plants, reorganizing the pantry by best use by date, matching up all the Tupperware to it's lid, sweeping up 34 pounds of dog hair (which I will weave into a sweater tonight), and alphabetizing the recycling.
Perhaps upon completion I will be redeemed for causing the dogs to extricate on the floors, for allowing the kids leave all the video game equipment out, for causing the cowboys to lose their division, for my contribution to global warming, and for McDonald's getting rid of the strawberry shake
At least I got the kids to school on time.
I awoke at the normal time of 5:10, and instead of hearing the usual hum of my hubby running on the treadmill, I hear him cursing and stomping downstairs. I naturally assume that the treadmill is broken. (I figure it has died from the strain of hauling my fat ass . . .) So, I call down and ask if he is ok, and the from the profanity laced string of responses I get, I am able to piece together that A: The kids did not pick up the video games from yesterday . . . B: the dog peed and pooped downstairs. . .C:the dog peed and pooped on the video games that the kids didn't put away yesterday.
And of course, the is somehow ALL MY FAULT. (It is also my fault that the cowboys lost in the playoffs because I dared to ask my husband if he wanted a blanket in the third quarter, therefore completely altering the earths rotation and the outcome of the game. So, to all Cowboy fans out there - I humbly apologize.) I will admit that I was completely lax with the kids playing with the Wii yesterday, but in my defense, it was my father's deathiversay, and it is the one day a year where I traditionally lay around, feel sorry for myself, eat like a pig, watch sappy chick flicks, be bitter and bitch all day. (However, I also managed to make a gourmet dinner, dust the dining room walls, bake 3 dozen cookies - of which I only ate 1 dozen- wash said cookie making dishes, scrub the toilet, and finish 2 chapters of the book I'm reading. Yet somehow, that has all been conveniently overlooked . . .)
So, before I had even had one sip of coffee, all hell had broken loose at my house. and, unfortunately, it only got worse. Upon entering Kade & Derek's room, my loving husband also managed to walk into a 4 gallon pile of dog piss conveniently left there by our 100 pound lap dog, Sally. So, now it is 5:35, and all the kids are up, the dogs are cowering in the corner- fearing for their lives, my husband is stomping around mumbling something about dogs and murder, and I can barely even keep my eyes open.
So, I attempt to tackle the 4 gallons of pee on the boys carpet. I spray it with as much dog pee smell remover that I have left in the bottle, and I do my best to soak it up. Let me just tell you that Sham Wows are the biggest waste of money EVER. After doing the irish jig on top of the sham wow, there was barely a damp spot on the damn cloth. But, my socks were soaking wet. (Sorry, during one of my sleepless nights I became a sucker for Vince's charming sales pitch. And hey, I got the second set FREE!)
So, 2o minutes and 2 rolls of viva later, (and completely reeking of dog piss), I am finally able to sit down to my first cup of coffee. It is at this point my husband tries to sneakily pull a "reverse psychological moment" on me. (My husband is a very talented counsellor, and he is currently taking online courses to complete his administrative degree. Because he is type A and a complete perfectionist, he is spending no less than 30 hours per week on papers and prep work for 2 classes. - this in addition to working 45 hours a week at his job, jogging 1 hour every day on the treadmill, and playing bball one night per week - So, needless to say he is busy and stressed.) So, he uses the old "I am going to drop my class because I just can't keep up with the school work and the housework, and it's making me physically sick." Ooouuucch, zinger right in my gut. Ok, so he was legitimately sick this weekend, but could it not have something to do with the fact that he works in public education and he is exposed to all the nasty winter bugs that are making the rounds? I just couldn't help to think that the speech was more prompted by my lack of effort on the house cleaning and laundry this weekend. I will admit that I was a pathetically lazy bum this weekend, but it was well-deserved. I totally kicked ass scrubbing the bathrooms, dusting, and vacuuming LAST weekend. Does that not count for anything? Is it all MY fault that my children are discusting heathens that are capable of getting toothpaste on a 8 foot tall ceiling?
So, I use my nice wifey voice and politely say "oh honey, don't quit your class. I will take care of all the household stuff and you can concentrate on your class." eye twitch - eye twitch. "I know that I didn't do much this weekend, but I will have it all taken care of." lip quiver, eye twitch, lip quiver.
Needless to say, I am home spot -botting dog piss, scraping toothpaste from 8' ceilings, making ANOTHER gourmet dinner, scrubbing all non-porous surfaces with bleach, organizing toys into color coded bins, dead-heading all the plants, reorganizing the pantry by best use by date, matching up all the Tupperware to it's lid, sweeping up 34 pounds of dog hair (which I will weave into a sweater tonight), and alphabetizing the recycling.
Perhaps upon completion I will be redeemed for causing the dogs to extricate on the floors, for allowing the kids leave all the video game equipment out, for causing the cowboys to lose their division, for my contribution to global warming, and for McDonald's getting rid of the strawberry shake
At least I got the kids to school on time.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Working it . . .
I am attempting a new fitness regimen. I should correct that and say A fitness regimen, since I didn't really have one before. (Does shopping count???) And since I have absolutely no shame, I shall share all the gory details . . .
I've started out very simple with brisk walks on the treadmill. But, It hasn't been without drama. I have learned three very important lessons about the treadmill. #1 being that the emergency cut-off cord is there for a reason, and you should really use it. #2 - if you turn around to yell at your kids while walking on the treadmill, you are very likely to fall off in a very non-graceful way. (And if you fail to use the emergency shut-off cord, the treadmill will continue to run and burn your skin right off.) And, #3, a fat girl should NOT wear cotton pants on the treadmill.
To elaborate more on the third most important rule of the treadmill, I will explain that after 30 minutes of brisk walking on the treadmill in my totally-cute chocolate brown cotton yoga pants, I actually created so much friction between my thighs that my pants pilled and two small holes were burnt onto the inside of each thigh. Honestly, I thought I was going to catch my pants on fire. Now I really understand the meaning behind "feel the burn." I guess my fire-starting capabilities could come in very handy in an emergency. Perhaps I should join the girl-scouts. To solve this problem, I dediced to invest in the very glamorous spandex work-out pants all the fitness queens wear. One major problem though . . . since the world only thinks that skinny chicks are worthy of cute work out wear, I was only able to find the spandex pants in size XL. But, since, they are stretchy, I figured I could make them work.
I have since renamed the spandex pants my "sausage suit." Use your best imagery and picture my fat ass stuffed into a tight, black sausage skin, and well, you get the picture. NOT PRETTY. But, it did solve the friction problem, and hopefully I won't be starting any fires in the near future.
On the plus side, I bought myself some rockin' new Nikes so my footwear is completely stylin'. . .
I've started out very simple with brisk walks on the treadmill. But, It hasn't been without drama. I have learned three very important lessons about the treadmill. #1 being that the emergency cut-off cord is there for a reason, and you should really use it. #2 - if you turn around to yell at your kids while walking on the treadmill, you are very likely to fall off in a very non-graceful way. (And if you fail to use the emergency shut-off cord, the treadmill will continue to run and burn your skin right off.) And, #3, a fat girl should NOT wear cotton pants on the treadmill.
To elaborate more on the third most important rule of the treadmill, I will explain that after 30 minutes of brisk walking on the treadmill in my totally-cute chocolate brown cotton yoga pants, I actually created so much friction between my thighs that my pants pilled and two small holes were burnt onto the inside of each thigh. Honestly, I thought I was going to catch my pants on fire. Now I really understand the meaning behind "feel the burn." I guess my fire-starting capabilities could come in very handy in an emergency. Perhaps I should join the girl-scouts. To solve this problem, I dediced to invest in the very glamorous spandex work-out pants all the fitness queens wear. One major problem though . . . since the world only thinks that skinny chicks are worthy of cute work out wear, I was only able to find the spandex pants in size XL. But, since, they are stretchy, I figured I could make them work.
I have since renamed the spandex pants my "sausage suit." Use your best imagery and picture my fat ass stuffed into a tight, black sausage skin, and well, you get the picture. NOT PRETTY. But, it did solve the friction problem, and hopefully I won't be starting any fires in the near future.
On the plus side, I bought myself some rockin' new Nikes so my footwear is completely stylin'. . .
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Another tale from the world of Jen . . .
I think it is so funny that I am officially a "blogger". This word has always made me think of a bloated jogger, so I always visualize a fat woman in sweat pants when I hear the word. I guess I fit the part pretty darn well . . .
so, today, come hell or high water I was sending the kids to school. Derek has a mild case of coughing up a lung, but the nose ooze has slowed to a slow trickle. Kade too started hacking and wheezing, but since neither were running a fever, I felt it safe to send them.
I must admit I was a bit giddy getting ready for work. Just the thought of getting out of the house was a bit, well, exciting. So, I had the usual hullaballoo of getting the boys prepped and ready, bags packed, car warmed, etc.
As we were driving to school, Derek informs me that he hates school and he is not going. I use my very best nice mommy voice and explain to him that his friends and his teacher miss him very much, and he will certainly have a great day. So, we fat-ass jeans. How very depressing.
Anywhoooo . . . that's not even the best part. So, I stop by Wal-mart to kill some time before work and bargain hunt. And, as I am walking in I notice that I am waddling like a penguin. My back has been bothering me, so I don't give it much thought. As I walk into the store, I hear "squish, click, squish, click." I realize it is coming from my shoes, so I look down to see what the problem is. Only in my world could someone walk out the door with two completely different boots. Oh yes folks, that's right, two completely different boots. In my defense, they are both black, and again I only had minimal sleep. However, one boot has a thin 3 inch heel with a square toe, and the other has a belt detail, with a 2 inch flat heel with a round toe. So different that even a man would notice. I am very thankful that the shoe police don't seem to be patrolling Wal-Mart today. I am Klassy with a capital K.
But, on the plus side, it's like I will be using the stair stepper all day. I am totally counting this towards my work-out.
Again, please pray for me. . . .
so, today, come hell or high water I was sending the kids to school. Derek has a mild case of coughing up a lung, but the nose ooze has slowed to a slow trickle. Kade too started hacking and wheezing, but since neither were running a fever, I felt it safe to send them.
I must admit I was a bit giddy getting ready for work. Just the thought of getting out of the house was a bit, well, exciting. So, I had the usual hullaballoo of getting the boys prepped and ready, bags packed, car warmed, etc.
As we were driving to school, Derek informs me that he hates school and he is not going. I use my very best nice mommy voice and explain to him that his friends and his teacher miss him very much, and he will certainly have a great day. So, we fat-ass jeans. How very depressing.
Anywhoooo . . . that's not even the best part. So, I stop by Wal-mart to kill some time before work and bargain hunt. And, as I am walking in I notice that I am waddling like a penguin. My back has been bothering me, so I don't give it much thought. As I walk into the store, I hear "squish, click, squish, click." I realize it is coming from my shoes, so I look down to see what the problem is. Only in my world could someone walk out the door with two completely different boots. Oh yes folks, that's right, two completely different boots. In my defense, they are both black, and again I only had minimal sleep. However, one boot has a thin 3 inch heel with a square toe, and the other has a belt detail, with a 2 inch flat heel with a round toe. So different that even a man would notice. I am very thankful that the shoe police don't seem to be patrolling Wal-Mart today. I am Klassy with a capital K.
But, on the plus side, it's like I will be using the stair stepper all day. I am totally counting this towards my work-out.
Again, please pray for me. . . .
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
What happiness a sick child can bring . . .
Ok, so I am home yet again with a sick child. I have time on my hands to be productive, however, I feel the need to share the last two days with you instead . . .
I was home yesterday with 2 sick children. So, not only was I stalked by a 4 year old with a smokers cough and green sludge oozing out his nose, but I was also able to watch all the Presidential hoopla on TV with my 8 year old. So, it wasn’t all bad. And I must say that I was moved. I am truly excited about President Obama, and I can’t wait to see what he brings to the table. Just having a strong, black man leading our country is so inspiring.
Last night I was inspired by Barak Obama and the inauguration so I broke out the good china and made a "presidential dinner." I know it's cheesy, but with kids, you do what works. So, I made meatloaf in cupcake molds and I even attempted to do some pathetic eagle looking emblem on top with ketchup. It looked like a dead bird, but hey, I tried. The boys named them Barak balls. They totally didn't get the true humor there, but they were feeling patriotic also. I made "white house" mashed potatoes, and yes, we even shaped them to look like a white house. And, we had Barak-oli as a vegetable. Aren't I good? And, we had pudding in fancy wine glasses for dessert. So chic.
So, we sipped our water out of wine glasses and ate on fine china, and My 5 year old proudly declares that our presidential dinner is the same as what they are having at the white house. Somehow I can't imagine meatloaf being served last night, even with the fancy emblem and all, but hey, the kid has a fabulous imagination. And they all cleared their plates which was wonderful. So, I totally played it up.
Well, while I spent four hours handwashing my beautiful dishes that I insisted on using, I had time to ponder the meaning of life. Suddenly, last night after my wonderful patriotic dinner, I felt the need to declare myself mother-of-the-year. Clearly my clever dinner was worthy of such a nod, right? Or perhaps it was the 2 glasses of wine I drank while making dinner. Who knows? But, I suddenly felt like I was an some incredible miracle woman. I mean, I write checks and pay bills. I own a home. I buy groceries and make food. I have 3 CHILDREN! Really, how did this all come about. I really felt like there should have been applause in the background. I mean, wow, I can do what my mother did and I’m still just a kid, right?
I guess my point is, or my question rather, does anyone else feel this way? Like “how in the world did they let me do all this?” (They being some invisible parental advisory board in heaven or something.) I guess, even though I’m 36 – or am I still 35?- when do you feel like a grown-up? I still feel like a bit of a kid I guess, and I really had this wonderful sense of amazement last night at all that life has brought. I have CHINA!!!! Seriously, who would have thunk it????????
Do I need prescription meds or is this normal? I attempted to ask my husband if he ever has these feelings. But, he declared that he is simply too busy to think. (eye twitch – eye twitch).
And this is the same husband who conveniently slept through the 14 trips I made to tend to a hacking 4 year old and a whiny dog with $200 worth of “harmless” fatty tumors. I made so many trips to Dereks room with medicine, puke buckets, tissues, vapor rub, and gingerale, that I finally gave up and laid on the floor at the end of his bed. When at 3:58 am, when I was finally preparing a child-sized portion of Nyquil (hey – I was desperate!) – my loving husband comes out of our wonderfully cozy bed and declares in his sweetest voice . . .”honey, I’m wide-awake, I’ll take over from here. You go get some sleep” (eye-twitch, eye-twitch). I admit my eyes scanned for the butcher block of knives next to the stove, but I was honestly too tired to do the whole stabbing thing. (The irony here is that we get up at 5 am. So this “sleep” he referred to was more of a nap.)
Anywhoo, as I laid in my wonderfully cozy bed and tried to sleep, I was awakened by a groggy 4 year old that walked past the snoring man on the couch to crawl into bed with me. (He really took over, eh???) The stalker, as I lovingly refer to him, put his face 1” from mine on my pillow, and proceeded to pass out within seconds while blowing his germs right into my nasal passage. Good times, good times.
So, as I get up and go about getting things ready for the day . . . making coffee, packing lunch, getting homework and papers ready to go . . . I mention to the wonderful hubby that I really need to get into work, and maybe he could stay home with Derek. You would have thought I asked him to scale the empire state building naked by the initial look he gave me. But, I think he saw my eyes scan the knife block, because he waited a few seconds before replying “why don’t we send him in to school and if he doesn’t do well, I’ll take a half a day and come home with him at 11:30.” Eye twitch- eye twitch, damn my eye. OK, I’ll send a sick kid to school to infect everyone just so that he gets it again in two weeks. But, the true irony is that derek’s class runs from 8 to 11-45. So, my hubby would be sparing him from 15 minutes of school.
Needless to say, I am home today. I do love my husband, and I don’t mean to make him out to be a bad guy, because he isn’t. But, this is a true story, and I stand by my words.
I guess I am just really tired, and I needed to vent. The 14 minutes of sleep I had last night just don’t cut it.
I am off to have another mocha vodka valium latte.
Pray for me.
I was home yesterday with 2 sick children. So, not only was I stalked by a 4 year old with a smokers cough and green sludge oozing out his nose, but I was also able to watch all the Presidential hoopla on TV with my 8 year old. So, it wasn’t all bad. And I must say that I was moved. I am truly excited about President Obama, and I can’t wait to see what he brings to the table. Just having a strong, black man leading our country is so inspiring.
Last night I was inspired by Barak Obama and the inauguration so I broke out the good china and made a "presidential dinner." I know it's cheesy, but with kids, you do what works. So, I made meatloaf in cupcake molds and I even attempted to do some pathetic eagle looking emblem on top with ketchup. It looked like a dead bird, but hey, I tried. The boys named them Barak balls. They totally didn't get the true humor there, but they were feeling patriotic also. I made "white house" mashed potatoes, and yes, we even shaped them to look like a white house. And, we had Barak-oli as a vegetable. Aren't I good? And, we had pudding in fancy wine glasses for dessert. So chic.
So, we sipped our water out of wine glasses and ate on fine china, and My 5 year old proudly declares that our presidential dinner is the same as what they are having at the white house. Somehow I can't imagine meatloaf being served last night, even with the fancy emblem and all, but hey, the kid has a fabulous imagination. And they all cleared their plates which was wonderful. So, I totally played it up.
Well, while I spent four hours handwashing my beautiful dishes that I insisted on using, I had time to ponder the meaning of life. Suddenly, last night after my wonderful patriotic dinner, I felt the need to declare myself mother-of-the-year. Clearly my clever dinner was worthy of such a nod, right? Or perhaps it was the 2 glasses of wine I drank while making dinner. Who knows? But, I suddenly felt like I was an some incredible miracle woman. I mean, I write checks and pay bills. I own a home. I buy groceries and make food. I have 3 CHILDREN! Really, how did this all come about. I really felt like there should have been applause in the background. I mean, wow, I can do what my mother did and I’m still just a kid, right?
I guess my point is, or my question rather, does anyone else feel this way? Like “how in the world did they let me do all this?” (They being some invisible parental advisory board in heaven or something.) I guess, even though I’m 36 – or am I still 35?- when do you feel like a grown-up? I still feel like a bit of a kid I guess, and I really had this wonderful sense of amazement last night at all that life has brought. I have CHINA!!!! Seriously, who would have thunk it????????
Do I need prescription meds or is this normal? I attempted to ask my husband if he ever has these feelings. But, he declared that he is simply too busy to think. (eye twitch – eye twitch).
And this is the same husband who conveniently slept through the 14 trips I made to tend to a hacking 4 year old and a whiny dog with $200 worth of “harmless” fatty tumors. I made so many trips to Dereks room with medicine, puke buckets, tissues, vapor rub, and gingerale, that I finally gave up and laid on the floor at the end of his bed. When at 3:58 am, when I was finally preparing a child-sized portion of Nyquil (hey – I was desperate!) – my loving husband comes out of our wonderfully cozy bed and declares in his sweetest voice . . .”honey, I’m wide-awake, I’ll take over from here. You go get some sleep” (eye-twitch, eye-twitch). I admit my eyes scanned for the butcher block of knives next to the stove, but I was honestly too tired to do the whole stabbing thing. (The irony here is that we get up at 5 am. So this “sleep” he referred to was more of a nap.)
Anywhoo, as I laid in my wonderfully cozy bed and tried to sleep, I was awakened by a groggy 4 year old that walked past the snoring man on the couch to crawl into bed with me. (He really took over, eh???) The stalker, as I lovingly refer to him, put his face 1” from mine on my pillow, and proceeded to pass out within seconds while blowing his germs right into my nasal passage. Good times, good times.
So, as I get up and go about getting things ready for the day . . . making coffee, packing lunch, getting homework and papers ready to go . . . I mention to the wonderful hubby that I really need to get into work, and maybe he could stay home with Derek. You would have thought I asked him to scale the empire state building naked by the initial look he gave me. But, I think he saw my eyes scan the knife block, because he waited a few seconds before replying “why don’t we send him in to school and if he doesn’t do well, I’ll take a half a day and come home with him at 11:30.” Eye twitch- eye twitch, damn my eye. OK, I’ll send a sick kid to school to infect everyone just so that he gets it again in two weeks. But, the true irony is that derek’s class runs from 8 to 11-45. So, my hubby would be sparing him from 15 minutes of school.
Needless to say, I am home today. I do love my husband, and I don’t mean to make him out to be a bad guy, because he isn’t. But, this is a true story, and I stand by my words.
I guess I am just really tired, and I needed to vent. The 14 minutes of sleep I had last night just don’t cut it.
I am off to have another mocha vodka valium latte.
Pray for me.
Since I am running low on xanax and wine, I thought I would look to a different form of therapy to get me through my days. So, I am taking out my frustrations here . . . in print. So I can relive every fabulous moment day after day after day. And so I can share my humiliating and deprecating stories so other harried working moms out there realize that "we are all in this together." Or at least we can pretend to be. Please enjoy my rants and remember not to be too critical. I am usually functioning on less than 2 concurrent hours of sleep.
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