Worlds Okayest Mom and Greatest Step Dad Diaries: When Mom is Sick

A couple weeks ago I wasn’t feeling well. My daughter and husband-to-be were trying to figure out what to have for dinner. Even though I wasn’t feeling my best I was having a craving for some cheap mediocre pizza, so my fiance (Bear) went out and grabbed two Little Caesars pizzas. I wasn’t about to do anything crazy like actually get out of bed, so we put the boxes on our bed and went to town inhaling pizza, while we all watched TV together. Best way to do pizza night I don’t care what anyone says.

It was no surprise to me that two days later the pizza boxes were still in our room with five pieces left in one box. Both of us remained a bit under the weather, with Bear a bit better off than myself. He had taken on most of the cooking, however come the third day of my being out of commission Bear had to be gone all day.

As usual my fifteen year-old was foraging for food. She comes in my room asking, “What’s going on with dinner?”

I lift my head from my pillow and tell her I don’t know yet. She turns her head towards the pizza boxes and says with shock and confusion, “Wow, you still have those?”

“Yep, and there’s still some pizza in one of the boxes.”

She opens the box and her big brown eyes widen in horror. “Why didn’t you put this in the refrigerator?”

“Do I look like I’m in any shape to be that responsible? Besides I thought I was going to snack on it here and there.”

A couple eye rolls later she asks, “Are they still good?”

“Ummmmmm…well it has been fairly cool in here, and I did take a few bites of a piece last night. But, this is day three soooooo…

We just stared at each for a moment. I knew where this was going and so did she. Neither of us sure of the consequences. Both of us aware there would be no turning back. Before I know it she has three pieces of pizza in her hands, and right before she walks out of the room I yell out a disclaimer, “You’re eating those at your own risk!”

You know, verbally releasing any fault and liability on my behalf.

I put my head back down on the pillow and tried to clear my mind of this crime against motherhood.

Some angry offended Mom Mob will be coming with torches and pitchforks any minute now. I’m certain the PMOA (Perfect Moms Of America) just heard everything.

If Facebook hears when I’m talking about DNA kits, and then I see nothing but DNA kit ads for the next 3 days every time I log on, then some Mom spy no doubt just listened in.

I decided to turn on the TV in an attempt to shut out the voices of guilt in my head. Did I really just let my daughter take and consume non refrigerated days old pizza? I’m horrified. My fiance surprisingly did not come home to me rocking back and forth in a corner whispering repeatedly, ‘I’m a good mom, I’m a good mom.’ The only thing I did do was continue to text her…yes from down the hall. C’mon, I wasn’t getting up unless I had to. Admittedly, I was sweating it out for a couple days, but after much prayer I’m happy to report she was just fine. However, to make up for it every night since my Bear and I have made home cooked meals…ok mostly him while I get better. He really has been taking excellent care of us.

We were going to start a new healthyish regiment anyway, with meals full of vegetables, so it worked out. Above is my Bear’s artichoke cream sauce chicken, and roasted veggies, with parmesan. (Damn, I love having a man who can cook.) I’m also happy to report my Mom guilt has officially passed, and I can now forget about it like it never happened…

Maniacal Musings Part Three

1. In October I came across a television show called, “The People’s Couch” on the Bravo channel. For thirty minutes I watched people, watching T.V., and having exaggerated reactions to reality and scripted shows.

It was inane. This show was based on a U.K. program called, “Gogglebox,” which I hope was in some way more entertaining than this. I felt like I time travelled to a future where humans have become completely brain dead, and Kim Kardashian was president. How else could such a thing be available on my television. Thankfully, for my sanity it was cancelled after only three episodes. Sadly, I found an article titled, “People’s Couch Cancelled too Soon.” Bullshit. It should have never existed in the first place. And for future reference if you want a realistic view of people in their home watching T.V., the average American doesn’t watch it like this…

Or this…

peepcouch4

They watch it like this…

And like this…

2. Now let’s completely change the subject.

The only truth I know about life: One day your mom is telling you not to forget to wear a jacket, and before you know it, she’s shelf decoration in a box that looks like a 5th grade paper mache project.

(Picture: Not actually my mother, but similar.) This is what you get when you haven’t picked something out around here, so it got me searching for new options. And my God, there are some interesting options…

The chocolate box urn for a fair price of $1,200. I wouldn’t mind this as my final resting place.

Now this next one is very practical…

The urn ashtray. Price unknown.

For the diva in your family, which is actually titled, “The Diva Urn”

Or for someone who just loved purses. Also, if you desire to conveniently carry them around. $995

Now, for the one that was sold out on the website decorativeurns.com…for Dr. Who fans

Because who wouldn’t want the Doctor Who police box urn as a birthday gift. $950

And last but not least, the most classy one of all… $2.58

The best part about this: I got to start a conversation with my husband like this, “So I was looking at urns today, and I know what I want to put you in…”

AreUseserious2

Happy Holidays!

Maniacal Musings Part Two

–I heard French fry vending machines may be popping up in the U.S. They’re already in Belgium and making their way to Iran, Croatia, and Chile. And some people have the nerve to say there is no God.

Actually, I believe this gets us one step closer to the morbidly obese futuristic world portrayed in WALL-E.

–I’m tired of looking at Miley Cyrus’s pelvic muscles just like everyone else, but after she recently hosted Saturday Night Live, I see this headline, “MILEY BLASTED BY STROKE ASSOCIATION OVER SNL TONGUE JOKE.” First of all, who knew there was a stroke association, because I sure as hell didn’t. Secondly, it’s a satirical comedy show, and she most certainly didn’t write her own lines. The joke in question was during the opening sketch where Miley was asked, why she keeps sticking her tongue out.


Her response, “I’m having tiny strokes, yo!”

Oh Lawd! Then here comes the stroke police, “Mini strokes are no laughing matter…and sticking your tongue out is not a sign of having one.” Look, my own mother had a mini stroke and a massive stroke, and I still believe EVERYTHING in life is a laughing matter. As a matter of fact, laughing at life’s tragedies can be quite healing. Good grief, jokes about strokes even rhymes, they’re totally meant to go together! Calm your tits, Stroke Association, and realize making jokes about serious matters does in no way, shape, or form take away from their seriousness.

–Fact: I don’t care how old you are, if a brand new box of 64 Crayola crayons does not bring you joy, then you have no soul. I hope the, “Soul Association” doesn’t blast me for saying that because being soulless is no laughing matter.

–It’s, “Tales of the Tampon” time! I was told the most awesome story by a friend the other day. Most importantly I have her permission to share it. (I’ll condense the story to save time and sanity) She was on her way to work where they can’t easily get to their lockers during breaks. She had the genius idea of throwing the tampons she needed in her lunch bag, so she could conveniently snatch’em from the break room. Which of course means THEY ARE SITTING IN THE REFRIGERATOR. It never occurred to the woman this would create a tampon with an undesired side effect. Which is called, “Brrrr vagina Syndrome.” She tried rubbing it between her hands to no avail. She walked around for about ten minutes being violated by the cold intrusion. Luckily, no one asked what was wrong. Unfortunately, a bit of her self-confidence in the ability to think things through died that day. I enjoyed this story immensely, and the more you picture it, the more enjoyable it becomes. At least her lunch was not required to go in the freezer. However, there is a part of me that wants to put one in the refrigerator out if curiosity. Don’t judge.


Some of these might come in handy…

SMTWTFS

At thirty-five years old I’ve become that person. I have one prescribed pill and until a week ago I was doing fine remembering to take it. Then, it happened. What every person with prescription medication fears, “Did I take my medication?”

“Shit.”

Did I take my medication!?”

It’s thirty minutes past the scheduled time. Panic rises in my chest and my brain is frantically trying to recall every step I took since getting out of bed. But all I remember is eating a banana, one of the dogs puked, and a woman, who needs to learn parking lot etiquette, pissed me off at my daughter’s school.

Wait…wait…when did I start this new bottle? Oh crap, this is gonna be like math, and the math Gods did not smile upon me when I was born. Everything numeral gives me a burning sensation in my head.

Let’s see, I had two pills left from a previous bottle when I picked up this one from the pharmacy. I started this bottle on this day, and it started out with thirty pills. Okay, so, I should probably count how many pills are left in the bottle. Sooooooooo, um, I’m 98% sure I didn’t take it.

I wondered if skipping a dose would be worse than doubling a dose. My brief research (Googling) concluded it would be double dosing. I popped a pill feeling confident with my 98% sure-ity.

Everything was fine and that night I told my husband about my afternoon crisis. The next day he says he has a present for me and produces this –

017

I’m also using it for vitamins, but my husband shouldn’t use the word “present” so loosely. “Present” indicates a wrapped item that’s sole purpose is to evoke joy or at the very least makes your face change expressions. This was more like, here I bought you something at the drugstore. Enjoy.

P.S. I am not ashamed I had to watch this Youtube video on subtracting mixed numbers http://youtu.be/tVrelLu6K6k to help my daughter with her 4th grade homework. I don’t remember doing anything like this in the 4th grade. I actually don’t remember doing this at all. But I do have a talent for going into a math induced coma whenever too many numbers are being thrown in my face. Or, I need to put some ginkgo biloba in my pill box to help my dusty thirty-five year old memory.

Evil Creatures

To be serious about my health/weight loss kick, I may have to consider counting calories and carbohydrates. Now for someone like me who loathes math in all forms, counting anything is mental torture.
If someone had a gun to my head, and started a statement with,
“Billy was at a train station…”
And ended that statement with,
“How many…”
I would yell, “Just pull the trigger!”
I hate math. I’ve always hated math. Guess it’s time to bust out and dust off my calculator.
Actually…

Nope. Who am I kidding? I’m not counting shit. I know what NOT to eat. I just have to not eat it. Done.
(P.S. Counting may work for some. Oh yeah, and this is mainly a humor blog mixed in with my truth. So shush, people who swear by counting calories.)
Yours Truly,
Hater of Numbers Big and Small
Ha ha…I knew it!

10 Confessions Of A Heavy Housewife

1. Once again I’m determined to lose weight and live a healthier life style. I vow to workout at least five days a week, and vacuuming, scrubbing the toilet, and folding laundry totally count. As a matter of fact lets add cooking dinner as legit exercise.

2. I ordered two of Jillian Michaels exercise dvd’s from Amazon. And seeing them sit on top of the dvd player makes me feel good about myself already.

3. I’ve considered becoming an alcoholic to lose weight. My grandmother lived on boxed wine and never gained a pound.

4. Dairy Queen’s menu is not very accommodating to my new life style. But I make it work for me by asking for extra lettuce and an extra tomato on my heavily battered crispy chicken sandwich.

5. I’ve told my husband, who is a slender man, that he better not get too skinny, but if he ever told me I better not get too fat, I would shank him in his sleep.

6. If I’m having a bad day or getting down on myself that’s the perfect time to go channel surfing for mind numbing T.V., because I’d always rather be me than any “Real Housewives of (Insert City)” Or “(Insert Whatever Husband Does So Wife Has Plenty Of Time To Fight With Other Women Over
Shit That Doesn’t Make Any Sense And Could Simply Be Solved With The Slightest Bit Of Basic Communication) Wives.”

7. A year ago I bought a pair of skinny jeans and still haven’t tried them on. I just feel it was a lapse in judgement. You can say as long as it’s in your size, you should be able to wear what everyone else is wearing, but no, this is not always the case. At this time nothing with the word skinny attached to it should be anywhere near my body. Skinny jeans in a size 18 are like a fake friend who says you look thin and lovely. When really you look like your ass is suffocating, and have a camel toe violating the eyes of the general public.

8. In the last few years I’ve gained weight making me the heaviest I’ve ever been. I practically live in sweat pants since I refuse to buy new clothes with the hopes of losing the weight. Right now I have two pairs of jeans I can still wear. And when I do squeeze into a pair, that means I am “dressed up.”

9. Hiking with my husband is annoying as bleep. He doesn’t even break a sweat, breathe heavy, need to take a break, lose the feeling in his legs, or feel like his heart is going to burst into flames. F.y.i. I experience one or more of the above. Bleep hiking. Bleep trails. I like flat land walking, thank you very much.

10. Yes, we (fat women) passionately loathe skinny twats who can eat whatever they want, all day, all night, and never exercise. Especially when they’re shoveling food in their tiny mouths they talk about how they eat so much, never gain weight, and never exercise. We consider causing them bodily harm. A little nudge into traffic here, a little push down some stairs there, and perhaps a little sharpy, stabby, in the corner over yonder.

P.S. Most of this probably shouldn’t be taken too seriously. Let’s eat some red velvet cake! Just kidding, no cake. How about some yogurt that turns your home into a house of lies with its promise on the container to taste like cake. Yum.

Spam In A Can: A Love Story

Many people have yet to try the godsend of Spam in a can. Just the mere mention of the word Spam to some people will bring on an over exaggerated mimicking of vomiting. To these people I say, don’t knock it ’till you try it, and as much as I don’t understand it, a few people just happen to not care for processed meats in general like hot dogs, and bologna.

Except for Philippine and Hawaiian cultures, who inhale the stuff because it has been integrated into their world for one reason or another, a lot of people feel this processed block of nitrates is beneath them. But a lot of those same people (from my experience) will shove a hot dog down their throat like a competitive eater. As a matter of fact if you compare the ingredients on some hot dog packages to a can of Spam the canned meat wins. Now if you compare with an expensive uppity brand of hot dogs, it won’t fair as well. A cheaper dog has up to 15 different ingredients, 2 of which make me look like an idiot in front of my 8-year-old. I have to sit here and sound them out like an illiterate trying to read for the first time. Spam on the other hand says: Pork w/ ham, salt, water, modified potato starch, sugar, and sodium nitrite.

So when you have to pinch pennies maybe hide the fact it’s Spam from your picky family. Maybe fry it up, stick in between a hamburger bun, with a load of condiments (like the picture above, doesn’t it look pretty), and perhaps they won’t ask any pesky questions like, “What the hell is this!”

When I was a kid we were quite financially handicapped for a while, so when I saw that gold or silver sheen followed by a dark blue rectangle come out of a brown paper back, (hell, I was just happy to see a brown paper bag, because that meant someone went to the grocery store) I thought it must be freakin’ Christmas! I’ll never forget the actual thought that flashed through my head as a little girl, we are going to eat sooo good tonight! I couldn’t wait for my mom to unroll the metal top. Nowadays it’s a pussified pop top. Back in my day you had to work for that shit!

We would totally eat it “raw” too. None of that frying it up crap. I hadn’t even heard of eating it any other way until I was an adult, and didn’t really touch the stuff anymore. My mom would simply slice it up like a Christmas ham, and we made our smoke flavored, salty, moist sandwiches with lots of mayo.

Until about six months ago, I hadn’t purchased a can of Spam in my adult life, and the only reason I did (and the only reason my husband let me) is because we live in a tsunami zone on the west coast. So we try to keep a supply of food that can be used in emergencies. It went straight into our catastrophe food supply. Who knows, it might even become currency in a crazy apocalyptic situation.

Thanks For the Ride and the Awkward

When I was 18 I was an office assistant at a carpet warehouse in Oakland, Ca. I was right out of highschool and it was my third job experience. I didn’t have a car so I was an AC Transit bus expert and walked everywhere that distance allowed.

This job, however, I didn’t have to do either. Another person in the office, who told me about the job, happened to live across the street from a best friend I went to highschool with. And I lived a short distance from them, so she offered to be my transportation. It was perfect.

A day came when she had to leave work early because of a personal emergency. Another assistant, Lisa, in her early 30’s, lived in the same city as us so she asked her to give me a ride home. With a big smile, Lisa expressed it was no problem.

I’ll never forget what happened during that car ride.

The conversation went as follows:

Lisa: Hey Leah, you know it would be beneficial for everyone if you would get your own car.

Me: (Pause for being thrown off guard) I would love to have my own car, but it’s not a possibility right now.

Lisa: The thing is, Rosie has her own life. She has a husband and kids and she doesn’t need…this burden. I mean she’s using her gas to give you a ride. And I have a family as well, now I’m using my gas.

( What. The. Hell. Has this woman ever heard of carpooling!? Besides, I lived 2 minutes from Rosie, and 5 minutes from her. I also never asked Rosie to be my transportation, it was offered to me.)

(Sidenote: I was first hired on a temporary basis to do Lisa’s job while she went on a leave of absence. I did so well they kept me. She didn’t like that. She even went so far as to ask the manager of the office why was I still there. She was politely told it was none of her business.)

Me: Well, I do fill her gas tank at the end of every week. I offered that as part of our deal, because I wouldn’t let her give me a ride otherwise.

Lisa: Oh.

(Brief silence)

Lisa: When I was your age, my parents bought me this beautiful white mustang. There’s nothing wrong with parents buying their kids first car. You should talk to your parents about getting you a car. What parents wouldn’t?

Me: You know what, to be honest with you, I’m making the payments on my parents car, so I don’t think that will happen any time soon. So, like I said, getting my own car isn’t possible right now.

Lisa: Oh.

(Silence for what’s left of the car ride)

Me: (Getting out of the car) Thank you, see you tomorrow.

That 20 minute car ride is in my top 10 most uncomfortable moments.

P.S. (3 years later I bought my own car and I no longer worked there)

My Heinous Guilty Pleasure: Reality Shows

In the 90’s I started watching The Real World like so many other innocent T.V. viewers. Years later in the early 2000’s a little show called Survivor hit the air waves. Bit by bit more reality shows popped up like Big Brother and American Idol. Each show having its own niche. After the first seasons of Survivor and Big Brother the reality explosion was so severe I lost track of them. (Who knew it would go off like an atomic bomb between 2007-2011)

My regular viewing pleasure programs started to change dramatically. A few years back I took a peek at what VH1, A&E, and Bravo had to offer. I think the first what the hell am I watching moment came during an episode of Rock of Love on VH1. But I couldn’t look away. They had me. Slowly but surely almost everything I watched on T.V. was a reality show. After I was hooked to the Real Housewives series on Bravo, I knew there was no turning back.

As of 2011 who doesn’t have a reality show. It’s impossible to tune in to all the madness. I see a commercial preview for a new one every 10 seconds. Every network has one hand milking the reality cash cow. Besides watching “trashy” reality I enjoy Dual Survival, Man vs. Wild, and other how-to-survive-in-extreme-situations-that-will-never-happen-to-me shows. The Travel Network even has some entertaining and educational programs. The reality universe has something for everyone. From hog hunting to being a voyeur in the life of a celebrity.

A lot of it is viewed as pure mind numbing crap. And that’s what I love about it. The more moronic and ridiculous, the better. To zone out and watch such absurd people and actions help me to unwind. My most recent guilty pleasures have been Real Housewives of New Jersey, Real Housewives of New York, Flipping Out, Mob Wives, and yes I’m even a little hesitant to say, Jersey Shore. Within the last few days, I have found some of the housewives to be so vile, that it’s hard to watch. Yes, Housewives cast more vile than Jersey Shore…I know right?

Against his better judgement my husband has “enjoyed” a few Housewives and Jersey Shore episodes. He wishes he didn’t know who or what a Snookie was. Some people look down upon those of us who view these shows, like something must be severely wrong with us. But like anything else, who are you to judge. Yes, there are people who go crazy overboard about it. Perhaps saying things like, “Don’t talk ’bout my Snookie!” Come on, Snookie isn’t hurting from any type of comment. Snookie has a cool million in the bank she earned by poofing her hair to the sky, having a pickle habit, and being a sloppy drunk on T.V. She is just fine.

Honestly, when just about the whole cast of Jersey Shore came out with books “they wrote” I flipped through a Bible to see if there was any mention of this being a sign of the apocalypse.

Sometimes I wonder if any of these shows are subliminally changing me. I ponder this because after every episode of Mob Wives I have a strange desire to get in someones face and verbally violate them, using mother effer like a comma.

Regardless, I have no intention of cutting my one true guilty pleasure out of my life. The pleasure far outweighs the guilt. My husband still loves me and accepts my addiction. He simply asks, “Do you have shows tonight?” Knowing I’m not to be disturbed. Except for a handful of reality T.V., I’m well aware of the lunacy I’m viewing. The absolute best sideeffect of watching these things is how the characters make me even happier to be me, simply because I am not them.

Publishers Clearing House, You Are Not My Friend

The concept of Publishers Clearing House is simple enough. You receive an email or envelope through snail mail informing you that you could be the next winner of an obscene amount of money. All you have to do is transfer the “prize” stickers. Oh gosh, really?! But wait! Don’t forget as a courtesy to your new best friend, to look over and purchase something from the long list of mind manipulating products and magazines. Products and magazines your logical mind knows you can live without.

Then something takes a hold of you. Some sort of mental defect activated by the visual “Only 4 easy payments of $7.99.” The same defect that acts up during infomercials and the QVC. I use to ignore the Publishing Clearing House emails, but then I thought, what the heck. Since they clearly state “A purchase would be appreciated but is not necessary to win,” I would scroll through all the merchandise without a glance, and follow all the click requirements and submit. (Not giving it a chance to suck me in with its convienant payment plans, that still equal to overpriced your-husband-is-going-to-kill-you shit) If you haven’t made a purchase right before submitting they lay on the guilt like a starving child with the words, “Won’t you reconsider?” 😦

One day I was weak and reconsidered. It started with two magazine subscriptions. Then it was three plug-in pest controllers, that don’t work as well as promised…shocking. My latest must have is the Chef Basket. One product that combines 12 cooking steps… Yes, please! I’m interested in it as a deep frying companion. The colander use will also be helpful…I mean…I have a few of those already, but I still really need this!

Earlier today I transferred prize stickers without succumbing to the urge’s that have been passed down to me from hoarder generation to hoarder generation. F.y.i. I have never succumbed to the hoarder gene. I will admit I paused at the Country Pig Paper Towel Holder. Head of pig with a bandana, you can guess what’s at the other end, and in the middle papertowels OF YOUR CHOICE! Only 4 easy payments of $4.99. I paused because I thought my mom would like it. At least that’s the lie I’m telling myself.

Well clearly Publishers Clearing House is just another scam (drug) that helps pass the time. I’ve been eligible to win $5ooo a week untill I die for the last 6 months. I’ve been mindfucked into buying needless crap. Some idiots actually think they’ll get rich by transferring gold stickers to a designated prize area, and somewhere deep inside, I suspect I’m one of those idiots.

Go To Hell Sugar And Carbs

Once again I’m trying to eat healthy. I have tried this before but it never lasts long. The only thing I’ve stuck with is trying to include raw ginger or garlic in a meal. And by stuck with I mean it happens at least once every two weeks. Recently I have come to the conclusion that food is my crack. Yes I am comparing myself to a crack addict.
I’ve been using food as a drug probably since I was a toddler. I’m not the only one of course, Oprah taught me that. If I was upset in any way I got a cookie, or whatever sweet comfort food was nearby. A large chunk of my childhood we were on welfare, so I got a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches from the fire log size block of government cheese. It was some damn good cheese. And not just one at a time, my mother felt to make up for when we didn’t have any food, it was best to feed me two sandwiches. I thought this was normal. If I was at a friends house and we were made one sandwich, I was confused. I wanted to know where the hell my other sandwich was.
As I’ve gotten older I have tried to reprogram myself. This is no easy task. I’ll do well for awhile, but then I wake up one morning craving a sugary moist donut. I give little resistance and head for the local bakery to get my fix.
At this point in my life I feel it’s now or never. Either I make healthier choices at the age of 33 or I will never be able to reverse the damage. The epic battle with food has begun.
Oh my God! I want a thick piece of french bread lathered in butter! Mmmmmm.

P.S. Dwarf apples are adorable, and they mindfuck me into eating them with their fun unnatural apple size.

Why One Ply Why

Dear One Ply Toilet Paper,

Why do you exist? If you were not around, then you wouldn’t be an option at the store for my husband to choose from. Do you not know that you will just disintegrate. Why put either one of us through that. My husband cannot be expected to read the package of toilet paper. So please, I beg you, do the world a favor and disappear. (Just like you did when I was inhumanely forced to use you) You are not needed. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you have caused many unhappy and frustrating moments between couples.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Frequent Bathroom User