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.