Mama said knock you out

I was pretty happy last weekend. The kitchen was clean for about a minute. Everyone had a clean pair of underwear for at least another day and I was able to resist the allure of all things gluten.

But then I got an alert from our bank - that's never a good thing, in case you were wondering - and everything went to shit: chaos ensued in the kitchen, people used said underwear and bread flanked me and I surrendered because I am so, so weak like that and then my body just wanted to die.

Someone or a group of people used our card number and spent $700 goddamn dollars at the following places last Sunday:

  • not one, but TWO meat distributors. Must be nice to spend $400+ of money that's not yours on meat and poultry. I hope you undercooked your chicken and got sick, asshole.
  • Stein-Mart. It's kind of like Marshalls, I guess. I don't know. But they spent almost $300 there. Hope you wash those clothes on hot and they shrink and your ass can't fit in them anymore.
  • Wal-Mart. $28. How the fuck did you get out of that store and only spend $28? I hate you.

I had to call the bank on a Sunday. It's amazing how very casual they are when it comes to fraudulent charges. Like you're calling about making an appointment for a spa day or something.

Sure, Mrs. Kennedy. We will take care of you they say in their most insincere voice. I half expected them to ask if I wanted a glass of champagne while I waited. 

In the meantime, I was yelling, having a panic attack, trying to recall all the bills I just paid and were going to go through on Monday and ohmygod I was ready to throw a fridge at someone's jugular because, yeah, my adrenaline was peaking.

In the aftermath, my basic understanding of how addition and subtraction failed me and now we're completely overdrawn on our account. It's like college all over again, only worse. So much worse. 

Instead of crying, I took to the interwebs and came across something called extreme couponing. This is a thing? Apparently. Thank you, brain, for being so logical in my time of need.  

I have never clipped a coupon in my life. Okay. Maybe once or twice, but then I'd forget about it or I'd get the wrong size of something and not read the coupon correctly and it was all a big waste of time.

This whole coupon thing is crazy. It's maniacal, it's stressful. Am I stockpiling to save or am I stockpiling for the end of the world? What have I gotten myself into?

This is all your fault, scum of the earth who stole our card information. You've got some small balls on you.



Mad(wo)man Across the Water

There are two tenets in our house that we live by above all else :

  1. food brings you joy and eat before you become hangry.
  2. kindness to all. Unless they fuck with you and then all bets are off.

I broke both tenets the night we took the kids to see Sir Elton John in concert.

Does the DeLorean arrive in a few minutes to take me back to my eighth grade hell for my indiscretions? Better pack my Esprit sweaters and pair of Keds.

Broken tenet #1

I didn't eat before we left. It'll be fine, I thought. I'll eat when we we get there, but we have to leave now because traffic is an asshole on Friday nights.

As the night went on, my food options were seriously getting low. Apparently, we were seated in the THIS IS GLUTEN HEAVEN section. I got a bag of popcorn. I was getting my frown on.

Next time, I'm packing a picnic basket full of food just for me because I'm selfish like that. Ha - you guys don't get any of this tasty gluten-free stuff.

Cue crying now.

Broken tenet #2

We were surrounded by some very nice people. That is, until they started drinking. I get it - it's a concert. You're excited to see Elton John. You love these songs. But for the love of food, act like you've been in public before.

There was a woman with her husband in front of us. She was on glass of wine number five when she started furiously texting and screaming. She really liked Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters, I thought. But no, she was texting some people who were seated across the arena from her. She was waving crazily, telling her husband to stand up and wave like a maniac as well so their friends could see them because surely, their friends could see them in the crowd. Then she started spilling her wine everywhere on everyone. She started dancing which would have been fine, but she started dancing on her seat. 

Now we couldn't see Elton or his piano or anything except arms and legs and her thong. That's what I came to see - someone who's my parents' age dancing around with their thong hanging out, shaking their ass right in front of my face.

I had to step in.

Too bad she thought I was trying to dance with her. 

Consequence of Broken tenet #1 and being hangry

I wanted to sing my little heart out, but I was seated next to Ken Burns (AKA Carl) who kept recording almost everything. My god, man - stop recording so I can sing! I didn't want my voice on YouTube so asshole commenters can say shitty things about my shitty voice. 

I was relegated to lip-synching along to the beat of my growling stomach.

Oh yeah - the concert was great.

I'd take credit for Thai iced tea if I could

I've been making Thai iced tea all afternoon because I can shrug off sugar headaches on a Sunday afternoon. Not really, but my brain is telling my body it can, so whatevs.

Ohmygod I have to stop drinking these.

I don't feel so good.

This week I learned I have even more weaknesses than I thought and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

I can't concentrate right now. I have to pour myself more Thai iced tea. What? It's either that or sangria. Maybe I can do both? 

I guess there's no real news in the world today

I was going to write about how Carl and I took the kids to see Sir Elton John in concert a couple weeks ago because that was just one Seinfeldian moment after another, but of course I got distracted so I'm writing about something else now. 

Lucky you.

So I came across this - how can I put this gently? - POINTLESS AND STUPID article in the New York Times this morning about NY kids being a part of the home buying process. I should've just gone to the Food section like I intended. There's never a need for eyerolls and gagging sounds when I'm in that section. 

The first example was some kid showing his parents a $14 million apartment complete with 12 rooms and a private pool and hot tub. 

Fuck no! the parents cried out - We can't afford that shit.

And the mom was like, Ugh. I cannot possibly part with my oh-so-tiny eight-room apartment at Central Park. No fucking way!

But then the parents saw what an immaculate place the kid had found and they ended up buying it a few months later.

What liars. I thought you couldn't fucking afford the place?

Apparently, they found a few extra million dollars in the mattress. I don't find anything in our mattresses and believe me, I've looked. I've even looked under sofa cushions - that only yielded me five cents, a hair tie and two Cheerios.

And thanks, New York Times, for putting this well written article on the plight of the rich in New York on the front page. Glad their kids are being taught early about the importance of pretentiousness.

Will there be a follow-up article about how these families struggle to keep themselves surrounded by good staff members in their homes? Oh my god - who the fuck is going to polish my Louboutins today?

FUCK. It's Friday - good thing I made sangria yesterday.

Maybe I should live in a cave - come with me?

Carl walks into the kitchen and quickly walks out. No words are spoken and yet I know what he's thinking:

What the fuck is going on here?

I thought the same thing when I came into said kitchen earlier this morning. The dishes from last night's dinner overflow out of the sink and onto the counter. I'm surprised ants haven't discovered this little piece of nirvana. 

The wine bottles I used to make sangria two nights ago still sit empty on the counter. I should probably put them in the recycling container, but that requires walking and walking is for chumps.

The toddler has snacks littered all over the place - she's leaving herself crumbs like Hansel and Gretel so she can find her way back to leaving fingerprints on my computer screen. I know it's you, little girl. 

When you open the refrigerator, food containers fall out, food containers full of food from weeks ago. Instead of tossing the food out, I quickly shove them back into the fridge because that's what's easiest.

The dishwasher is full of clean dishes so that impedes my ability to empty the sink. I contemplate putting away the clean dishes, but that requires raising my arms over my head and I didn't really get any good stretching in yet.

Man, I'm getting hungry. Assessing this mess is tough work.

Looks like my work here is down.

Sofa time.

This is the elephant in the room

It started with a few extra pounds here and there. I shrugged my shoulders. Fuck. It's the holidays. I need to live a little, right? I fucking deserve it. Famous last words.

Then I found myself spending more time in the pantry foraging for something to eat even when I wasn't hungry because my brain loves mixed signals, it thrives on mixed signals. It's a wonder I've been in any long-term relationships.

I reverted back to nibbling off the kids' plates and eating all the crappy stuff I swore I would NEVER, NEVER eat again. There's no harm in that. I'm not killing anyone. Okay, fine. My stomach was trying to tell me stuff like, back the hell off, woman, you are killing me! The trigeminal nerve in my brain thought it was spring break and wanted to party with blood vessels and gave me constant migraines.

But so fucking what? Food is so good. Oh hello, my name is Dumb and Stubborn. 

Did it matter that ALL my clothes were no longer fitting properly? Are you kidding me? Of course it did, but when you've got cheesecake in your mouth, so little matters at that time. 

Fuck you, skinny jeans. Sweat pants + me = forever and ever.

But then today of all days, I get on the scale, the scale that has been gathering an army of dust in the bathroom, the scale that has been lying in wait to ruin my day. . . and this time, the number slowly knifes into me. I quickly get off and get back on the scale like a clumsy two-step because, yeah, that's really going to change the number in my favor.


In just a few months, I have gained ten pounds. In the big scheme of things, that number is small, it doesn't mean much, I guess. People gain and lose weight all the time. But it's the possibility that scares me, it's what may be waiting for me six months or a year from now if I continue on the path that I'm on . . .

After the toddler was born, I was forty pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight. No big deal. The weight would come off. It always had.

But then it didn't.

And I made excuses. Age, medications, IUD, age, anxiety, Florida, Florida, Florida. You can see where this is going. But I never once looked at the real culprit. That's because all the mirrors in our home are covered with bedsheets. No, not really, but maybe they should be.

It took a visit from my parents, a trip to the hospital and a commitment to finally start eating better, healthier and exercising to see those pounds go away. A year later, forty pounds were gone. 

I was happy. I worked hard to get where I was. Never again, I told myself. Never again, foolio.

Now I'm not happy.

I feel like Godzilla. I want to stomp all over a LEGO city and destroy everything in my path. I want to breathe fire onto little plastic buildings and watch them melt into oblivion. 

I want to cry, but I can't. Thanks to The Fault In Our Stars, I have no more goddamn tears. I should probably whip up some kale smoothie and go walk around the neighborhood or something, but the excuse machine is ramping up and instead, I just sigh and shake my head.

Why does this all matter? It's not like I'm going to be prancing around in some teeny bikini come summer. I just laughed out loud because there's no way in hell that's ever going to happen. But I want to be healthy and show my kids that I give a fuck about them and myself. I don't want to have the heart disease, the high blood pressure, the total disregard for wellness that seems to run rampant on both sides of my family. 

So today I'll just sit here and guilt myself, call myself terrible names and start putting the sheets over the mirrors.

Tomorrow is a new day.

This is 40

Image by Vincentiu Solomon

I like leading people on and pretending I'm smart in that weird how does she know that potpourri of useless shit smart - that's why I watched John Green's videos for Mental Floss.

That's how I roll, yo. 

But when the girl asked me if I thought Looking for Alaska was a good book, I was like, Hey, I'm gonna judge this book by it's cover and say it looks lame (good thing my kids don't listen to most things I say).

No way was I buying into it this young adult crap. The last time I fell for the YA stuff, I couldn't escape from vampire fever for years and I am forever damaged because of it.

And then The Fault In Our Stars movie came out. Eyeroll, eyeroll, eyeroll. 

Cancer? Kids? Love? No fucking thank you, sir.

So I boycotted everything John Green, even Mental Floss because this brain? Has no clue what common sense means. 

The Fault in Our Stars + sangria + Saturday night = tears x 2(kicking myself in the ass).

Really, asshole? Out of all the movies out in this world and this is what I choose to watch while drinking alcohol? No wonder I have issues. So many issues.

Apparently, all it takes is two glasses of sangria and I'll let my guard down. Boycott over. 

Yeah, I really know how to stand firm on my beliefs. 

Is that why Carl married me? Because I'm easy? Oh man, he's in for a lifetime of disappointment.

Also, I've been making a lot of sangria lately because thirst.

I'm not taking credit for Grease

I've hated Grease since I was a child. It has been the bane of my existence and continues to follow me into adulthood like that shitty bout of dandruff that does not go gently into that good night. 

Do you have your riot gear on already? Are you ready to sing my ear off?

I watched Grease for the first time on my parents' Zenith T.V. It was on late in the afternoon, the signal wasn't very strong and the goddamn T.V. antennas needed to be adjusted every five minutes or else John Travolta's face blurred into a fuzzy mess. If you're even wondering about what the hell these antennas have to do with a T.V., you can just stop reading now and go play Pat-a-Cake in your sandbox.

I wanted to change the channel, but the only other thing on was Battle of the Network Stars and holy fuck there was no way I was going to suffer through one of those again. Ugh.

I guess I should've gone outside to play, but it was Seattle, so it was probably cold and dreary and raining or maybe it was a rare and sunny day and it was too hot at a whopping 70°. Whatever it was, I left the channel on Grease. 

I wasn't mesmerized. I fell asleep a couple times. My teeth gnashed every time I saw Olivia Newton-John - it's a wonder I have any teeth left. The dancing, the hand-jiving - it sent me into fits of bitter rage and laughter. It was all so silly, but what the fuck did I know? I was a stupid little kid stuck inside the house eating an entire container of Cheez Balls

My disdain for this movie only got worse. All the popular girls in school just adored Grease and would constantly talk about how they basically sang the entire movie during the sleepover I was never invited to. 

Then college came and it was like I was dropped into my own personal hell. EVERY SINGLE GIRL KNEW THE WORDS TO GREASE. EVERY SINGLE ONE. Every dance move, every hand gesture, every Travolta smirk. 

I'm shaking just thinking about it.

Guess what? Grease was on T.V. this morning. I quickly turned the T.V. off. What did I do instead? I ate and mourned all the 80's snacks I so desperately miss.

How's that for productivity on a Saturday?

This week I learned I have a lot of animosity for one movie and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

It's Saturday. There's something dark and evil-looking growing in the back of our fridge. I should clean it, but instead I'm gonna watch these videos of young Ryan Gosling dancing because anything is better than Grease. 


Cheaters unite

Carl's mouth is moving. 

Yes. He's still talking about ants: We should blah blah blah blah. And I'm gonna go to Home Depot and blah blah blah blah. And we should probably put this bait over here and blah blah blah blah. And blah blah blah blah.

But I don't have the brain space for ants right now. My mind is fixed on the T.V. right now. Some red headed bbq demon named Bobby Flay is making a burger and I cannot stop thinking about burgers - greasy, juicy, full-of-gluten-burgers.

I want a buttered brioche bun slathered with some fancy mayo concoction. I want a quarter pound of beef oozing with cheesy comfort. I want crispy bacon sitting there looking pretty so I can devour it and feel all sorts of culinary satisfaction.

Instead, Carl stares at me with the where the fuck is your brain right now look and I look down at my lunch plate: a sad, chewy, gluten-free bun with an even sadder veggie burger. The pops of red and green from a tomato and an avocado do nothing to elevate my mood. 

I grab my keys and tell Carl, Let's go get a real burger, homes.

But what about your digestive issues? What about the cows?

Fuck it!

But we don't go anywhere because Carl is guilting me with stories of my cheating past: the empanada that made me feel like I was dying, the pancakes that made me writhe in agony, the cookies that made my brain explode. 

So hellllooooo veggie burger. We meet again.

Foam rollers will kill you

There's something about having physical therapy at eight in the morning that is not good for you.

When your brain fails, everyone will Facebook about it

The physical therapist told me to do two sets of 20 leg presses.  I lost count after three, started over again, got distracted by the guy next to me bragging about his all day trip out of town (to the next area code), could've sworn Kathie Lee Gifford was saying redrum on T.V. (are you talkin' to me?) and holy shit, lady what did you set these weights on - World's Strongest Man? Fuck.

How are we doing here? the therapist asked.

Exhausted. My legs are killing me, I said as I looked up at her disapproving face.

Well, no wonder. You did, like, five sets. Weren't you counting? Did she just swallow a megaphone?

The woman in front of me stifled a laugh. Don't make me break your other leg, lady.

Your stomach has other things in mind

I probably should've eaten something before I left the house. Apple slices and potato chips sounds like a helluva pairing to me. I've gotta go Instagram that shit.

The growling that emanated from the belly of the beast was scary. It's like Barry White meets Darth Vader meets Tom Cruise. What? I find his voice creepy.

What the fuck are foam rollers?

The therapist brought out this thing called a foam roller/torture device. She said it was going to make me hurt so good. That phrase is bullshit - it's never a good thing. 

I hopped up on a table with this torture device and rolled my body over it, back and forth. The therapist kept yelling at me: do it lower, lower! LOWER!

Is this what acting in porn is like? 

I failed to find the point of this exercise. Why do I want my hips to hurt more than before I got here? Why does it feel like I'm rolling over a wood log? Is the Marquis de Sade still alive?

Eavesdropping is expected

The highlight of the morning was listening to an older woman on her cell phone talk about her hemorrhoids.

Is this as good as it gets?