Thursday, November 7, 2013

Both the leaves and my face are Red

So its my birthday on Saturday (see me giving you plenty of time to shop?) I have been looking into BB creams because I have terrible hyper pigmentation on my face, but then I realized, hey!  I'm about to be 43 years old.  Maybe I should re evaluate the skin regiment that I've been doing for 20 years, and that I "forget" to do most days.  Maybe I should forgo the BB cream in favor of CC creams which are more for aging skin.  It took my this long to realize I have aging skin. 

I went to Sephora, and asked them about it, and they lead me right to the old lady creams.  It was humbling.  Turns out I'm not 25 anymore.  My grey hairs and saggy boobs, and fat ass have been trying to tell me this, but I haven't listened.  I'm middle aged.  And I need old lady face creams.

I bought this stuff that is supposed to get my skin to turn over more often, and lighten my hyper pigmentation.  It was expensive.  I've been using it for three days, and now my face is red and burning.  Is that normal?  I read the instructions and it says that step 3 is only for night time, and I've been doing it twice a day.  No wonder.  My skin feels very smooth, though, only now its red.  Not sure that qualifies as improvement.  Will keep you posted.

In other news, the trees on my street are showing off and trying to out do each other with their fall foliage.  Do you say "fo-lee-age" or "fo-lage"?  Team Fo-lee-age! All the way!

Monday, October 28, 2013

I have conquered Rice

I did it.  It took 4 tries, but I did it.

Leila has a love beyond measure for the Mexican rice from Baja Fresh.  She'll order the the cheese quesadilla, but what she really wants is the biggest side of orange rice they will sell.  Then she likes to eat it on chips, or with a spoon, or one grain at a time with her fingers, as long as it gets into her mouth.  It finally occurred to me, after having spent probably hundreds of dollars on rice at Baja Fresh, that I could probably recreate this culinary marvel at home.  According to Leila, who has taste-tested every batch, I have done it, and we should never have to buy a side of rice again.

The first batch tasted good, but was too mushy and wet.  The second batch was the right texture and consistency, but did not taste as good as the first batch.  The third batch was 95% there, but I had the sack to put actual onions in it, and even though they were minced to within an inch of their little onion lives, their sliminess made the rice almost inedible.  Jeez, Louise!  We also learned that tomato paste looked incredibly nasty when squeezed from a tube into warm chick stock, so don't do this.

So here, for all eternity, is the final recipe for Leila's Baja Fresh rice, without the pesky quesadilla.

2 tablespoons vegitable oil
1 cup of long grain rice (I tried rinsing it, and not rinsing it, it made no difference)
1 cup of chicken stock
1/2 cup of tomato sauce
1 teaspoon onion powder (or 1/3 of an actual onion, minced fine, if you're feeling sassy)
1/4 teaspoon of cumin
1/4 teaspoon of salt

Preheat oven to 350.  Sauté the rice in the oil in a pot for 6 - 8 minutes over medium heat, stirring often.  Add the onion powder, cumin and salt, and stir for another minute or so.  Add the chicken stock and tomato sauce, bring to a boil.  Put the lid on the pot, and put the whole shebang in the oven.  After 10 minutes, open the pot and stir, then replace the lid and bake for another 10 minutes.  Fluff with a fork, impress your friends and relatives.

I will probably be asked to make this 2 - 3 times a week, and I suppose I could make a double recipe.  Leila will probably get sick of it after about a month, and then she will never want Mexican rice again, but for now, I've nailed it.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Lord of the Dance

So you may have noticed that my posting has been a bit, um, thin lately.  I've had a few people ask me if I've given up writing or have started a different blog, but neither of those things are true.  Nor is it true that I have been undercover with the CIA, or training for the next Iron Man.  Here's the deal:

Remember last year some time I confided in you all that I had been treated for a little nutty? Well, I'm still on my nutty meds.  The greatest side effect of this medication for me has been restlessness.  I haven't read a book in months because I can't concentrate, and I either fall asleep or get up to do something else.  I have crazy dreams about public transportation -taking buses or subways, being in subway or bus stations, looking at bus and train maps - which cause me to be excessively tired during the day.  Last night I had a dream that I was having Christmas Eve with my mother in law in New York at a restaurant table that was entirely too small.  I'm a zombie today.  And as I write this, my knee is bouncing up and down like it has a life of its own and in that life it wants to be Michael Flatly.  I have been watching very good television: Law and Order SVU, Homeland, Sons of Anarchy, Orange is the New Black, but I have to play solitaire on my phone or scroll through Pinterest because I just get too restless.  I'm either doing minimum two things at once, or I'm fast asleep

So its been very hard to sit and write. I glance over at the computer and feel a jolt of inspiration, and then it passes before I sit down.  Even right now, I want to jump up and eat some shrimp salad.  So I'm working on staying seated without falling asleep.  Its a challenge. I'm getting a glimpse into ADD.

There you have it, the big update.  More to come!

Tuesday, September 10, 2013


This is gonna be gross, so gird your loins.  More cat drama.

I'm down one cat, but Loathsome Black Cat is still around and is slowly re-establishing her previous post at #1 kitty.  I made the mistake of mixing the late kitty's special kidney kibble with her regular kibble, and now she's got the runs.  She has started sleeping in the house during the day, filling my need to have cat hair on the couch, and two days this week, around 11 a.m. she's shit in the bathtub. 

I appreciate that she does it in the bathtub, and not on my rug or my bed.  It smells so bad.  I want to try to get her to use the litterbox inside again, but not if she's gonna pollute it like that.

The way I found out that she had crapped in the tub was that yesterday I hears strange noises coming from the bathroom and found my dog "cleaning" the tub for me.  God, dogs are so disgusting.  An hour later, he puked on the afore-mentioned rug.  Three times.  Not cool, dog.

At least today when she made her tub visit the dog was asleep and I caught it in time.  So nasty.  Nothing like gross cat poo and even grosser dog vomit to make you get over euthanizing an animal.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

The End of the Summer

So, my kitty has died.  We put him to sleep on Saturday.  We are all reacting as I expected we would: initial tears, then moving gently on.  The actual event was traumatic.  I've never had to put a pet to sleep before, and something I didn't know was that they don't always close their eyes.  They just stare, and sometimes wink.  I tried to close his eyes, but they wouldn't close.  The hardest part was walking away from his little body, eyes open, and not taking him home. 

But, this is a place where I'm supposed to be funny, and putting kitties to sleep is not funny, so let's change the subject.

We have had a busy summer.  We meaning Leila.  We went to Boston, she had basketball camp, then sleep-away camp, then two weeks in the mountains, then camping, and in between there was a lot of sleeping in, and playing on her iPod, and watching TV and walking neighborhood dogs for fun and profit, and complaining about being bored.  Just the way summer should be.  We are still on summer vacation for another few days.  Everyone else is back in school, but not us.  Leila has all her school supplies in her backpack, ready to go.  I predict that after, say, four days of school she'll be whining about how tired she is and how she misses summer vacation.  I will not.

This summer, I discovered Law and Order SVU.  I have never watched any Law and Order shows, and generally eschew cop shows and legal shows, but I suddenly got a bee in my bonnet about SVU, and now I binge watch it in reruns.  It really is shameful how much I love watching television.  If I liked exercise as much as I like TV, I could probably compete in triathlons, or swim from Cuba to Florida, or become Ms. Universe.  Instead, I'd rather eat left over cheesecake and watch SVU, and I don't understand people who don't.

So that is one little part of the summer update.  More to come.

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Cat, or Demon Seed?

I think my cat is feeling much better.  His fur is soft rather than straw-like, and he's become very demanding.  He's like a cantankerous old man with a deceptive, kitten face.  He follows me around and meows.  He begs while we are having dinner.  He is on my lap the minute I sit down, shedding his soft fur on me (which may sound lovely to a cat lover, but, as it turns out, I prefer my cats sleeping in a corner, leaving me alone.)  He gets very annoyed when the toilet lid is down, and meows at me until I correct the situation.  He meows at me to put fresh water in his many water bowls several times a day, and he prefers to watch me fill them so he knows its fresh, like he doesn't trust me (I wish I were making this up.)  He cannot stand to see the bottom of the food bowl, so every now and then I have to shake it level so the bottom is hidden before I fill it up again.  Now that he is well hydrated and feeling better, he has opinions, man.

We are giving him fluids every night.  It is best to approach him while he is sound asleep, but he generally takes it okay.  I am also giving him lots of extra loves and pets and snuggles and trying not to get too mad when he pukes on my bed.  Which is why the following was so very offensive to me.

I had had a long day of doing laundry and housework and whatever else I was doing, and I had just laid down on the bed for a little quiet time.  It was around four in the afternoon, and that is always the hour that I feel the need to collapse.  Just as I laid down, Kitty starting meowing at me.  I did not want to get up and check the toilet lid, so I ignored him and hoped he would find some other source of water.  He hopped up on the bed, ostensibly for a snuggle, but instead of snuggling me, that rat bastard backed up, lifted his tail and pissed all over me.  And I don't mean a little dribble, or an accidental leak.  It was a deliberate deluge of cat pee.  It kept coming and coming, and no matter how I yelled, he wouldn't stop.  I didn't want him to get it on the bed, so I leaned into the stream of pee to shield the bed.  It didn't work.  I was soaked through, and the bed got wet, too.

Can you believe this shit?  After all we've done for this animal!  After all the vet bills and special foods and fluids, he pisses all over me!! And do you know why?  It was not the toilet lid after all;  There were a few stacks of folded laundry that were making it difficult - though not impossible! - to get to his food.  He just had to eat his six kibbles right at that moment, and didn't want to step around the stacks of laundry, so, naturally, he peed on me. I mean what would you do?

I called the vet, at first thinking it was a sign of deterioration, and she laughed her ass off.  Not a sign of impending death, apparently.

Doesn't he know that I am keeping him alive?  That I hold the key to his comfort and longevity?  That I could just bag this whole business and take him in for The Big Sleep? Ungrateful little shit.

It was a good thing that I left for vacation a few days later, I really needed a break from that guy.  I'm still not quite over it.

Thursday, May 16, 2013

Nine Lives?

My Kitty is sick.  I wont bore you with all the details, but suffice it to say that his kidneys are failing and he's not long for this world.  Rob and I are actually giving him sub cutaneous fluids, with a needle and an IV pole and everything, which is something I thought I would never do for one of my animals.  It wont cure him, but it will make him comfortable enough until its his time to go.

Surprisingly, my daughter was completely undone by this news.  She sobbed that she wasn't ready for him to go, which is kind of weird because he hardly lets her touch him.  Neither one of my cats give two shits about my kid, and the most they do is tolerate her, and maybe - MAYBE - sit on her lap while she watches TV, as long as there is a blanket between them. 

I have been as stoic as I expected to be at a time like this.  I'm sure it will get worse, and then he will be gone, and we'll all be sad.  He is a very good boy, very skiddish, but sweet, and not nearly as much trouble as the big, black cat, who, while two years older than Sam, is healthy as a horse. 

So, every other night, I hold him on my lap while Rob slips the needle between his shoulder blades and the fluid drips in.  The hardest part for him seems to be sitting on my lap for five whole minutes.  He'll sit perched on my hip all night long, but being held on my lap is his version of hell.

He's doing okay, and for all I know we could be giving him these fluids for the next year or so.  I'll let you know.  In the meantime, I'll clean up his occasional barf with a little less annoyance than I did before...

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Brighter Whites!

If you've been a reader for a while, you might remember when I had all that trouble with my dryer, and it took a month to fix, and only got fixed at all because I cried in front of the Sears repairman.  (Yeah, SEARS, I'm calling you out as a horrible repair service!  Deal with it!) Well I have since found an excellent repair service, named Fred, and I love him and believe everything he says because he is honest and hardworking and once spent two hours with his head in my dryer trying to fix a problem while Sears stayed maybe ten minutes and did nothing at all. 

Two weeks ago today, I was blithely doing laundry, when suddenly the mesmerizing wawawawa of the spin cycle turned in to Ka-CHUNK-a-BlunkCHUNK etc.  I ran from my room to the washer and shut it off, tripping on my rug in the process and possibly breaking my big toe.  Luckily the spin cycle was almost over when the washer crashed and burned, so I put the laundry in the dryer (which works fine, but makes an annoying Wa-shhhhh sound with every turn of the drum) and iced my toe and contemplated going to the ER.

I've heard people can have broken toes for weeks and not know it, and I've also heard there's nothing to be done for a broken toe, so I decided to limp around and ignore it.  (I told you I'm tougher than I used to be.) 
Guess which toe it was?
My darling Fred gave it to me straight: Time for a new washer.  And as long as I'm getting a new washer, they may as well match, so time for a new dryer, too.

I was not super excited to spend this money, but once the machines got here, I washed everything in my house, and used all the different cycles, and marveled at the fact the clothes came out of the dryer warm (guess the heat wasn't working in the old dryer) and cleaner than ever.  I even washed pillows.  It was awesome.  And pretty quiet without the wawawa's and the ka-shhhhhhs.  How sad that discovering that the "whites" cycle included a second rinse was so thrilling to me.  This is what its come to: Suburban appliance ecstasy. 

I was so excited, that I went onto YouTube and learned how to clean my hardwood floors since I can't put them in the washer.  Then I bought a mop.  Things are getting weirder and weirder...

The bruising on my toe is mostly gone now, and it only hurts a little by the toe-knuckle.  Do you think its broken?

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

The Blitz is Blown

Notice I haven't mentioned the blitz in a while?  Well...

I stopped walking, and then I stopped counting calories, and now I've gained back all the weight I lost.  I'm not sure about the last one because I'm too scared to go on the scale. But if the powdered doughnut holes from Trader Joes that I'm eating right now, along with the coke I'm drinking are any indication, I've packed it back on.

I'm also still having all these sleep issues.  For a while, it was that I couldn't get to sleep so I was tired all day.  Now I'm getting to sleep fine, but I'm still tired all the time.  Do any of you readers have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?  I have never thought this was a real thing, like Restless Leg Syndrome, but now I'm wondering if I have it.  That's why I haven't been posting very much: I'm asleep all the time, and if I'm not asleep, I'm trying very hard to stay awake while behind the wheel of my car.

Every night I go to bed and tell myself, "Tomorrow will be different.  I will not go back to bed after Leila leaves for school.  I will DO THINGS, and WALK THE DOG." But it rarely turns out differently, and I often go back to bed until 10.  What a waste.

So, if you're keeping track: I'm fat, lazy, sleepy, slothy, and probably all the rest of the dwarfs, including Doc since the internet and I are diagnosing all my problems.

Monday, May 6, 2013

No Bodily Fluids for Me, Thanks

I know, I know, its been a while.  I've been lazy lazy lazy.

So, I have been thinking lately that I could totally become a nurse.  My BFF is a nurse, and when we were in college together I couldn't even watch movies with fake blood in them let alone consider dissecting a cadaver.  I got nightmares after I watched Die Hard. 

I feel like I've gotten tougher in my old age, less fearful, more okay with blood and guts (one of my favorite shows is Dexter, take that Die Hard) and I have a great memory for drug names and medical facts, so I think, if I wanted to, which I don't, I could totally become a nurse. 

Switch to a few weeks ago when I agreed to babysit my friends' kids.  I haven't taken care of these kids all that often, but when they were babies, I did watch them a couple of times and every time the youngest would take an enormous shit in his/her diaper.  My own child's diaper/snot/vomit never bothered me, but other kids' junk makes me gag.  But this is before I got tougher, you see.  I'm much tougher now.

So we start the babysitting journey with dinner, during which the youngest, 5, comes out of the bathroom and says, "Hey! My poop is purple!" Luckily Mom and Dad are still there at this point, so they can look at the poop and make the appropriate mental notes (lay off the beet juice.) They leave and we're having a good time, and I've brought Double Stuff Oreos for dessert, and when dinner is over, I get the five year-old to take a shower by telling him he should try to beat the world record for the world's shortest shower.  I want him to take a shower because he keeps saying that he hopes he doesn't have purple poop in his underwear. 

I am not allowed to watch him take a shower, nor would I since I'm just the babysitter, but his sister does and tells him to "just soap up your hand and wash your butt crack."  No purple poop, and the shower was only 53 seconds.  He gets out and doesn't want me to see him naked, so he puts a shoe over his pee pee.  I, of course, take a picture and text it to his parents.  We are laughing at the shoe, and suddenly the middle child, 8, says, "I think I'm gonna throw up."  I respond like a do with my own kid and tell her, "You're probably not going to throw up, but go on over to the toilet just in case."  The poor thing pukes her little guts out.  This is the part where I realize that, tough though I may be, I could never, ever, be a nurse.  I want to go over to her and hold back her hair and rub her back and say soothing things, but I'm too busy trying not to barf myself.  Meanwhile, the 5 year-old is in his little boxer briefs rambling on and on about God knows what.  I have to interrupt him to say, "Give me a minute, your sister is barfing." 

The barfing girl is a real trouper though, and she takes care of business, and decides she is ready for dessert.  I am stupid, so I say, "Okay! Oreos it is!"  We have our dessert, and I put the kids to bed, and little girl whimpers that she is just going to sleep on the floor of the bathroom in case she barfs again.  I say no way, and bring her downstairs with me where we snuggle in on the couch and look at books and magazines.  She ends up puking up the oreos, and I was much better about being there for her.  Not that much better, but a little better.  And somewhere in the middle of all of this purple poo and barf, the dog peed on the rug. 

So, I am crossing nurse off my list of possible things to be when I grow up.  Rock Star is still on there, because you never know, but nurse is off.  As is flight attendant, the reasons for which are also puke related.

Friday, April 19, 2013


So, about Colonial Williamsburg:  Its awesome, you should go there.  I had no real interest in going there, but went because Leila is in the thick of her revolutionary war/colonial times section at school, culminating in Colonial Day, where we parents have to cobble together a colonial costume and watch the kids square dance.  So we went to Colonial Williamsburg because we take our child's education seriously, and we are the world's best parents. 

We started our visit with the Tavern Ghost Walk which describes all the paranormal happenings in the haunted houses of Colonial Williamsburg.  The place does seem kind of haunted.  I did not see any ghosts, but I really wanted to.  Leila was riveted. 

Then we went to Outback Steakhouse, where Leila has been dying to go ever since she started liking steak.  It was on a strip of Regular Williamsburg (as opposed to the Colonial part) with every chain restaurant and hotel currently in existence.  After that, we went to Dairy Queen, (or, The Haunted Dairy Queen) which was right across the street from a Hooters.

I've never actually been to a Hooters, but I know about the scantily clad waitresses and the weird panty-hose.  Leila saw the cartoonish logo and asked, "What's that place?" 

"Hooters." I told her.

"What do they serve there?" asked she, probably looking for a back-up steak place.

"Wings," I said, "Owl Wings."

At first, she didn't believe me, but I made a pretty convincing argument given their owl logo and the name Hoooo-ters.  I told her they were grilled and deep fried, and kept hitting Rob in the leg so he wouldn't ruin the good feminist* thing I had going. (*I realize this feminism was based on lies and aversion therapy, but I'm okay with that.)

Rob gets nervous when she starts to become enraged with the inhumanity of the world, so he tried to soften my story by saying, "They also serve burgers."

Me: "Yeah, owl burgers."

Leila: "Mom!  That's so disgusting!"

Me: "Well, what are they supposed to do with the owl carcass once they cut the wings off? It would be more disgusting if they just wasted it all."

And this is how I have (hopefully) forever associated Hooters with something repugnant and vile in the tender mind of my daughter.  See?  World's best parent. 

Monday, April 15, 2013

Pukey McBarfsalot

Yes, I've been on vacation.  A mad cap tour of the Washington D.C. metro area.  I like to write about these trips backwards, so I'll start with the flight home.

We flew Virgin America, which I loved, but not enough to embrace turbulence.  I hate turbulence and have been known to grip the knees of strangers during bouncy flights.  To prepare for this. I took a leftover xanax from my crown.  Bless my dentist.  Then I had a glass of wine.  The plane bumped, and I took another half xanax.  I was still wide awake, and freaking out.  Rob asked the flight attendant to ask the pilot how long the turbulence would last, which she kindly did, and then she brought me more wine on the house and said she'd keep it coming.  So, if you're counting, that's .75 mgs of xanax, and two good sized glasses of chardonnay. 

The turbulence ends, and I'm feeling better, thought not at all sleepy.  I arrange my head and arms on my tray table and try to sleep, but no dice.  Then Leila starts getting jittery.  She's bored, she can't sleep, she's starting to come out of her skin, she's hungry, etc. etc.  I tell her to eat the peanut butter sandwich I made for her.  She says its gross because the honey has saturated the bread and the whole thing is a sticky mess.  So I tell her to suck it up and try to sleep, and she keeps jittering and whining.  I look over to Rob who is, of course, asleep.  The man can sleep anywhere, any time, and I can hardly sleep in a bed, in the dark, after some ambien. 

Suddenly Leila says. "I'm gonna throw up!  I have to go to the bathroom! I'm gonna throw up!!!" I manage to find the air sickness bag and the poor thing barfs her little guts out into the bag.  I will note, now, that she did not end up eating the gross peanut butter sandwich, so don't start blaming me for her stomach upset.  I woke Rob, and made him get up to let us into the aisle (he didn't want to, he wanted us to climb over him) and I took my poor little baby to the bathroom to wash her face and hands, get some apple juice and fizzy water, and then we sat back down.

She ended up throwing up 4 more times, once in the car on the way home.  I got a pile of air sickness bags from the flight attendant, and Rob said he probably would need one, too.  He felt like crap, and was in no shape to help me deal with a puking 11 year old. One of the bags ripped as I handed it to Leila, and she puked in her lap.  I made use of the airplanes clean-up kit, which includes rubber gloves, bags for puked on clothes, regular wipes, aromatherapy wipes, and a haz mat bag for all your clean up items.  Worked pretty well.

So, its a good thing that all my drugs and the third glass of wine didn't kick in.  I had to get all the luggage and carry everything, and take Leila to the bathroom in the airport to wash her face again, while Rob laid on a bench looking green.  He did not end up throwing up, thank goodness.

We got home at midnight, slept well, and everyone felt fine in the morning, except me, because all those drugs and all that alcohol finally kicked in so I slept all day.  Then I couldn't sleep again during the night. 

I can totally see how people become addicted to prescription drugs.  Its so tempting!

Next, in stark contrast, I'll be telling you all about Colonial Williamsburg.

Monday, April 1, 2013

Golden Girl

I was watching Golden Girls this weekend.  Its part of the new line up on TV Land, and I'm sometimes so desperate to watch TV that I watch bad TV from the 80s. 

Golden Girls is pretty racy.  I started watching it with Leila, and I was all, "Nope, not appropriate for you.  Back to cooking shows.  Or Sex in the City."  That Blanch: What a slut.

But here's the thing about Golden Girls.  I remember this show as one about three older women whose husbands are either dead or divorced out of the picture, living together in Florida, possibly in a retirement community, with an ancient Italian woman.  The episode I watched the other day had Blanch thinking she was pregnant and then finding out she was going through menopause.  MENOPAUSE. 

Think about this for a minute:  This means that the Golden Girls, who were, like, 70 when I was first watching it in prime time in the 80s, were really around 50.  This means that I am almost old enough to be a Golden Girl!  I have friends who would totally qualify to live in that house in Florida!  My mother would be the ancient Italian grandma (only my mom would be German and wouldn't be caught dead in a house coat.) 

These Girls are not Golden!  They are far from it!  Bea Arthur totally could have dyed her hair and not looked 70.  In fact, the woman who played Sofia, Bea Arthur's mother, was younger than Bea Arthur.  What were we thinking in the 80s?  That women in their 50s were dried up old ladies? (Except for Blanch who was anything but dried up.)

I'm not sure why, but I feel insulted by this.  Almost as insulted as I feel when I notice that the Huxtables have 5 children, two full time jobs, and you never see a babysitter or a cleaning lady on any episode. 

I really have to stop watching so much TV...

Friday, March 29, 2013

The Scale Hates Me, I just know It

It is that time of the morning when I desperately want to go back to bed.  To grab the dog and forcibly snuggle him and wake up at 10:30 even more tired than I am right now.  Lately, I've been indulging in this pass time a little too often.  In fact, its become a real option, like when I get up I say to myself, "well, this is a morning I'm going back to bed." or even the night before I'm all, "Stayed up to watch the Daily Show, should probably go back to bed tomorrow."

I have a lot to do today, though.  I'm going to struggle through.  My eyes want to close, and I could probably still find a warm spot on my bed somewhere, and the house is quiet and all the stars are in alignment, but NO!  I will stay upright!  I will get dressed!  I will do dishes and put away laundry and make the magnetic bed! I will drop the bags off at Goodwill and the expired animal medications off at the vet, and I will pay the Visa bill!

Here's the other reason I want to go back to bed.  I'm supposed to weigh myself this morning, and I reallyreallyreally don't want to.  I had Kentucky Fried Chicken last night.  This is only the third time in my life that I have had KFC, and it really should be the last.  I had one of their bowls.  And a churro.  The churro was sinfully delicious and I wont be able to stop thinking about it all day, but the bowl was regrettable.  I'm afraid to see what the scale says.  If it could talk it would say, "Tsk tsk tsk.  STAY AWAY FROM THE EASTER CANDY, YOU WHORE!"

Have a good weekend everybody!  I hope your weigh in is motivating, and your Visa bill is paid, and you have bounded out of bed today full of vigor and hope and energy! If this is the case, I will try not to hate on you.


The scale does indeed hate me.  I am slogging through this day, and its not getting any better.  I still want to go back to bed, but I've made the bed now, so I'd have to make it twice today if I get back in there.  Why is this house such a mess all the time?

Wednesday, March 27, 2013


I just busted into the Easter candy.  Its like Halloween, but in spring.  The blitz is not going well lately.  I've lost momentum.  I haven't walked in weeks, much to my dog's dismay, and I feel stalled.

Candy is so damn good, too.  When Rob and I went away for his birthday, we went to one of those bulk candy stores where you walk out having spent $20 on candy before you can even think about it.  I got my favorites: Banana salt water taffy (I don't actually like bananas, but I like banana flavored things) and peppermint salt water taffy, salted caramel and fun dip.  The next day I got my crown, and now I can't eat any of those taffies or caramels and I feel like I've been robbed.  It'll be a good two weeks before I can eat them.  I was hoping to be able to just eat them all so they would be gone, but they're just staring at me.

And now there's Easter candy.  I always forget that I only have one kid and I buy so much Easter candy and don't realize it until I'm filling all those plastic eggs.  And I'm the only one who fills them, and now that Leila goes to bed later, I'll probably be sitting up at 11 on Saturday night filling plastic eggs with all this shit, and then getting up at 5 and hiding them all in the back yard, and then stealing them out of Leila's Easter basket because she doesn't get overly excited about candy since there seems to be candy around this place all the time.

Candy.  My nemesis.  Also cake.  And hamburgers.  Help!

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Dream a Little Dream

Its after midnight as I write this and I'm not in the mood to sleep.  Which is not to say that I'm not sleepy, I'm yawning and everything, but its quiet and dark and I'm a little keyed up.

Its Oprah's fault.  After all televisions being tuned to basketball all weekend, I settled in to watch some OWN.  She interviewed the Facebook COO lady, Justice Sotomayor, Beyonce, and Stevie Nicks.  Not all together, although that would be very entertaining.  Then I went to bed and read some more stuff in my Oprah magazine, and now I'm all pumped up on Oprah.

Problem is, all these interviews and articles are meant to be empowering, and motivating, and, honestly, all they make me feel is, "I am such a little chicken shit."

They leave me confused about what I'm supposed to do.  Two of the women interviewed threw themselves into work, and wrote books, and the other two also threw themselves into work, but all the while pursuing their artistic imperatives.  I spend an awful lot of time watching TV and talking to my dog.  I would go out and start being my best self tomorrow, but I have to go to the post office, and we're out of bread and cat litter.

I like my life.  I like it a lot, TV and all, but I wonder if one day I'll look back and gawk at all the time I've wasted.  Or maybe all this wasted time will culminate in something amazing.  Maybe I'm just biding my time waiting around for my a-ha moment and after that, things will really get rolling.  We're not all going to be supreme court justices, or run internet companies, or be rock stars (although I think I still have a shot at that last one, what with the bangs) but what kind of dreams do you dream when you're 42 and you haven't figured out what you want to be when you grow up?  I dream that there will be a block of really good decorating shows on my DVR tomorrow when I get home.  I dream that I will have an inspiration about what to make for dinner, and I will bliss out cooking it while listening to music.  I dream that my cat will go a day without puking on my rug.  I dream that I make it through the day without consuming more than my allotment of 1533 calories.  That I will have remembered to put a coke in the fridge before I'm ready to drink a cold one.  That the prices on round trips from Seattle come down this week.  I dream that, some day, I will get a new garage door, and find the right rug for my bedroom.  I dream that my foot will get better and that I'll be able to wear high heels again.  Is that enough?  The women in these interviews said to "aim high" and that they were proof that you could make your dreams come true.  What if your dreams are little instead of big? 

My mom dreamed of seeing the world and she did.  Right now, I am dreaming of seeing the inside of my eyelids, and of getting my permanent crown so I can stop clenching my teeth.  That's enough, right?

Monday, March 25, 2013

I Got Banged

I may have mentioned a few weeks ago, in my post about the baby chicks, that I got bangs.  Not banged, you Ukrainian perv, bangs.  I had been thinking I needed to do something new with my hair having worn it the same way, more or less, for fifteen years, and then I saw this movie called Side Effects with Roony Mara, and at the end my friend asked me, "So, what'd you think?" and I said, "I think I should get bangs."  See, Roony Mara, who is so watchable its a little unsettling, had bangs in this movie and they were all I could think about.  Her hair-do wasn't particularly stylish or anything, but there was just something about it.

I made the mistake of asking my husband, my daughter, and my mom if they thought I should get bangs.  They all said no way.  The only person that seemed in favor of it was the woman who cuts my hair, and she is very stylish and relevant, and she said she thought it was a great idea.  This also happens to be the same woman with the baby chickens.  After we took care of the baby chicks and set them off on their journey to become food, we talked about the possibility of me getting bangs, and I showed her movie stills of Roony Mara, and she was all, "How about now?"

I washed my hair in her kitchen sink, and then she lopped off the hair in front of my face.  She asked if I could feel it yet, that I had bangs, and I couldn't.  So she kept shaping, and cutting, and layering, snipping around my head like she always does when she cuts my hair, and suddenly I looked in the mirror and - whoa - I had bangs, man.

I know this seems like I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill here, but these bangs have been a freakin' revelation.

I went to a school fundraiser the other night, mostly attended by women and some uncomfortable men, and my bangs were the talk of the night.  (Well, except for by the 98% of attendees who don't know me, or give two shits about my hair.)  Every person I talked to went nuts over my bangs.  I finally found my friend, White Pants, and tales of my bangs had made their way to her and she commented on them before she even got a good look at them; like, "Everyone is talking about your bangs!"

What an ego boost!  Seems I can't leave the house without talking about my bangs! 

If you look around, I would say that roughly 40% of all the women you look at have bangs.  Its not, like, a big deal, and if you're reading this and you have bangs, you probably think I'm nuts.  But I now believe I was meant to have bangs, and it just took me this long to get here.

Of course, my bangs have a mind of their own.  One part really wants to go sideways instead of down, and if I don't blowdry them right away they look very Flock-of-Seaguls.  When my hair is wet from the shower I look like The Fonze, and sometimes, even after the most aggressive of blowdries, they feather backwards like the 80s.  I call them my Carly Rae Jepsen bangs, and Rob hates this.  Michelle Obama bangs isn't the correct title either, so we'll just call them my mid-life, rock'n roll bangs.

Stay tuned a year from now when I start writing about what a pain in the ass it is to grow out bangs...

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Was the Repairman Cute at Least?

I just looked at my stats for this blog and saw that my readership was way up.  Then, I dug a little deeper, and, as suspected, at least half of my "readership" is from Russia, Ukraine, Latvia and India, and the entry sites are porn sites.  Awesome.  Then I looked at the search terms for this blog, and most of them were just Bored Housewife, so I have no one to blame but myself for giving this place a porno name.  There was one search term that was "Bored Housewife fuck repairman" which was a little more creative, and there was also "Ass cheese" but, to be fair, I have written a post with those exact words. 

So, Hello, former soviets!  I'm not a porn site!  As you've probably already noticed!  I'm definitely not posting pics of my kid anymore, either. 

Also, I have heard that some people are having trouble leaving comments.  If you are one of those people, leave me a comment.  Ha Ha.  Or, go onto my facebook fan page and let me know.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

The Queen is Crowned

I had to get a crown on my molar the other day.  I've been dreading this since my dentist told me I would need a crown, like, two years ago.  It ruined my Sunday, knowing that I'd have to have two hours of dental work.  It still makes me make a disgusted face, even though its over now. 

Luckily, because my dentist does not want to get beat up by me again, he prescribed me xanax before my appointment.  He also has noise cancelling headphones, and he encouraged me to bring my iPod and listen to whatever I wanted.  I love him.  It doesn't hurt that he's cute as a button, but its mostly the prescription drugs.

I wore my comfy yoga pants, I made a special playlist called "Crown" and I took my little pills and into the chamber of horrors I went.  I sat on my hands while he gave me the Novocaine shots, and that was the worst part.  I listened to my music, I turned it up when the drilling got loud, and was high as a kite. 

My mom picked me up and drove me home, and I got into bed and slept for four hours.  It was glorious. 

I have this temporary plastic crown now, and the permanent one wont come for three weeks.  I don't know if I'm going to have to take xanax again when they put the permanent one on, but I'm already getting the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.  My jaw is a little bit sore, and that's not that big a deal, but I bit down on the crown yesterday, and it was soft food, and it hurt.  Is this normal?  Should I call my dentist and tell him my molar hurts?  I'm going on vacation in in two weeks, before my permanent crown, and I'm scared to be away from my cute, understanding, drug-precscribing dentist. 


Monday, March 18, 2013

More Birds

Today is Rob's 44th birthday.  He's getting old.  Only has half the amount of hair he did when I met him, has wrinkles, and his butt is getting awfully flat.  His jeans look like Dad Jeans, but its all because of his pancake ass.  I'd say its time to trade him in for a younger model, but few are the women who can pull that off, and, let's face it, I'm no Jennifer Lopez.

Last week I went to an art gallery in San Francisco with a friend.  We've decided that we are both  bored and uninspired, so we are going to try to do something we've never done before, like go to a new neighborhood, or galleries, or museums, once a week.  We hope it will be once a week, but who the hell knows.  So, last week was our first outing and it was totally successful.  She read about this gallery that was having an exhibition called "For the Birds" and as I am becoming a crazy bird lady, I was totally excited.  It was a small gallery with different interpretations of birds, and in the back of the gallery was a large two-level studio, bright and sunny, covered with artwork of all kinds, and full of artists hard at work.  The twist is that all these artists are developmentally disabled.  Most were very concentrated on their work, some said "Hi!" with great enthusiasm, and one, named Loren, was very proud to show us his work that was up on the wall. 

There was a small painting in the main gallery that I fell in love with, of a bird, of course.  I was debating buying it, and then I remembered Rob's birthday!  He doesn't need another sweater or whatever, what he really needs is more bird art.  So I bought the painting, and in the process we met the director of the program and then the artist himself, Henry.  Henry had no teeth, but had somehow just eaten fritos.  He was very old, and pretty disabled, and was far more concerned with how he was going to get his cut of the sale then the fact that someone had bought his painting.  But I love that the painting has a story, and I'll remember Henry, and I will absolutely go back to that gallery for their next exhibit. 

Then!  We went across town to a thrift store that sells only old kitchen items.  I didn't buy anything, but I loved the store.  Afterwards we wanted to have lunch, so we went to the first restaurant that looked decent.  Perusing the menu, we realized it was vegan.  Since it was Adventure Day, we decided to try a vegan lunch. I had a baked falafel.  It was very good, but I couldn't be a vegan.  I would just spend far too much time feeling unsatisfied. 

So, the first Adventure Day was a success on many levels, but as I write this I realize it was not successful on a funny level.  Sorry.  I'll try to do something funnier or make a fool of myself next time.

Friday, March 15, 2013

Sleep, little Face-Eater, Sleep...

I'm still having sleep issues, so the other night I decided to try some soothing sleep sounds.  Rob was already asleep since his head had hit the pillow one minute earlier, but I used my phone to find an app that would put me to sleep.  (I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere, but it eludes me.) I filtered through the apps that said they had soothing sounds; one just plain didn't work, which was annoying.  Another was for babies and had lullabies and the only nature sounds it had were jungle birds and junk like that, but the last one seemed to have the ocean sounds that I was looking for. 

I set it to run for a half hour, and turned it on.  It did not work.  I listened to these ocean sounds for the whole half hour, forcing myself to give it a chance, and I was still awake when it turned itself off. 

I kept hearing freeway sounds.  If you are ever in a hotel unfortunately situated next to a freeway, think of the car sounds as the ocean: they sound exactly the same.  But in this case, there was this bumpy sound along with the waves, and all I could think was that someone was standing under a freeway bridge and cars tires were thunk-thunking over the seams in the cement.  Then I started to think about that bridge in Florida where that guy ate that other guy's face.  Then I started to wonder whether the sounds I was listening to were an actual recording of the ocean, or whether someone had just created them on a Casio.  Then I wondered, if it was an actual body of water, was it the same body of water that was under the bridge in Florida? Then I started wondering, what if it was recorded at the same time that guy's face was being eaten?  And I started waiting for the sounds of screaming or sirens.  They never came. They were probably edited out before the app was released. 

Needless to say, this was not at all soothing, and I have since deleted the app.  I didn't need to listen to the crickets or the birds or the waterfall to know that this was not going to work for me.  So instead, I just lay there, waiting for sleep.  Sometimes it comes, sometimes it takes its damned time, but either way I still want to stay in bed in the morning.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013


So I'm all better now.  I had strep throat and was in bed for four days.  I took my temperature every five minutes, and I drank sips of cool water, and I watched Say Yes to the Dress about a dozen times.  Now I'm on antibiotics and trying to stave off the accompanying yeast infection.  Rob and I are going away overnight for a romantic get away, and I'm afraid the fact that its period week, and I have a yeast infection might get in the way of the sexy time.  Oh well.  At least there will be wine. 

I did weigh myself during my sick time, and I have lost 11 lbs.  This should thrill me, but sick weight is inherently faulty since it will come back.  To win the blitz, I have to keep the weight off for two weeks and only then I can be declared victorious.  I can feel the difference in my clothes, and I caught a glimpse of myself in a window and was shocked at the difference. 

I'm still a lardass, though, no question.  I have a long way to go.  But I'm going to eat deliciously during my evening away, and on the way home I'm stopping at Red Lobster for lunch and I don't care who knows it.  Cheddar biscuits, here I come!

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Chicks, Man.

Recently I went to a friend's house who lives a few towns over.  A few towns over is like another universe when you live in a place where everyone seems to know everyone, and you cannot go get a gallon of milk at the supermarket without running in to three people that you know.  I needed to get away from this for a day, so I hit up a friend who shops at a completely different supermarket.

She lives on this pseudo farm, where vegetables are grown, and chickens lay eggs, and there's a cranky pig, and a couple of goats named Fern and Francine.  In addition to laying hens, they also raise chickens for slaughter, and they do their own slaughtering.  I know.

My friend and I were supposed to go on a walk, but she got a call that the chicks were in.  This meant that a box of two day-old chicks was waiting at the local post office.  They are put in a box in Iowa soon after they hatch and are shipped VIA MAIL across the country.  They can survive in this box with no food or water for three days, but you can't just let them hang around a post office while you take a walk, so we scratched our walk and drove into town to pick up the chicks. 

I got to hold them on my lap in the car.  25 little chicks, peeping and crawling all over each other.  When we got back to the farm, our job was to take them one by one out of the box, teach them to drink by putting their little beaks in the water and making sure they make swallowing signals, and then let them explore their new environment.  There was a heat lamp, but they all snuggled in a sunbeam on one side of their enclosure.  They're pretty irresistible, and it was so nice to pick one up and snuggle it under my chin and give it little kisses. 

They shat in my hand, and I didn't care.  Little sweet chicks. 
Chick shit.

In four months or so, my sweet little babies will be taken to an upside down traffic cone where their heads will be chopped off.  Makes you want some nuggets, doesn't it?

The babies have grown!
Then we went inside and my friend cut my hair and gave me bangs.  But that's a whole other thing. 

Thursday, March 7, 2013


I'm still sick.  Fever, sweating, and the throat is still on fire.  I'm going to go back to bed now.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013


I'm sick in bed.  My throat is raging, and I'm tired.  Its 3 p.m. and I'm in bed in my pjs, which would be awesome if I felt better.  And you know what?  I really love having animals when I'm sick, because they keep me company, and they don't care if I stay in bed all day, and they don't care if I'm smelly and gross, they just snuggle with me and look at me lovingly.  But: they are total bed hogs.  I'm in a queen sized bed, and I have maybe 16 inches of space on one side of the bed while they are curled up against my leg, and the rest of the bed is empty.  If I get up, they scooch over to the warm spot that my butt left, and then I have to move them over, making my hands like a spatula, and they look at me from their sleep like, "hey.  what?  oh."  And I try to move them way over so I can have some room, but they just migrate back over next to my legs again.  Its MY BED, you animals!

My cat (pictured below) has a cold, too.  Maybe he got me sick.  Is it possible to catch a cold from a cat?  And you know what else?  My dog (whose butt is pictured below) hasn't been out all day.  I love this kind of dog.  Eventually, he has to pee, right?  I mean, I assume my bladder is bigger, and I've peed three times today. 

And you know what else?  There's nothing on TV.  Nothing.  All that's on the DVR is all the Disney garbage that Leila records.  She's clogging up the whole thing with Shake it Up and Austin and Ally.  Lame. 

Orange cat with a cold, and my dog's butt
So, to recap: throat on fire, no room in the bed, dog butt, TV wasteland.  The End.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

The Romantic Lives of Fifth Graders

Leila has a friend over today, no one you know, and she was very open with me about her love life.

She's 10.

Leila tried to stop her from saying something, but she said, "Who cares?  Its over!"  I was cool as a cucumber, hoping for lots of details.  It went a little something like this: (names have been changed to protect the little animals.)

Girl: Yeah, me and Boy A were dating.

Leila: You weren't dating!

Girl: Yes!  We went to Lucky's after school sometimes.

Me: Did Boy A know you were dating?  Did you talk about it?

Girl: Oh yeah.  He would text me and ask "Do you love me" and would be all "yes." But its over now.

Me: Does he know its over?

Girl.  Sure.

Me: How did it end?

Girl: Well, Girl B starting spreading rumors about us, and I didn't want to be, like, rumor girl, so I ended it. 

Me: Were the rumors that you were dating?  Weren't they true?

Girl: Yeah, but she was saying that we were kissing and stuff, and that wasn't true.

Me: So no kissing.

Girl: Well, not really.

Me: So, kissing? 

Girl: Well, once I pressed my teeth to his knee.

Me: You kissed his knee?

Girl: No, he just kicked me in the hot tub. 

Me: Ah.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013


Leila had a basketball game today.  It was a massacre. Her team lost 20 - 2.  That is not a typo.  Our two best shooters weren't at the game, and our girls looked like lumbering dinosaurs compared to these tiny, fast Mt. Carmel girls.  One of our girls would go to pass, and there would be no one to pass to because the team seemed kind of spaced out, and the opposing team would just swoop in and grab the ball.  They should have thanked us every time.  My whole family came to see the game, even my brother, and it was just depressing.  The one high light was that the one, lonely basket we did get was shot by Leila.  I think she was more surprised than anyone else.  In fact, she always looks somewhat shocked when the ball ends up in her hands.  Like she's never seen a basketball before, and she's not quite sure whether to dribble it or eat it. 

The other girls have their own problems, like the one who can dribble and run like a madwoman, but once she gets to the end of the court she loses all control and falls down and the ball goes out of bounds.  Or the kid who keeps dribbling right on her own feet and the ball ends up rolling into the hands of the opposing team.  Or the girl that shoots baskets from anywhere on the court that the mood strikes her; 30 feet from the basket, and she's launching the ball over the heads of the other players who can only watch as it bounces off the backboard.  She never makes those shots.  They also keep dribbling and passing away from the basket once they get near it, rather than shooting.  Like they're thinking that the opposing team hasn't had enough opportunity to get the ball from them, and needs a few more chances. 

Then there's the wrestling over the ball.  Two, sometimes three girls clutching the ball and falling on the floor, rolling around until the ref blows the whistle.  Its comedy. 

We won our last game, but we just looked like keystone cops out there today.  Woof.  Really.  It was brutal.
Fancy Free-throw Footwork

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Blitz Update

Its Saturday night as I write this.  I have been doing so good on the blitz this week.  Seems like the week after my period is as good as the week of my period is bad.  I had no booze, only a few cookies, and I found the self control I needed to get the job done was in ample supply.  Its like my body presses a reset button after my period, and the closer I get to the next period, the more I'll eat.  I ending this week 1600 calories under budget for the week, and by the time dinner rolled around, I had 1035 calories left for the day.  I decided to go for it.

I had a cheeseburger, fries, a coke, and frozen yogurt in a waffle cone with strawberries and kit kat pieces.  I'm not topping it off with a glass of wine.


I'll continue this post on Monday after the weigh in.  There better be a pay off.

It is now Tuesday, and I weighed myself this morning.  The scale said I was up two lbs.  Fuck you, scale!  I did not accept that.  I wasn't hungry for breakfast, so a few hours later I weighed myself again.  This time it said that I was up 3 lbs.  You asshole!  So I weighed myself again, and finally - FINALLY! - it came to its senses: I was down one lb.  One measly lb. after my week of perfection.  Bastard.

I think I should weigh myself on Fridays, before the debauchery of the weekend starts.  I went to an Oscar party on Sunday where I drank a ton of wine and had a lot of crab rangoon and cookies.

I am starting to see changes, though, and my neighbor asked me if I'd lost weight.  I was wearing my suck-it-in pants, but I'll take all the positive reinforcement I can get.  

I'm going to try again tomorrow.  This will not stand.

Monday, February 25, 2013

The Great Tomatillo Search of 2013

I got this slow cooker cook book for my birthday in November, and the beauty part is I don't own a slow cooker, but this book has instructions for slow cooker and dutch ovens, which I do have.  Everything I've made from this book has been outstanding.  The one thing that I wasn't super excited about was the Italian braised short ribs, and that was because Rob got some meat with a big marrow bone in it instead of short ribs, and the result was way too rich.  The leftovers are still in the freezer and there they will stay until we no longer feel guilty and we throw them out.

Last week, I had a plan to make chili verde.  The recipe calls for 2 12 oz cans of whole tomatillos.  I started at Whole foods, where I like to buy meat. I got the pork shoulder, but they didn't have the tomatillos.  I went to 5 more supermarkets to get tomatillos, and the closest I got was a label on a shelf in the ethnic food aisle of Safeway.  I had already spent a small Whole-Foods-fortune on the pork shoulder, so I couldn't shit can the whole idea, which is what I desperately wanted to do. 

Store number 6 was a large, Latino market two towns over.  I thought this was a sure thing.  After a fruitless search (pun somewhat intentional) I grabbed the manager who told me that whole, prepared tomatillos were kind of rare. 

Why, Williams Sonoma, do you include an ingredient in your recipe that does not exist?  Why would you do this to me?  To the world? 

The manager said I should just use fresh tomatillos, and lead me over to them since I didn't know what they looked like.  He instructed me how to peel them, wash them, blanch them, and put them in a blender.  Then he loaded me up with a pound and a half of them and sent me on my way. 

I guess its too late to make a long story short, but I followed his instructions, and you know what?  So easy, no problem, and the chili verde was fantastic. 

I'm not sure this whole thing was worth writing about.  Its not really that interesting.  It seemed like it would be when I was driving all over the place looking for tomatillos, but now that I'm reading over, meh.  Can't win 'em all.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Sick Day

Miss Leila is home sick today.  She has been feeling crappy all weekend, but her fever is gone now, and she just has a sore throat and a cough and a stuffy nose.  General malaise.  She felt well enough today that she wanted to make cookies for Daddy.  Chocolate chip bacon cookies.  I went to the store this morning and got bacon and chocolate chips, and she did the whole thing until it was time to put the lumps of dough on the pans.  She hit that wall you hit when you've been sick and you're starting to feel better, but you're not quite there. 

So now she's in bed listening to a Harry Potter audiobook, and I'm stuck babysitting the cookies.  This is my least favorite part of the cookie baking process.  You're up, you're down, you can't settle in to watch anything because BING! you have to get the cookies out of the oven and load up a new pan. 

By the way, you read right: these are chocolate chip bacon cookies.  Its an experiment.  I'll let you know.  Although, I'm not feeling that great either and have absolutely no appetite for cookies or bacon, let alone together in one cookie. 

BING! hold on a sec', gotta get the cookies...

I'm back.  The Blitz was not overly blitzy last week.  I'm only down .4 lbs.  Better than a kick in the head, but nothing to crow about.  This week will be a different story.  Less wine, more starving.  My overwhelming sugar cravings should be mostly gone for another three weeks, so let's see what I can accomplish.  I have very little appetite right now.  I may be coming down with something.  Let's hope its something that makes me want very little to eat, but doesn't make me feel too bad.  I'll win this thing yet!

BING!  Alright, alright I'm coming!

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Before and During. After is going to take a While

My baby is growing up.  She's entered the awkward phase.  Luckily, so far, its not that awkward.  She's still beautiful (at least her mother thinks she is) and she's charming and smart and funny, but now she comes with accessories:


And now:

We are calling her Metal Mouth, Brace Face, and Woo Woo Train Tracks.  She has a good sense of humor about it.  She was so excited to get braces, like it was the best day of her life, and now, two days later, not so much...  She's sore, her cheeks hurt, she's whiny, and I'm trying to be sensitive.  

Note the pimples on the forehead.  Poor thing: its only just beginning.  To add insult to injury, she has her 11 year check up today where she will be seen mostly naked by her male doctor (gasp!) and she will get two shots.  Minimum.  Adolescence is sucks.

She'd want me to add the following photo.  Actually, she probably wouldn't want me to add any photos, but I'm gonna anyway.  I just plunked down a small fortune for those braces, they're mine, I can do what I want with them.


Monday, February 11, 2013

Do you know what Time it Is?

You know what time it is?  Its Girl Scout Cookie time.  A time of year I used to look forward to, indulge in, salivate over.  But now there's the Blitz.  The stupid, ruining-my-life Blitz. 

Because I like to support local girl scouts, having been a scout myself, and because I have no self control and freakin' love girl scout cookies so much, I just bought six boxes of cookies.  Two boxes of thin mints, for the purists in this house, and because they're the best deal, and four boxes of Tagalongs, those wonderful shortbreads with a dollop of peanut butter covered in chocolate.  My favorites

They are now sitting on the dining table, taunting me.  Mocking me.  I'm extra hungry, too, because I didn't have a proper lunch.  Mostly because I drank extra wine last night. 

For the first time, I checked the calories on these Tagalongs.  These little fuckers have 140 calories per serving, and a serving is two cookies.  I have easily eaten an entire box of them in one day before, so almost 1000 calories worth of cookies.  Is it any wonder I'm such a cow?

They are so delicious, though.  Its breaking me heart to sit here and not eat any.  I wished I loved exercise as much as I love food.  I said this wouldn't become a weight loss blog, and I'm sorry to bore you with talk of calories and longing, but fucking Girl Scout Cookies?  During period week??  Did you ever see Kung Fu Panda?  Remember the part where he is up in the rafters eating Monkey's almond cookies, and he's just stuffing them in his face and crumbs are flying everywhere?  That's who I want to be right now.  The universe is testing me...

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Oh Boy

I'm having trouble with the Blitz today.  I'm getting my period next week, so this is usually the week that I eat my way through all categories of sugar items: cake, ice cream, chocolate, skittles, cookies, frosting, french toast, Cinnabon, hot fudge sauce, kettle corn, caramel corn, boysenberry syrup, candied nuts, buttermilk pancakes, orange chicken, shall I go on?  Notice there was no fruit in that list.  Besides the boysenberry syrup.  I also indulge cravings for salty things like chips, burritos, cashews, Thai curry, Mongolian beef, salami, fried eggs, bacon, hashbrowns (all in one bite) onion rings, burgers, kettle corn, salt, butter, salty butter, grilled cheese, shall I go on?  I also drink more.  And shop more.  I get indulgent in every way.  If I buy myself clothes, you have to assume I'm about to get my period. 

Today would be the day that I would make a batch of cupcakes and then eat at least half of them before Leila gets home from school, and hide the liners under the trash in the trash can.  Or I'd go McDonalds and get a cheeseburger mini meal.  Or both.  Either way, it would be delicious.

I don't want this to turn into a weight loss blog, or a food blog, but its all I can think about today. 

I haven't eat anything in about an hour and a half.  I'm taking it one moment at a time. 

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Blitz Update

Time for a Blitz update.  I'm losing.  Double meaning there: I am losing weight, but I'm also losing the competition.  Hawaii threw me off course.  All that alcohol, and those damned Maui potato chips are so good.  I walked almost every day, and I was pretty good about the calories, except for the booze.  Take the booze out of the equation and I was a super star, but that is, unfortunately, not how it goes.  I was only up .2 lbs. after the trip, but I forgot to weigh myself before I left so I could really have been up 2.2 lbs.  I'm glad I don't know for sure. 

Then, I weighed myself yesterday and I was up another .2 lbs.  or maybe more.  I can't remember.  I've blocked it out.  It was depressing.  I ate out some last week, and there was the super bowl, and I JUST LOVE FOOD TOO MUCH, OKAY?

I felt lighter this morning, though, so I weighed myself again, and I was down 2.2 lbs.  That's 4.8 lbs. over all.  Not bad, but my opponent/cheer leader is ahead by a few tenths of a pound.  I will crush her!  Just kidding.  I will only crush her if I sit on her. 

I also found out recently that I am anemic again.  I don't know why, probably my diet, but I have to send in a stool sample to be sure there are no microscopic traces of blood in my poop.  Honestly.  Of course, I couldn't wait for my doctor to explain how to send in a stool sample before I start saying things like, "How'd you like to have that job?  Sifting through people's poo?  Do I need a special tupperware or something?" and she hands me and envelope and I'm ashamed of my poo talk with my doctor. 

I have been so mind numbingly exhausted, and at least now I know why.  I indulged my anemia this morning and slept until 11:40!  It was so wonderful, but I'm still only 75% awake. 

I'm hungry.  I want cake.  And ice cream.  I'm taking a little break from booze, but I want sugar in the worst way.  I have 879 calories left for the day, and I have to save it all until dinner so I can pig out.  Although I don't think 879 calories is really considered pigging out.  Its probably one glass of wine and a salad and a mini drumstick ice cream cone thingy.  I hate losing weight.  It is sucks, as Leila used to say.

No more weight loss talk.  It just makes me want a donut.  Its currentlty 2:46 p.m. and I'm still in my bathrobe after my big sleep-in.  All the animals are sleeping and they look so happy.  Maybe I need a little nap.  Sleeping is a great way to not eat. 

You don't have to worry, I will tell you all about how you submit a stool sample.  I know you're wondering!

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Hanging Ten. Whatever that Means

I know, I know.  I was in Hawaii, and my re-entry has not been smooth, but I'll get to that another time.

Wanna know what I did in Hawaii?  I SURFED!  You read that correctly.  With my dead foot and my arthritic knee and my in-the-way boobs, I surfed.  I got up on the surfboard for about three whole seconds.  I sucked at it, and I have never worked so hard in my life, but I did it, and I was majorly stoked.  Rob was pretty good, Leila was pretty good, and I was terrible, but that's okay.  I had always wanted to try it, and now I have. 

I asked my dad to take pictures.  He and my mom sat on chairs overlooking our waves and cheered us on, and my dad said he took "tons" of pictures.  I was suspicious.  My dad never takes "tons" of pictures.  He still lives in the era of the 24 exposure roll of film, and is not yet hip to the 8 gb memory card.  I was right to be suspicious.  Here are some of his pics:

This is a shot of my ass.  On the grass.  Thanks, Dad.

Again, my ass.  There are six more pics like this one.  This was also the best I looked surfing all day, even though I wasn't on a surf board or anywhere near the water.

This is a hen with her chicks.  While this picture and the other one just like it was being taken, I was probably up on the surf board for those precious three seconds.

This is me kneeling on the surf board.  Behind the bushes.

Best picture of Leila.  Its not a bad one, but she had some excellent runs, especially her last one.  My dad didn't photograph that one, though, because they got bored and left before the lesson was over.  

 This is Saint Rob looking like a pro (except for that his wave is only one inch high) Of course my dad gets a catalog shot of Rob.  They like him so much better than me its obnoxious.

And this is best shot of me taken all day.  I fell off shortly after this.  I fell off a lot.

So there you have it.  Surfing.  Dude.  Moon Doggy.  

I also paddle boarded, which looks much easier and more zen-like than surfing, but I assure you its not.  Not in the ocean anyway.  I went out on that thing and got up.  I looked like this
What you can't see in this image is the fact that my knees are wobbling like rubber bands, and what you can't hear is me chanting, out loud, "You can do it.  You can do it.  You can do it.  No you can't!  Yes you can."  Followed by a big splash as I fall backwards into the water, getting a nose full.  

I popped up and held on to the paddle board while I was catching my breath, and saw Rob throw his glasses at some stranger on the shore and dive into the waves, swimming over to me like a shark was chasing him.  I asked a woman near me who was calmly paddle boarding around like it was no thing, "Does he think I'm drowning?"  By the time he got to me I was back up on the paddle board, not on my feet or anything fancy like that, and I was all, "What was that all about?"

It is nice to know that I am married to a man who will swim his little ass off to save his wife who is stranded with a paddle board out in the ocean.  So romantic.  Since he was out there anyway, I made him give me a ride back to shore.  Too much salt water up my nose to do any more paddle boarding:

When I was back up on the beach, a man said to me, "Your husband tossed me his glasses before he went out to save you."  Its nice to be saved, I guess, but not when you don't need saving.  Then you just feel like a helpless girl.  Of course my parents were much more impressed by Rob's ability to swim than they were by my getting up on a paddle board.  There's no winning.

We also zip lined, which you should be very impressed with.  I was the first screamer, and I got 67 bug bites.  I don't need to do it again, but I'm glad I did it.  

So, add to this story a few Mai Tais, Mimosas, Tequila Sunrises, a book, some podcasts, naps and food, and there you have the whole story of my trip to Hawaii.

Aloha and Mahalo. 

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Blowing her Mind

Ten Pound Blitz update: I'm 3.2 lbs. down for the week.  I feel thinner already.  I'm .3 lbs. ahead of my competition.  Game on!

I took Leila bra shopping the other day.  I realize that one day she may get furious with me for sharing this kind of information with the whole internet, but, whatever: I gave birth, I had to stick my pinky finger in her butt to help her poo when she was a baby, I put up with her messy room and her quirky eating habits, I think I've earned it.

Back to bras.  You would have thought that I was making her do a strip tease in front of the whole 5th grade.  We picked out some bras, went into the largest dressing room, and she points to one of the bras and says, "that looks good, let's get that one."  I told her she had to try it on, and try on the other ones too to  see which one was best for her, and she looked at me like I had told her to eat the bras instead of try them on.  "You mean I have to take my top off?  IN PUBLIC???"  I told her it was not "public" it was in the privacy of the dressing room.  Then she tried to kick me out, and I told her I had to make sure they fit properly.  So she made me turn around and face the wall, because God forbid I see her little boobies.  Remember the part where I had to stick my pinky finger up her butt?

Then came time for her to try on a regular-style bra vs. a training bra, and she was trying to do the clasp behind her back rather than doing it in the front and sliding the bra around, but I wasn't allowed to turn around and show her how to do it.  I turned around anyway, and pointed my eye balls at the ceiling while showing her how it was done.  That bra didn't turn out so well, so we stuck with the training kind.

Then I made her try on a bathing suit.  That was even more traumatic because she had to take her pants off IN PUBLIC.  I said she could leave her underwear on, but that was hardly any consolation.  She was completely mortified by the whole experience.  I told her to get used to it, because every woman in America eventually has to try on bras and bathing suits, and we all hate it, but its just one of those things. 

I went to the gynecologist today.  I can only imaging how Leila is going to feel about that.  I couldn't help telling her that I went to the gynecologist, and explaining that this was doctor that looked in your vagina.  Then I told her that my gyno is a man.  I think her head may have exploded. 

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Bless my Bed

2 fried eggs, an english muffin (no butter) and a coke.


The Blitz is going fine.  It helps to go back to bed after the kid leaves for school and pass out until 11 and combine breakfast and lunch. 

My sleep is so off, I just can't get a handle on it.  I thought that taking brisk walks would help me sleep normally, but not yet. 

Is this the beginnings of menopause?  Is this what I have to look forward to?  Sleeping at inappropriate times?  And just because I love my bed and I love staying in it for as long as I can stave off the guilt for not being upright, it doesn't mean I'm depressed, does it?  They say that depressed people don't want to get out of bed, and I've had that experience, but what if you want to stay in bed because you just love bed SO MUCH?  And staying in bed is so much better than getting up and stripping said bed and throwing the sheets in the washing machine, and then doing some dishes and going to the UPS store?  When I was crashed out in my bed this morning, with the radio blaring and a cat sitting on me, I can assure you that I was very, very happy.

But now I'm up.  I'm not dressed, or anything outrageous like that, but at least I'm up.  I really want to go to bed again, though.  I have good stuff recorded on the DVR, and its freezing outside, and all the animals are all sleepy and cuddly.  Its going to take all my will power to stay out of that bed!  Its calling to me!

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

The Ten Pound Blitz!

Okay, so you know how I'm a total lardass, right?  Its not false modesty, like I'm a size 4 and I'm like, "My butt is too big!  I hate my thighs!"  No, I'm a lardass, pure and simple.

I don't have any desire to be a size 4.  I don't think I'm meant to be thin.  I was thin a couple of times in my life, not dangerously thin or anything, but deliciously thin, and you know what?  Screw that noise.  Way too much work.  In fact, losing weight would mean buying new clothes, and I hate shopping, so I'm actually mildly conflicted.

But here's the deal: I have bad feet, bad knees, and, shockingly, I'm not getting any younger.  I know, right?  I thought aging was for everyone but me, like jobs, and clean bathrooms.  So, my friend and I are in a friendly competition to see who can lose ten pounds first.  The runner up has to fly to visit the winner.  We are in constant contact, using an online tracking system, texting, using a pedometer that has an online component, and, eventually, complaining and crying on the phone about how much we miss those extra 700 calories per day that we used to eat. 

We've been at this for 33 hours.  So far, I messed up my tracking by forgetting to log a salad.  But I have taken two vigorous walks with my dog, had two smoothies, two salads, and leftover birthday cake.  I logged the calories for the cake, and it was totally worth the wine I didn't drink later. 

WP asked me why I didn't just throw the cake away, and this is exactly the difference between the two of us: She plays 11 sets of tennis a week and walks her dog for hours every day and throws out leftover cake; I take naps and lick the frosting molecules off the cake plate.

Yesterday I was on fire, totally motivated, energized, hungry and productive.  Today I'm tired and cranky.  I walked in the freezing cold this morning, and it was not fun or invigorating, but I did it.  I drank my smoothie, and I went back to bed for a while.  There is nothing like sleeping to keep you from eating.  

So there you are: The cliché new year's resolution!  I wont bore you with this daily or anything, but this is where my head is at.  And my ass.  My lard, lard ass.

Monday, January 7, 2013

Put a Bird on It

Happy New Year! 

New Year's Day seems like one hundred years ago already.  Christmas even longer ago.  It was all fine.  Everyone was happy, we lounged around for two weeks, ate ridiculous amounts, took walks, watched lots of TV, slept in, and now we are back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Highlights?  Not sure.  I never caved and sent out Christmas cards, but it didn't feel good.  The lack of stress felt good, but I had guilt about it, too, so it was kind of a zero-sum game.  I think I'll send cards next year.  I made all that bacon jam, and now its sitting in my fridge.  I bought and filled little jars with the stuff, but never actually gave them to anybody.  The Christmas tree was slightly crooked and the lights kept going out in chunks.  Not my best work, but it did the job.  The tree had 11 birds on it, and I held myself back from adding any more.  I received your typical mom gifts: a sweater, some earrings, a book, and a cookbook stand.  With a bird on it.

Leila's 11th birthday came and went.  11.  Did you hear me? 11!  I'm having more trouble with 11 than I did with 10.  Maybe because I know sullenness is just around the corner now.  We're also past the halfway mark to her high school graduation and she'll be gone in the blink of an eye.  Then I'll really have to figure out what to do with my life. 

She had a family party where she requested Hawaiian bar b q from a place we'd never tried before.  This was an odd choice, but we did it anyway, and, mercifully, she loved the kalua pork.  I roasted beets for the first time ever, and I made a killer beet and arugula salad.  That's what I'm having for lunch, too.  I can't wait for lunch.

She had a friend party the following night, and the girls played Just Dance 4 on the Wii with the lights down and disco balls going.  They ate pizza and cake at the dining room table while they gossiped about people at school.  Rob and I stood unnoticed in the kitchen an eaves dropped and drank mai tais. 

Let's see...  Another high light was that Rob and started watching Sons of Anarchy on Netflix and we love it!  Its so nice to have a series to look forward to again, and so sad that this is my life.  My biggest high of the day is getting the kid to bed so I can watch a show about an outlaw biker gang.  Dowton Abby started up last night, and I tried to stay up and watch the whole thing but I had to bail.  I was getting a little bored, and I had to go to sleep.

Except that's another thing.  I'm having so much trouble sleeping!  I doze fitfully and never feel like I'm asleep, and I toss and turn until around 2 a.m. when I either finally fall asleep, or I take an ativan to quiet my brain.  The other thing that seems to help is Nate Silver.  I'm plugging away at The Signal and the Noise, and, interesting though it is, it puts me to sleep.  So that's my strategy: Nate Silver myself to sleep.  I hope that book never ends.

Tomorrow I'll write about The Blitz, which is a name I like much better than The Diet.  Adios.