Ok, So I'm Still Eating Like a Fucking Asshole

What is it with Mexican food that will make anyone eat like a fucking asshole?


Wha? That doesn't happen to everyone? It's just me? Oh well, it's a good thing this blog is all about me.


The delicious warm chips and divine salsa! The white cheese dip! The refried beans topped with the cheese sauce! The El Burro Loco not just covered but smothered in cheese sauce!


Oh. My. God. That cheese sauce is my crack and I will take you down with my big red sombrero you if you try to take it away from me.

I can not stop. I eat way past the point I know I am full because...? Who knows! It's Mexican food and falls under some strange international food phenomenon.

And if that little (har har) eating experience isn't enough to erase all skinny things I've attained from three weeks of hoofing up a sweat through power walking, I had to go and make cookies on Sunday.

It's a holiday weekend and I'm compelled to cook up yummy stuff on holiday weekends. I don't understand this particular food phenomenon either, but I can't not do it.

Oh. My. God. My cookies! To eat one is to have a little taste of heaven now that I have perfected the recipe. Unlike this blog, my chocolate chip cookies could make me famous.

Let me put it to you like this. At a recent work function, I ingratiated myself with King Wally and baked up 4 dozen of my cookies for him to share. (I got a foot rub in exchange.) Another co-worker happened to bring the exact same cookie. Every! single! one! of my cookies were gone and no one ate hers because they couldn't lower themselves to eat anything other than my cookies that have been touched by the gods.

Did you know Julia Child didn't discover she could cook until she was 34? I'm 34. She also helped to develop a shark repellent before her cooking days. I could help my son develop some shark related something at anytime. Do the similarities astound you too?

Is there anyone else whose mouth gets sore if they eat too much sweet stuff? For me it's the roof of my mouth. It gets all ridge-y and the soft palate way in the back gets real bumpy. Fruit Loops is usually the only thing that does this to me because I can't stop eating those either. (I bet they are made in Mexico.)

I've eaten so many of these cookies that the roof of my mouth is now sore. Even the taste buds on my tongue are swollen due to overindulging in so much sensual pleasure.

And there's leftover crack, I mean cheese dip in my fridge.

I'm going to look so good in my first ever double-digit sized tankini when we go to the beach today.

Look mommy! What is that big bloated thing lying on the beach over there?

Shhh lil' Johnny. I *think* that's a pregnant woman.

Bugger. I'm going to have to hoof it twice a day to make up for these two days of eating.

Blogpression

Heather lies on psychiatric couch....

"Why yes, Doctor, I think the blogosphere is making me depressed! Along with the magic bathroom scales that Karma had the evil scale fairies leave me, of course."

I love to read about a mother's love for her baby. How their smile warms their heart, the joy in watching them grow from newborn blob to curious baby. It really is sweet.

But also depressing. Because those days are gone for me. Buh-bye! Those sweet moments are only a memory made fuzzy by the enormous strength of willpower I need to not sell my 5- and 7-year-old and then use the proceeds to buy weed and vodka.

It's not that I don't love my children. Of course I do! But the in love part of it, oh, that's gone. It's like being married for a while. Every now and then you'll get that jolt of infatuation, but for the most part you're sorta just there, farting in front of each other and picking your nose.

Thank god we do have the in love period with our babies or else we would sell them when they got older. Still, when I read about it I get a quick stab of jealousy, then a flash of nostalgia for days gone by, and then a dose of depression because I spend more time frustrated from all of the fights I break up between the two than I do with sweet loving feelings.

And those of you going off on girls only weekends in new mini-vans?

Once I can move past the jealousy stage which causes the quick immature act of pulling down my shorts and telling you to kiss it, I will be so depressed.

How about those of you with nearby grandparents who take your children for weekend sleepovers, or, dream of all dreams, an entire week during the summer? (I don't know who you are but I know you are out there.)

De. Pressed. Thank you.

And how about those of you asking about the language I speak.

Umm...

Umm...

The hell if I know! I've been racking my brain. What am I fluent at? Where am I an expert?

Do skid marks count? The Diva Cup? God, I hope not.

For a 34-year-old mother who has stayed home for 8 years to contemplate that question when her last child at home will be starting full-time school in 3 short months is to invite depression.

Do you find any particular type of blog posts depressing in a I'm-so-jealous way? Or is this another chapter from my special Book of Crazy?

Thing One & Thing Two

Thing One

I have been walking 5-6 times days for three weeks now. This is no pansy ass leisure walking. Oh no. I'm out there hoofing up a stinky sweat with Jack Johnson and Flight of the Concords on the iPod.

Can you imagine what my neighbors must think?

There goes the crazy lady who walks very speedily through the neighborhood alternating between staring up at the pretty clouds in peaceful reflection and sudden bursts of laughter.

I've stopped eating like a fucking asshole during this time too. My clothes are fitting better. My stomach is flatter. My muffin top is shrinking. I actually remember what it feels like to be hungry again. *gasp*

So why in the hell have the scales not moved down AT! ALL!

That pisses me off.

I blame the scales. I went years without owning a scale or having a clue to my weight in actual numbers, and thus went years staying nice and slim. My weight was more of a ballpark figure in my head, using the fit of my clothes for a gauge. And I stayed somewhere in the 6-8 size range.

Ever since I bought the scales it's like this number haunts me and will not go away. It was much better when in my mind I thought....Oh, I weigh 130ish. (I'm 5' 8"ish) Somehow, without the scales, I actually stayed in that range.

But now? I have the scales and that number says...Oh girlfriend, you thought you weighed 130ish? No, no. You weigh 140ish, you silly girl! And now that's stuck in my brain and I'm probably creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It makes me wonder...do French women have bathroom scales? Because we all know French women don't get fat. Bitches.

I think I'll put these bathroom scales on craigslist.

Set of magic bathroom scales
The magic's in the number that never fucking goes down. Even if you stop eating like a fucking asshole and hoof up a stinky sweat every damn day of the week, it stays the same. Free to any masochist who enjoys feeling fat all of the time.


Thing Two

I'm getting blamed for things that aren't my fault.

Tuesday was the last full day of school. All of the exams are taken, books turned in, workbooks are home. The remaining two half-days will be spent doing nothing.

I don't see the sense in making my kids go to school to do nothing just to fill their quota, so I don't make them go. And I secretly kinda know they don't take roll those last two days.

Payton's principal came down to his classroom on Tuesday to say bye to him for the summer.

"Well Payton, this is your last day at school," he said.

Payton's eyes get big and he looks shocked at this information.

"What?!" he exclaims.

The principals repeats himself.

"Oh man! My mom is ALWAYS doing this to me! She is ALWAYS making me leave school for the summer! She does it EVERY YEAR! And then I have to come back!" Payton exclaimed.

Well, la tee da, someone bring Payton his cross.

You all can start calling me Pontius Pilate.

And this kid, this little turd who writes of how much he hates school, so much that it kills him on the inside and he's made of glass etc., he wants to go to school those last two half days.

That makes me want to scream.

I don't care what you people say. I think it's up for serious debate whether Payton came to this earth to be a creative genius OR his sole purpose here is just to drive me insane.

I Ran Out of Vodka Just When I Needed It Most

I'm sorta like Old Mother Hubbard. I went to the liquor cupboard and it was bare.

This occurrence at the Shake-Shake is like an apocalypse on earth.

Especially when Payton brings home his writing journal from school.

Damn, I needed a drink.

She Loves Me. She Loves Me Not.

When I say karma is watching me, I'm not close to kidding.

She watches my every move, knows my every thought.

Funny how I consider karma a she. Probably because I don't believe in karma in the conventional way. In my special Book of Crazy, karma is defined as my higher self fucking with my lower self. I came up with this definition because I don't believe in a separation of power, i.e. there is no outside power authority that can punish or reward me. It's really all about me. I'm sure my higher self isn't a she or a he, but for language purposes, I'm a she, so she's a she. See?

Anyway. Back to karma watching and doing things to me. (which is really me fucking around with myself, if you weren't clear about that before.)

Remember when I got all persnickety about the laundry?

Then karma (aka my higher self) decided it was a perfect time to teach me a life lesson in superiority and went and broke my dryer.

Needless to say I was feeling less than superior that week. And apparently karma wanted me to take some sort of lesson about manipulating my husband to a new level because he didn't whip out his ripped jeans and power tools.

By the end of the week, the laundry was piling up. I was in the john, where all inspired thoughts originate, and I figured I better go ahead and call a repairman. Wally was awfully busy at work, working late hours and such. And the dryer had to be fixed. I'll get the phone book and look up a repairman.

As I was sitting there, I suddenly told myself I should go test the dryer one more time to make sure the dryer repair fairies hadn't come sometime between Monday and Friday and magically repaired my dryer before I called someone out.

Because you never know. It could happen.

I would like to take this moment and thank my karma for bringing in those dryer repair fairies.

My dryer worked.

Electronically dried clothes here we come! Buh-bye crispy line-dried towels!

Then the power slide on the passenger side door of my van stopped working.

I'm not sure what lesson I'm suppose to learn on that one because karma has yet to contact the mini van repair fairies to magically fix that problem. Perhaps karma is trying to tell me to stop coveting the 2008 Honda CRV (in white with gray interior and tinted windows) and appreciate the 1999 mini-van that is paid for and has been a trustworthy vehicle?

We'll see if that will bring on the magical mini-van repair fairies.

In the meantime, I went shopping in honor of Mother's Emancipation Day. (my own creation, because I am the powah!,in place of the Hallmark Mother's Day.)

I tried on a pair of size 8 shorts.

They were too big.

Eek!

Karma lurves me because I had to buy a size 6.

Eek again!

At the next store, I found an oh-so-cute tankini in my favorite color. I grabbed an 8, thinking maybe, just maybe, I'd have to come back for the 6 because, after all, karma lurves me.

I had to go back for another size alright.

A size 10.

Karma hates me.