Category Archive

I thought I might check in.

It has been a long time.

Sometimes life just sweeps you up and casts you out to sea for a while. For many months I have been adrift. Lost in an ocean of obligation. Treading the waters of exhaustion. And, yes, trying to out swim the sharks.

I have decided that I need to shed some of the objects that are weighing me down. Free myself of the weight of some things that I thought were so dear to me, until they threatened to pull me under.

I see land on the horizon and I am swimming for shore.

Just a few more strokes and I can once again baste in the heat of the sun warmed beach.

Just a few more strokes…

Last night I put my little cherubs down to bed and grabbed my laptop intent on getting some work done. Instead, I did what any responsible mom/home-based-employee would do: I spent 3 hours farting around on Facebook.

I have to preface this by saying that I’m not a dedicated Facebook user. I’ve had an account for a long time. At first, I would check my page every month or so, whether I needed to or not. Within the past two months I’ve been really dedicated, checking in like, weekly, at least! And now that I’m in an almost daily groove I realized, I’ve never really hunted around to find people that I used to know. And, isn’t that what Facebook is about? So, like any other hunter (albeit a hunter who wants the prize but without the inconvenience if getting up at four am, going out in the cold and actually hunting) I went poaching. That’s right, I went to the few friends I had and I checked their friends just to see if I knew anyone. And, if I could add them to my own list—because are we not judged by the friends we keep?

As I looked through the names of the people I had known at one time it dawned on me that I may need to be very selective in who I send friends requests to.  Do the social policies of adolescence still hold true all these years later? As an adult, do you remain on the same level of the teenage caste system that you occupied when you were actually in school? For me, this could be a problem.

The problem with school is that it is a constantly evolving thing. In elementary school you have a small group of “friends”. Almost everyone plays together and by the end of elementary school you may have been “best friends” with almost everyone in your grade at some point. Then you are placed into a junior high school/middle school with all of your friends and kids from one or two other schools. Suddenly, you’re networking. And maybe some of your former besties have become more like “acquaintances”. In some instances, those people may have suddenly become your archenemy. Then, just about the time you are working out all of your interpersonal relationships with these people, you are thrown into high school. Let the tailspin begin! Now, not only don’t you know half of the people you are in school with, you’re at a point when you don’t even really know who you are. Let’s just say that the struggle to assert independence and be unique didn’t work out for the best for everyone! Maybe I didn’t choose my friends well. Maybe I would have more friends now if I hadn’t been so flighty in my teenage social networking. A high percentage of my former friends now have very a very static group of friends, which I am not a part of. Of course, their friends have been largely determined by the Department of Corrections, and, I believe referred to as fellow inmates.

Now I’m faced with a dilemma. I’m looking at the Facebook pages of all of these nice, normal kids that I used to know. Will they remember me? Which me will they remember? The elementary, middle or (gulp) high school me? Am I one of the people that make you say, “Oh, Yeah! I remember her!” or the one that makes you say (with a cringe), “ Oh, yeah. I remember her.”?

So, for now I’ve decided on the safest approach. I will only send a friend request to those people that I: 1) am certain that I never started a fight with, 2) may have supplied booze to at some point or consumed booze with, 3) only knew me in elementary or junior high.

Once, I get those three people, I should be on my way!

I’m back!

I decided it was finally time to put an end to my online “vacation”. The fact is, I’m no more well-rested, peaceful or pleasant to be around than I was several months ago, so why keep all this euphoria to myself?

What have I been up to for all these months? (OK, it’s only been 4 months, but in my mind it has seemed like an eternity to my two regular readers).  I’ve done some traveling, both for work and for pleasure. I’ve been to some awesome places and some that you can’t find on any formal map (as a matter of fact, the only maps some of these places are on are the hand-drawn napkin maps provided to me by the good folks at the middle of nowhere Conoco stations throughout the world!). Never in my life did I think that getting directions would include the words “turn at the big weed by the old fence post that’s still standing”, but you don’t know relief until you dodge that last mud-filled rut and almost run over that post!

I was also happy to go to some civilized locations. Phoenix (although I don’t recommend that in July–just sayin’!); Washington; Montana; Portland, OR; Sand Point, Idaho; Denver; and New Orleans (how the hell do you people live with that humidity??).

I spent some quality time with my kids, of course. The whole summer. Three entire months. All day, every day. Yep. Just me and the kids. As you can imagine, the sales for Sunshine Wheat had a dramatic increase during the summer. I think I also single-handedly financed grape harvesting for the next three years at Carlson Vineyards (gotta give a shout out for Laughing Cat Riesling!!).

I did suffer from one devastating event since I last posted.  I had another f***ing birthday. Good God, why don’t they ever stop? I was quite clear that I would NOT keep doing that shit past the age of 33 and yet they just keep coming. Like that girl who keeps knocking on my door every 3 weeks trying to share Bible passages with me and invite me to church. I keep saying, “No”, but they just keep coming. I stop answering the door, and they keep coming. I get all liquored up and pass out naked on the front lawn (with a shotgun!), and they keep coming. Eh! It’s so irritating. And I try my hardest to fight off aging. I exfolliate and moisturize and avoid smiling or showing any joy to avoid wrinkling my face (alright, and because I’m just completely incapable of expressing any joy!). Now, the one thing I want out of life, the one thing that will make me happy more pleasant is being denied to me by The Hubbin’. I mean, really, what does it matter if Botox freezes my face? I’m not gonna be smiling anyway, am I? I’m just going to continue looking at everyone with the same neutral expression I’ve been using for the past ten years, the one that doesn’t convey complete disgust with every person I come into contact with. It’s a little Botox. What else am I gonna ask for? A sewing machine? (LOL, oh, crap, I think I peed myself a little at the thought of that!)

So, yes. I’m still the same miserable, crabby, sarcastic, slacker mom I was 4 months ago. And I won’t be keeping my misery to myself any more!

  That’s right. 30 seconds. Because that is about all the time I have before my damn computer shuts down. It has been doing that randomly. I tried to be optimistic. “It’s just the power cord. It doesn’t seem to be connecting properly. If I just prop it up with a Snickers bar ,a remote control and some tape it’ll stay in place. See, it’s working just..what the f*@! kind of a piece of crap is this. I just hit the damn “Save” button right as this absolute piece of f*@!ing sh*@ shut down again. Oh, son. I didn’t see you standing there. Yes, Mommy was using her naughty words. Yes, I know I just grounded you for that.”

So, yes. I am a computer neuter. (Makes me regret what I did to that dog a month ago!)

I thought I would be fine. I could just use the Hubbin’s computer. Here’s the problem with that philosophy: His computer bites ass is a bit on the obsolete side. It literally takes 17 minutes from the time I hit the Power button until it’s fully operational. Every time I click on a link, it takes a minimum of 53 seconds for the page to load. That thing has been debugged and defrag’ed so many times it barely remembers that it’s a computer and capable of being a highly advanced method of information sharing and retrieval. At this point, I could send the dog after the proper encyclopedic volume and have the information within a comparable time frame. And, while the computer itself doesn’t randomly shut down (it takes 4 minutes and 49 seconds for it to take that leap!) I have found that the word processing program does and so, before I lose my rant, and am forced to polish off that bottle of Vanilla Absolut (well, I say forced, but we all know I’m looking for an excuse, and it is the first Thursday of the only month that ends with the letter “l”, which is a perfectly good reason to have a cocktail!), I will bid you all, adieu!

The Oldest is home sick. I got that dreaded call from the school yesterday afternoon; “The Oldest has a fever and you need to come pick him up”.

Now, the really selfish, crappy (and dominant) part of my mothering personality kicked in initially. The thought that almost jumped out of my mouth to take its rightful place in the world of That-Which-Must-Not-Be-Verbalized-But-Suddenly-Has was, “what the hell do you mean come and get him? He’s been ok to be there for the past 6 hours, but now with one hour left, he’s too sick to be at school?” Luckily I just shut my mouth and went to pick him up.

The recessive mothering impulse came out and I did make an appointment. He is now on antibiotics but the physician’s assistant said he has to stay home from school for one or two days.

You should know that this is the child that this is the child who caused the untimely death of Rule #178. The child who talks…and talks….and talks…you get my point. He talks ALOT! And now I am at home with him. My blessed hours of quiet relief from the incessent babbling all the delightful conversation are gone.  By 7:40 am I was contemplating my first drink. At this rate I’ll be drunk by noon.  The Middle has half-day kindergarten, I don’t think it’ll go over well if show up for afternoon pick-up with a cocktail in my hand. Those first kid in school, over-achieving, PTA converts in the pick-up line wouldn’t be impressed. But, my YCS is still alive and thriving in this well-nourished, slightly wrinkling body and she doesn’t give a shit what those bitches think, so…maybe just a single shot of malt whiskey?

Actually, I’ll be ok without the drink. Today, anyway. I’m still flying high from the power of having neutered a male yesterday. It was the dog, but still…there is one fewer set of testicles in my house today because of the actions I took yesterday. Ahhh, I feel centered again.

The second grade is a time in which—I am finding out—children really expand their vocabulary base. They learn new s-words like “satiate” and “sentiment”. New p-words like “perceive” and “pachyderm”. And, now, with the guidance of my dear 7-year-old, The Oldest, the entire second grade has apparently learned a new f-word.  That’s right, my son dropped the f-bomb, right there in the morning recess line.
He flat-out told a classmate to keep his f*@%ing hands to himself. I swear I don’t know where he gets the language. True, my first thought when I heard what he said was, “what the fuck was he thinking?” But, in all honesty, I rarely say the word out loud.  I actually gave up the f-word for a while (a little nod to Lent one year, and my first effort—albeit a weak one—to prove that I could make the necessary changes to be a good mother). It was several years before I used the word again. Of course, it was inevitable that someone would eventually piss me off enough that the word would come spewing from my mouth like the green vomit from Regan’s in The Exorcist.
Right now, I’m definitely blaming The Hubbin’. If it wasn’t for the fact that his head would explode, leaving me widowed to single-handedly raise three male children, I would love to sing, “I told you so, I told you so, I told you that you wouldn’t be so happy when those words came out of your children’s mouths” (cue the exploding cranium).
Now I find myself thinking back to all the times I heard one of “those” words uttered by my children. There was the time The Oldest called my husband a f***ing jackass (he was 2; I laughed). The time my very religious mother-in-law asked The Middle why he thought a wasp had stung him and he responded, “Because he was pissed off!” (again, I laughed). I’m also recalling my indecision about how to react when The Middle started using the word “damn” at two years of age. True, it was an inappropriate word for a two-year-old to be using, but he was using it appropriately within the context of the sentence.
So, now we are dealing with the results of our shortcomings as parents.  Well, a few of our shortcomings. Who could deal with the results of all of them at one time, right?

Well…

That’s right.  It’s January…wait…what the hell is the date?

Eh-hem…It’s January 28 of the year 2009.  It has taken me 28 days to fully embrace, and then abandon, my new years resolutions.  The bad news is that I will still be a chunky, grumpy drunk by the end of the year.  The good news is that I now have more time to share my misery with all of you!

So as a late update on my holidays, because even though I know nobody gives a damn, they are my kids and they sat still for 3 photos so I am going to share them with the world!  (In all fairness, the Baby was strapped into a stroller and confronted with a large animal so there was no way he was going to move).

I have to preface this little slideshow by saying that, in general I am opposed to putting animals on display in environments that aren’t natural to them and exposing them to imposing crowds of unsympathetic gawking crowds.  But, for some reason, I still felt compelled to drag my kids to the straw littered linoleum floor of a local store to watch as the holiday creatures attempted to shield their eyes from the harsh flourescent lighting while enduring the excited screams of the human spawn.

Why doesn't he just fly away?

Don't stare into his eyes! He may think your challenging him.

I think it was only a matter of time before this peaceful creature got pissed and spit at someone

Now this picture was taken at one of the most exciting moments of the entire reindeer display.  While you’ll see my kids crouched down at the fence getting a good look, right up close and personal, you can’t see all the other kids that crowded around the periphery with their camera’s getting a REALLY good picture of the action!  I may have to add this to the potty pics!

That's right...the reindeer took a crap and the crowd gathered 'round to behold the magic of the holiday season

Yes, I have a negative attitude.  Yes, I reject anything that I am “expected” to do.  Yes, I avoid traditional mother/wife activities.  I take great pride in being a little different, a little edgier.  My kids may not know how to bake (and if it’s based on what they learn from me, they may never even understand the concept) but they are learning how to Ollie a skateboard and they have a healthy appreciation for the music of AC/DC.

That said, there are moments when I realize how my mothering style affects my children in subtle, imperceptible ways, but in ways that might inhibit their ability to exist in harmony with the rest of the world.  I realize that they are missing some fundamental knowledge about the world, and everday skills that their peers are privy to.

Case in point:  I was helping the Oldest with his homework sheet.  The lesson was in reading comprehension.  Each problem presented a riddle about an object that is held in your hand and can be helpful.  Each problem was paired with a partial picture as a hint.  The Oldest easily answered most of the problems: a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a fork, etc.  He called for help because he had one problem that he just couldn’t figure out.  The riddle was “when your shirt has a rip or a tear/my friend thread and I/can do the repair”.  Now, if you know anything about me, it’s that I. Don’t. Sew.  I actually blogged about some issues I had with my slacker mentality while making Halloween costumes this year.  I have long admired the beauty of the iron-on bonding agent for seams and hems but that is where my clothing repair expertise ends.  But, I am aware of the concept of sewing.  So, the answer was pretty evident (needle!) and I sat down to try and guide the Oldest to that answer.  I posed to him several different ways of thinking about it.  This was, essentially, how that conversation went:

Me: Do you know when you get a hole or a rip in your clothes?

The Oldest: Yes

Me: Sometimes it can be fixed, right?

The Oldest: (with a skeptical look on his face) Yes

Me: So, to fix the rip you need something to help close up the hole, right.

The Oldest: Oh, yeah

Me: (head nodding in excitement as I see the wheels of comprehension turning) So, to fix the hole, you get out an….?

The Oldest: An iron!!!

Me: (Stunned silent with the awful, horrible truth of the moment and the realization that I caused this blistering lack of awareness as to how things actually work in the world).  Or, (gulp!) you, know how Grandma uses thread and a needle?

Crap!  So, there you go.  My kids don’t even know that if you wind a needle and thread around and around, you can actually mend clothing.  Aren’t I so proud of my nontraditional viewpoints now?

I admit it.  I asked the question.

This summer I was on a kick about a certain reality show that follows a group of rich women and refers to them as “Real Housewives”.  I pulled up my soapbox, perched on top of it with my laptop and created a long, rambling post about “The Real Housewives of Middle America”.  Before I got too far into my post (3rd paragraph, last sentance) I, rather bitchely, stated that if the lives those women were living were those of “real” housewives, then where the hell was “Wife Swap” when I needed them.  Well, today I got my answer.

Right there, in my little ole “in box” is an e-mail from someone at Wife Swap announcing that they are now casting.  WTF?  How come I’ve suddenly been invited?  I can think of only two reasons: 1) Someone at Wife Swap read my post or 2) Someone who knows me thinks my family is fucked up enough to make for good prime-time television.  Either way, I can find a positive slant: 1) Yay!  Someone is reading my blog (and they have a tv show!) or 2) we’re good enough for prime-time, baby!!

Just for fun, and let’s admit it, I enjoy being a little bitchy, I will share part of the e-mail with you.

The premise of Wife Swap is that one parent from each household swaps places for a week to experience how another family lives.  It is an incredible family experience and opportunity to both learn and teach different family values.

Wife Swap is a fascinating story of what happens when two couples see themselves and their partners in a whole new light. The New York Post says, “It should be called ‘Life Swap’ because it’s not just the wives who learn something here. It’s the families.

Doesn’t that sound like a fascinating experience and interesting study in interpersonal and family dynamics?  Yeah–if you haven’t seen the show.  There’s no doubt in my mind that I’d end up scrubbing pig testicles in a barn while a toothless charmer named Joe Bob lectured me on “women’s work” from the top of a cheap tractor.  The unfortunate thing is that my kids would live the rest of their lives with the image of me handing some chauvinistic douche bag his ass on national television.  We could discuss it on visiting days at the penitentiary.

Actually, I think I could handle two weeks with just about anyone.  Only the first week would be a nightmare, the second week, we play by my rules, bitches!  But, in all honestly, there is no way that I would ever allow Wife Swap into my home.  It is the same reason that keeps me from calling Super Nanny: I suck at cleaning my house and I can own that behavior but that doesn’t mean I want it broadcast for the world to see.  So, no thank you, Wife Swap, I will not be applying.

Wait, they pay money?

I think I’ve finally recovered.  I had to take some time for self-reflection and I think I’ve finally rediscovered my true self (not my YCS…she’s long gone and I still haven’t really dealt with that, which is why I drink, dress and party in a manner that is just sad for someone of my age!).  No, I’ve had to reconcile my inner self with my public persona.
I came to a crossroads recently that left me questioning myself.  I think that at some point, everyone is faced with that one defining moment when you have to decide where your values really lie and what kind of person you truly want to be.  Do you quietly acquiesce as life pushes you into newer, uncomfortable decisions or do you stay the course, remaining steadfast to the path you’ve set for yourself?  These are decisions that don’t come easy.  Even if you hold tightly to your true course in life, transient thoughts will often invade your mind, making you question everything you’ve ever held dear.  And so, I faced this question myself.  Do I want to continue to acquire new skills that, were I a traditional female, I should have mastered years ago, or continue on my course as a slacker mom?
Okay, enough with all the soul-searching verbiage.  Basically, it was before Halloween and I had a hard time deciding if I wanted to skate by and throw the kids into some crappy, but easy to assemble costumes or show up the other mothers make my kids happy.  Well, The Oldest wanted to be Indiana Jones, not too hard, right?  The Middle has been practicing his Jedi mind tricks (which means he’s been fucking with my mind a lot lately).  The Baby was clueless about the concept, which is a HUGE bonus for me, and yes, I realize that this precious time won’t last long.
After I spent some time considering my options, and the overpriced, poorly constructed, commercial Halloween costumes available in our local chain stores, I decided that even I could come up with a decent costume (and at a considerable savings!).  Now, don’t get bent out of shape just yet.  I haven’t belied my skills as a mom.  I don’t do many most of the things that traditional moms are expected to do.  I don’t iron, I barely cook or clean and I don’t sew (oh, and don’t even think about inviting me to your damn scrap booking party because I’d rather hot glue my labia together).  Not only do I not sew, my husband once had to buy new shorts because we were about to go on vacation and the button had fallen off of his favorite shorts.  Don’t judge me, he could have picked up gone out and bought a needle and thread just as easily as I could have!  So, what was it that made me think I could pull off Halloween costumes?  Well there is a secret arsenal available to slacker moms like myself.  If you are a traditional mom, you may not even know that these things exist, but if you look very closely at the hemlines or cuffs of your children’s classmates you may notice…fabric glue and iron-on adhesive.  That’s right, there are moms who use that crap for actual clothing repair and construction.  Now, I did mention an iron.  However, it doesn’t involve true ironing skills, you simply hold a hot iron against something that melts, and who hasn’t accidentally done that a million times?
So, my Halloween plans were lining up.  I bought all of my supplies and carefully planned each step of my creative process.  Here’s what I didn’t figure on: making a damn Jedi costume out of iron-on adhesive and fabric glue takes a long damn time.  It is too much work to try to slack at!  In my darkest, most exhausted moment, as I peeled the dried fabric glue away from my blistered burns, I confessed to my husband, “I never thought I’d say this, but it might have been easier if I had a sewing machine.”  He got me another beer to drown out the sound of the unreasonable voices in my head—I love that he knows me so well.
So, next Halloween, no matter how much the kids beg, no matter how much I want to prove that I’m just as crafty as the other moms, I will not subject myself to that kind of torture.  I will accept that I am not that mom; I will not pressure myself to conform to unrealistic maternal ideals.  I will simply buy extra toilet paper and send everyone damn one of them out as a mummy.

The cause of my breakdown (the costume--not the kid--well, not this time!)

After all the preparation, he forgot his brown leather jacket for the photo shoot! Oh, and it's a fake beard--he isn't a mutant!

The poor child who had to accept that he was just getting ears sewn onto a brown hoodie! He got over it once the M&M's started rolling in

Sometimes you know, as soon as the question passes through your lips, that you really don’t want to know the answer.  So why is it that we can’t stop asking the questions?  The list is endless but these are some of the ones that have come up, just this week.

• Why is your underwear in the toy box?

• What is that smell?

• Did you eat all of the cupcakes?

• How much is that going to cost?

• Is that my bra?

• Why is it so quiet in the kids’ room?

• What did you just flush down the toilet?

• Where did my tampons go?

• Did you like the new recipe?

• What did I just step in?

• How many calories could be in that?

• Should we invite your mom?

• Are you gonna throw up?

• How long have you been standing there in the dark, son?  No, really.  How long?

Note to self: stop asking the questions.  And close the bedroom door!  (FYI, it was only a near-catastrophe).

There is a site warming party for the Resourceful Mommy website.  The blog is up & running, looking great and full of great info for mommies.  Check out the Resourceful Mommy site for more info on how to find the site warming party on Twitter, tonight at 9 pm EST.

The holidays are here and along with the gathering of families, and exchanging of holiday recipes comes the one important thing many people overlook.  The need for a good stiff drink!

Pumpkin Pie Martini

(makes 2 drinks–or 1 really huge and efficient beverage!)

2 oz. vanilla flavored vodka

2 oz. crème de cacao

1/4 cup heavy cream

1 tsp. pumpkin pie spice

whipped cream (in a tub or sprayed into a bowl)

1.) Fill a martini shaker halfway with ice cubes.  Add the vanilla vodka, crème de cacao, heavy cream and pumpkin pie spice and shake well.

2.) Dip the rims of 2 martini glasses into the whipped cream to cover just the rim of the glass.  Strain the cocktail into the glasses.

Enjoy your guests.

Once again, I was sucked into a whirling vortex of activity that kept me from the internet and, more importantly, from my long suffering blog.
In all fairness, I’ve been consumed with critical activities that are geared towards improving the state of the world, stimulating the U.S. economy, providing affordable and adequate medical care and education for children everywhere and…I have this election that I need to guide toward the conclusion that will most benefit our country. As you can see, I’ve had a lot on my plate.

Alright, that’s all bullshit.  I really just got behind on a ton of stuff and rather than deal with it like a grown up and double my efforts, I took the “screw it, I just won’t do anything” route.  So, now I’m crawling out of that hole and determined to never sink into it again…this year anyway.

In addition to being behind on things, I had one day two weeks ago when two crappy things happened within hours of each other and my shit just came down around me.  The first had to do with The Oldest and some stuff that’s been going on at school.  The second was related to the stay-at-home job that’s been bleeding me dry taking a lot of my time.  What I learned from that event (the work one, that is) is that you can bend over backwards for some people, go out of your way to meet their needs and to ease things for them and that there are still bitter, deceitful, malignant personalities who will f*ck you the minute you reach across the desk for a pencil.  All I can say to the person who wronged me is that I firmly believe that karma is diabolical bitch.  I can’t wait to hear how this comes around on you…and believe me, I have ears out there!

Now, what other things have I done to contribute to the betterment of the world?

Right…

I’ll need just a minute here…

Oh, yeah.  I switched to an environmentally-friendly all-purpose cleaner.  I haven’t actually used it yet, but when I do…saving the planet, baby!

Please, what do you expect from me?  I’m no SuperMom.  I get tired.  I can’t cook a meal, clean the house, do the laundry and help with homework all in one week!  I have to prioritize and, quite frankly, the homework is the only hope I have for getting these boys out of my house someday!  So, I’m not making HUGE contributions.  At least my kids will be able to endorse their own unemployment checks someday!  And, for the record, I am teaching them how to vote, using a variety of ballot formats so they can TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR HOW THEIR VOTE IS CAST!!!  (and that will be my last political comment of the day)

Apparently, one of my kids is a budding chef.  That is fine, except that whatever he’s been creating is being done secretively, in his room.  I found the evidence yesterday while cleaning. (To clarify–not the cleaning that most people think of, more like relocating piles and playing “Find That Smell”.)

So, while rooting around in the filth of the boy’s bedroom I found a variety of very random ingredients and kitchen items.  All of which lead me to believe that 1) one of my boys has become interested in the culinary arts, 2) that boy is either very creative or very in need of a good cooking class and 3) I may have found someone to do the cooking for me (and that is really the most important point, right?).

Now for my challenge to you all.  I will give you the list of ingredients that have been pilfered from my kitchen and I challenge anyone to come up with a decent dish to explain them.

The Equipment:

• a 1/3 cup measuring cup
• a butter knife
• a plastic tumbler
• a 2-cup capacity tupperware
• a potato masher
• a wooden spoon (although I’m pretty sure this disappeared for a different reason.  You know…remove the threat)

The Ingredients:

• one cup dried pinto beans (honestly, I don’t remember even buying those!)
• 1/2 an apple (I’m assuming the recipe only calls for 1/2 based on what was left over)
• small box of raisins
• one blue colored GoGurt
• Cheese Nips crackers
• Capri Sun Water
• one strawberry cereal bar
• a Nestle Quick strawberry milk
• a piece of Bazooka bubble gum

Those are all the items that I found.  Feel free to add additional ingredients, I’m sure the boy did (I just haven’t found the evidence yet!).  If you think you can come up with a decent recipe (or meal) to explain them, I’ll give the boy a chance at a new career.  Really, I’m not too hard to please.  Anything vaguely resembling an edible dish and the boy assumes cooking duties.  Really.  Anything even close.  Anything at all.  It doesn’t even have to be in the food pyramid.  Anything.  Help me out here.

• Yes, school is every weekday.  For the next 16-21 years.  And then you’ll work a similar schedule when you grow up.  Only there will be no summer breaks then.  I told you to enjoy your life of leisure while it lasted.

• No, you don’t get to eat lunch at school.  For one more year you’ll have to suffer through healthy, home-prepared (notice I didn’t say home cooked…there’s a difference!) meals.  Next year you’ll be stuck at school all day and you can gorge yourself on Little Smokies and mushy tater tots then.

• I don’t believe that after all these years they have changed the direction that the letters of the alphabet face.  I also don’t believe that the rules of addition have changed.  So, we will do your homework the way I learned it.
• You don’t need to ride the bus.  Your mommy picks you up at school.  And yes, someday you’ll be embarrassed to be seen on school grounds with your chubby, old mom who may have woken up late and thrown on her best sweat pants/plaid shirt/crocs combination before strapping on a fanny pack and rushing you to school.  But, bear in mind, the first time you bitch about it or fail to kiss me good-bye, I’ll start putting curlers in my hair and I’ll personally walk you to your classroom every day.  (And to everyone else, I don’t really have wear a fanny pack).
• Sometimes, you’ll have to learn stuff that you don’t think you’ll ever need in life.  I had to learn the metric system because they swore to me that the whole world would be using it by the time I graduated.  The U.S. didn’t convert but I did go into the medical field where the metric system is used.  The lesson is…just learn the crap they tell you, you never know what will happen.

• Get all you can out of school because you’ll have to support yourself.  You can’t live here forever.

• And one last bit of bad news/advise for you dear son: get good grades so you’ll qualify for scholarships.  Sorry, it was the big screen or the college fund.  I’m not good with delayed gratification.

Yes, I have been gone.  For a very long time.  A long, long, long time.  And believe me, I’ve got some things bottled up that need to get out.
I used to wonder, “Where the hell did blogging come from?  Whose idea was that?” Now I know.  Blogging had to have been the brainchild of someone with children, who had a whole lot of “quality time” and very few vices with which to fall back on.  You know, somewhere out there was a thirty-year old in a housecoat she swore she’d never wear, with a runny-nosed toddler on one hip, a toad in the microwave, a dog and a kindergartener sharing Coco Puffs under the kitchen table while the Backyardigans blared in the background, and she realized there was no way she could crack open a beer without dropping the baby.  So, what’s a girl to do?  How do you cope with that “This Is Your Life” moment?  Go online, of course and rake your family over the coals for the perverse amusement of others who are trapped in the same inescapable, parental hell and searching for the one person in the world who may be worse off.  And so, blogging was born.  (Okay, that’s how it happened in my mind, I don’t want to know how it really came about so please don’t destroy my vision!).
So, what has happened in my absence?  I had a birthday.  The kids started school. One of my stay-at-home jobs is sucking the life out of me occupying a lot of my time. We got a puppy.
Let’s talk about back to school.  By now I think everyone’s kids are back in school.  My kids started in August.  The Oldest is in second grade and The Middle started kindergarten.  We spent the last couple of weeks of summer trying to cram in as much quality time as we could with the kids.  We drug them to fishing trips, movies, parties, outings, and even a trip to that damn, wretched palace of childhood glee, Chuck E. Cheese’s.  All of which I’m pretty sure was done to assuage my guilt at the daily countdown that was running through my mind, “15 days until they go to school…14 days until they go to school…13 days…”.
I barely survived back to school shopping without my head rocketing up into the metal beams of the store.  Let’s first talk about back to school clothes.  In my area, school starts in mid-August.  It is still freakin’ HOT here.  Why in the hell are my choices long sleeve shirts and jacket combinations?  Yes, I know, some people think ahead and get their shopping done early.  I am NOT a Martha, nor will I ever be.  (Martha- a noun.  Meaning: An uptight, overachieving bitch A female caretaker who consistently demonstrates significantly superior organizational, creative and culinary skills.  A member of the Martha Stewart minions).
School started on a Monday, I was back-to-school shopping a week and a half before, and that was early for me.  Not only do I not get my shopping done when the clothes I’ll need are still in season, there’s a good chance I’ll be stopping at the 24-hour super center on the way to school to pick up the new shoes and socks I forgot to buy.  Since it is almost impossible to find the short sleeve shirts we need, I’ll have to introduce my boys to the stylish world of cutting the sleeves off and rolling up the frayed edges.  Paired with a long sleeve T-shirt and we will be ready for winter when it finally arrives…in December!
What about school supplies?  I don’t know how every other region does it, but in mine the stores carry lists from every school that tells what supplies you need for each grade.  What a great idea, only why don’t those stores also put the listed supplies in the back-to-school section?  The Middle needed a box of 8 crayons.  The list said, quite specifically, “8 count crayon box.  Traditional colors. No more than 8 crayons, please”. I finally hunted down a box that only had 8 crayons, and I only had to walk to the complete opposite side of the jumbo-surplus retail hell to find it in the Office Supply section.  There needs to be a compromise.  Either stock the 8-count crayons with the rest of the school supplies or let us bring a box of 24 crayons.  They’re 5 year olds, there’s a good chance that 60% of the crayons are going to be eaten or stuffed up somebody’s nose anyway, so why not let us buy the extra crayons to make up the difference?
A week later, at Back to School Night, I was happy that I had The Baby in my arms because I was handed a list of supplies specific to each classroom that I now had to buy.  It would have been a shame to strangle a teacher in front of all those eager school children before they had the benefit of her teaching.
Now I need to mention coordination.  When they called to print up the lists for school supplies why not ask the teachers, “Hey anything else you need them to buy?  You know, so the frazzled, school-poor schmucks who are breathing with relief because their school shopping is done don’t flip out and strangle you when they get a new shopping list.”
Then I looked at the list for The Middle’s class.  The last item, I kid you not, was an empty frosting container.  Where the hell does such a random need come from?  That isn’t the kind of thing I have just laying around the house.  As I’ve mentioned, I’m no Martha.  To have a frosting container implies baking, and I don’t expose my kids to that kind of behavior (it will just lead them to have unreasonably high expectations of my maternal skills if I start trying to develop them now).  So, now I have to go to the damn store, buy a container of frosting, and eat the whole damn thing to meet my obligations.  I bought chocolate.  Wiped the residue out with my finger and licked it off.  Hey, it only said empty, didn’t say nothing about clean.
So, there I am walking out of the store with arms loaded down with school supplies.  A screaming baby in one arm, The Middle and The Oldest fighting over who gets to push the door open and then blaming each other when the automatic door opened and dumped them on their butts, car keys dangling out of my mouth, and only one thought occupying my brain.  But there was no way I could crack open a beer without dropping something.
And so…I blog.