Monthly Archives: January 2013

No Grocery Left Behind

donkey

My alter ego

Damn! My chicken and ground beef never made it into my cart. The nice boy at the store who bagged my groceries didn’t put it in.  I didn’t notice until I got home.  Ugh.  Now I have to go back.  Unfortunately, the store I shopped at is down the street from the kid’s dance studio which is over 20 minutes away from my home.  I guess it doesn’t have to be a major problem.  The next time she has dance, I figured I would stop by and pick it up, which was Tuesday — the night before I wanted to make the meal with the beef.  Perfect.

On the way to dance Tuesday night, I drove right by that ever-lovin’ store, not once but twice.  It never occurred to me to stop in to collect my meats.   What a shocker.

Wednesday morning, as I was getting prepared to get my crockpot meal together, I opened the freezer to extract my pound of ground beef.  I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t laying right on top.  It should be since I only went grocery shopping 3 days ago.  So, I proceed to search deeper.  It took me about 30 seconds before I remembered where it was. Crap!  Poop!  SHIT!!!!  I really didn’t have time for this.  It was going to be a crazy afternoon.

I stood up from the freezer with a dazed look on my face.  I felt like I was hit with a stun gun.  Wait.  What happened?  I thought I was going to be passing that store on Tuesday.  Then I remembered that I DID pass that store on Tuesday because Tuesday was yesterday.  Awesome.  I’m an ass.

I know I already have one foot in the looney bin.  But can’t I blame this whole thing on the store bagger guy?  Yes, I think I will.  I don’t think I’ll add this to the list of reasons why I should be committed.  Oh and I hope my family doesn’t mind Chinese again.

Ewe

images-3

Why do designers make clothes with wool?  Yes, it’s toasty.  But that crap itches like a bitch. Sheep look so warm and cozy in their wooly fur.  But perhaps it should stay where it belongs — on the sheep.

A very good friend of mine gave me a gorgeous sweater for Christmas a couple of years back.  I love it.  It’s my favorite color, great shape, perfect fit.  It has it all, including wool.  The first time I wore it, I nearly scratched every body part north of my waist right off.  When I removed the sweater that night, it looked like I had a fight with a feral cat and lost.

I thought I would rectify the situation by going to the store and buying a long sleeved shirt to wear under it.  It worked well enough.  Until I did spring cleaning and threw that shirt away.  Don’t ask me why I threw it away.  I’m a pack rat.  I hate throwing things away as much as I hate throwing food away.  So, now I can’t wear the sweater because I don’t want to itch myself to death and I haven’t made it to the store to purchase another long sleeved shirt.  Even though right now is the perfect time to wear it because it’s so friggin’ cold out.

But I’m off topic.  My question is if wool itches so much, why do manufacturers/ designers use it in clothing?  And why does it itch so damn much?  Does it make everyone itch or is it just me?  Oops, that was three questions.  Itchy Wool — one of the great mysteries of the universe.  Well, my universe anyway.  I think I’ll stick to cotton.

The American Girl Bait and Tackle

This is the biatch that started it all

Scam Artist

May I tell a story about how American Girl sunk her manufactured teeth into our middle income wallets?  I’m sure many of you can relate.

It all started in December 2003.  My mother-in-law, the kid and I are in a taxi cab going to see the Christmas Show.  When, what to my MIL’s wondering eyes should appear but….The American Girl Place.  Why oh why did you have to look, mom.  She’s got enough Barbie’s to choke a small horse.  She certainly doesn’t need any other doll, that’s for sure.  I wanted to tell the driver to step on it.  But it was too late.

MIL:  (Gasp) Look what they opened!!!

The kid:  (gasp, gasp, and more gasping)

ME:  Oh help me Lord.

I’m not quite sure how it happened, but we somehow wound up at “The Place”, along with 90% of the city’s spoiled little rich girls and their mothers.  After we get trampled on by over-priced doll loving brats and make our way up the escalator, we see this store has a cafe.  Of course it does.  Lucky for us, there is an opening.  Joy.  They seat us.  But they do not seat us alone.  No.  We have a guest.  Her name is “Samantha” and she is seated down to the kid’s left.  She even gets her very own teacup and saucer.  How nice.

We have a marvelous time.  It’s truly magical.  Memories to last a lifetime.  The only problem is, Samantha doesn’t get to come home with us. No, if we want our very own “Samantha” it’s gonna cost.  And big.  All I can say is, thank God this joint serves wine.

ME:  Ok, honey, say goodbye to Samantha.  She has to go back to see her friends now.

The Kid:  Oh, but mommy, I am so attached to her.  I just love her so…

She has mustered up the cutest little tear in the corner of her right eye.  Yup, I fell for it.  Hook, line and sinker.

On the train ride home, there is one happy kid and one dumbstruck mother whose bank account has been depleted of $100+ in a matter of seconds.  DH is gonna love this one.

It turns out, Samantha makes for a great conversation piece:

The kid:  Oh mommy thank you so much.  She is my best friend!  I LOVE her! (blah, blah)

MIL:  You are such a wonderful mother. (blah, blah, blah)

And so that’s how it continued for 73 minutes.  Hearing about how wonderful the doll and I are.  So happy to be placed in a category with Miss Samantha.  It warms my heart.

That little jaunt was the start of a very expensive addiction.  9 years and 12 dolls, clothes and accessories later and guess where they are?  In the attic with the mice, bats and cobwebs waiting to sink their teeth into a new generation.

Let this be a warning to all mothers of doll loving little girls…do not eat in the cafe.  They are running quite the operation.  I am living proof that this is true.

Parental Discretion Is Advised

Parenting comes with its trials and tribulations. You want to be able to give your teen some freedom. You want them to be able to figure some stuff out. But we have to keep them on a leash of some sort and guide them. How do we know what we should and should not allow them to do? I think it just comes down to good old fashioned common sense.

A few months ago, my 14 year old daughter came home from school asking about a party she wanted to go to.  The conversation went something like this:

Her: Mom, there is this party this weekend. Can I go? The thing is, the parents aren’t going to be home. Like, I think you should let me go though. So-and-so’s mom is letting her go.

Me: Thank you for your honesty. I appreciate that. But, no. You will not be going to someone’s house party without adult supervision. And you are not so-and-so (ugh that was a major “I have turned into my mother” moment).

Her: Mom, I think you need to trust me. I mean, I’m not going to drink or take any drugs, if they have any of that stuff there.

Me: (holy shit…drugs? alcohol? Lord, help me survive the next 4 years) It’s not a matter of trust.  Of course I trust that you will make the right decision, but putting a bunch of 14 year olds in that kind of situation can only lead to trouble.

Her: Gawd mom, I don’t understand what the big deal is!!!

Me: Ok, fine. Then I’m going to call Penelope’s (name changed to protect the innocent) mom and thank her for allowing a party to be going on at her house while she is away. That is super nice of her, don’t you think?

Her: OMG! No mom! You cannot do that. OMG, please don’t do that, I will die!

Me: Well, if I can’t call the mother, then you definitely cannot go.

Her: Never mind.

My kid is smart. So, why do I have to explain this stuff in triplicate? Then I recall when I announced to my mother at this exact age that when I had kids, they would be allowed to do whatever they want.

I wanted to see what she would do in this situation. She is definitely much smarter than I was. Unlike me, she’s a straight A student and has more sense in her head than I ever had in my left pinky toe. Surely, she realizes how stupid her request is.

So, I asked her this: “Honey, put yourself in my shoes. If you were a mom and your teenage daughter approached you with this same question, what do you think you would do?” REALLY dumb question, by the way. Her reply? “Of course she could go, I don’t see what the big deal is.” Duh.

So, it is completely true what all those child psychologists and books say. Teenagers are stupid. Plain and simple. I don’t care if you gave birth to Albert Einstein. I bet his mother thought he was an idiot at 14 too.

As for that little party, it didn’t happen. It turns out I’m not the only parent that is totally uncool. What can I say? We certainly know how to kill a good party. We uncool moms have that effect.

It’s a Sticky Situation

images

DH and I bought some new wine glasses.  Red wine glasses.  Because DH has decided after 20 years of marriage he DOES like red wine after all.  So, now I have to share with him. But that’s ok and I’m getting off topic.

What I want to complain about is the stupid price tags and stickers that stores and manufacturers like to put on glassware.  I would like to just once wash the glass and be ready to use it. But no.  That’s not how it works.  We try really, really hard to remove the stickers in one big piece.  Of course, it never goes down like that.  A tiny piece inevitably rips away from the mother ship.  So, we stand there chipping and splitting our nails cursing at the little bastard to come off.

When we finally get it off, we are left with an unsightly sticky film.  We have to completely remove the sticky film because otherwise our hands will get stuck to it every time we use the damn glass.  To do this we have to try to soak them in water and sometimes that isn’t enough.  I usually have to resort to using a butter knife to scrape all the bits off.  Times all this work by 6 or 8 depending upon the size of the glass set you have just purchased.

The same thing goes for picture frames.  Except there is usually a big splotch left where a loved one’s face would go.  There isn’t enough Windex in China to remove that shit.

Please, I’m begging.  Can’t someone come up with a solution?  We have phones that talk to us and magic erase sponges (which, by the way don’t work on stickers because we have tried) but we can’t figure out a better way to price this crap?  For the love of God.  Please don’t make me resort to grocery store plastic.  Wine just doesn’t taste the same in those.  I don’t know how I know this, but I do.

14 Years Equals A Trip Around the World TWICE

photo

 The kid is an irish dancer.  For anyone who has a child who partakes in the irish dance world (or any major sport for that matter) you understand that it will cost DH and me enough to send her to Harvard 3 times over by the time she is done (ok, I’m exaggerating just a little, but still…).

I was day dreaming today and thinking of all the things I could do if she decided to just join the debate club at school instead.  I felt the need to share to put it all into perspective:

  • 1 year of tuition x 14 years = one in-ground pool
  • 3 solo dresses = a 2-bedroom apartment in NYC’s Upper West Side for a month
  • 3 team dresses = LASIK surgery for my left eye
  • Wigs & Crowns = Tiffany necklace
  • Soft shoes, hard shoes and poodle socks = 27 inch iMac
  • Private lessons (really stupid since we pay an arm and a leg for tuition) = a full body massage
  • 7 years going to Regionals = A 2.5 week trip for two to Hawaii
  • Going to Worlds once (secretly hoping it stays that way) = LASIK surgery for my right eye
  • 14 years of local competitions = One master bathroom renovation
  • Dress alterations = full body massage PLUS facial & manicure
  • 1 happy kid = Priceless or I have to have my head examined, whichever way you want to look at it

When I signed her up, I had no idea what was coming.  Not one person warned me that it would turn into a 4 class a week, competition led sport.  Not ONE!

To add insult to injury the kid loves it.  She dances around the house all day, all night.  Down the hallway, in the shower, during dinner.  If you ever run into us at the mall, you probably will catch a performance.  Rally one, Rally two.  AAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

So, instead of a trip around the world TWICE, I get to sit at competitions all day long.  Who can relate in one form or another? Let’s see, 3 years, 4 months and 21 days until our money is ours again.  Oh wait.  I forgot about college.  Never mind.

Pass the Soap

images

I’ve got a bone to pick with the manufacturers of all automatic public restroom appliances.  Whether it be the soap and paper towel dispenser, the sink and even the toilet—they all suck.  For the record, they are not supposed to suck.  They are supposed to wash, rinse and dry your hands.

Let’s start with the soap dispenser.  Holy hell.  Spit some damn soap out, will you?   We stand there waving and waving.  If we are lucky, we may be rewarded with a teeny squirt enough to wash the tip of your finger.  3 minutes go by and you may have enough to actually wash an entire hand.  Forget about trying to add some water, that’s another 3 minutes.  I feel like I’m playing musical sinks running from one to another to get one that actually works.

And the automatic paper towel dispenser?  Again, they give you enough to dry half a hand, so we stand there and listen to the motor pump out an inch of paper at a time begging for more, only to feel like a total loser.  Nothing like INCREASING our carbon footprint.

One more thing.  Who likes to get sprayed in the nether regions when we least expect it?  I can’t even begin to imagine what kind of bacteria was just splashed at my hoo-hoo.  I find myself in a race against time to step away before it’s done its thing.  Too often I lose.

So, hear hear to the old fashioned pumps, faucets, flushers and manual handle turning of yesteryear.  Screw it if we contract flu or malaria.  It’s totally worth it.

If You Ask a Mouse for a Paper Towel, She’ll Get a Sex Scene

if-you-give-a-mouse-a-cookie-top

Paper towels, paper towels, paper towels.  I say it over and over again in my head so I don’t forget why I’m going into the pantry.  By the time I reach the pantry, I’ve stopped saying it because I suddenly remember that I really enjoyed last week’s Grey’s Anatomy episode.  Boy, that Cristina and Owen are so sexy together.  I’m really digging their “non-married” relationship.  It’s HOT.  Mmmm.

Wait.  What was I doing???  Oh yeah, I was getting….oh damn.  Now I have to backtrack, go to the exact spot I was standing in, and pray that it comes back to me.  Let’s see….I was washing the dishes that my dishwashing allergic family left in the sink.  I was going to dry them.  Oh, right….

Paper towels, paper towels, paper towels.  Gee, I’m really looking forward to getting my hair cut tomorrow.  I can’t do a damn thing with it.  What time is my appointment again?

That Sink-ing Feeling

I spent 5 hours cleaning the first floor of my house this past Monday.  No, I don’t clean my house like this every week.  It’s just that I hadn’t cleaned my house since before Christmas.  As you all know from this post — Manual Labor Was Invented by the Devil — I am not a fan.  But it was getting pretty nasty in here so if I didn’t want a divorce, I figured I should probably do something about the dust monsters under the couch and the Christmas tree needles, well….everywhere.

You know that feeling when you have completed the task of scrubbing down your house?  It feels really good.  But if anyone comes in here and walks around on the floor or messes up the soap dish, you want to kill them.

Every Monday night I get together with some friends.  I know.  It’s great.  I highly recommend it.  I left at 7:30 and got home at around midnight.  It was pretty late, so I went straight to bed.  When I came downstairs to help the kid with breakfast the next morning, this is what greets me:

photoLet’s see…I was gone 4.5 hours.  When I left, there were 2 people in this house and 0 items in the sink.  There are now 2 plates, 2 bowls, 6 glasses/cups, 1 pot, 1 spoon, 2 forks, 2 knives, 1 measuring cup, 1 wooden spoon, 1 rubber spatula, 1 serving spoon, 1 strainer, 1 pan from the toaster oven and 1 sink strainer basket that has mac & cheese, tomato pieces and strawberries in it.

There is actually an allergy to dishwashing machines.  Yup.  I looked it up.   Apparently it has struck 2 of the 3 people living here.  Hmmm.  I guess I shouldn’t complain.  These DID make it into the sink.  And that counts for something, right?  RIGHT?

I Am a Grouper

No, not a groupIE — a rock band following floozy.  But a groupER — a bottom feeding fish.  That’s how I like to describe myself these days.  I believe that is one of the reasons why I have gained a bale of hay…55 pounds…since this:

mo23

DH, the kid and I went to a local BBQ place for lunch over the weekend.  This is what we ordered:

  • Wings
  • Potato Skins
  • Onions Rings

That was just for starters.  For my main meal, I ordered a pulled pork sandwich with sweet potato fries. The kid ordered a pulled pork sandwich with regular fries, but that doesn’t matter.  She’s 14.

DH ordered a small cup of chili.  That is why I can bounce a quarter off his ass AND his stomach.  Even though he is old.  Even though he is middle-aged.  Because he is not a grouper, he is a guppy.

There was this left over:

  • 1/4 of a potato skin
  • 2 onion rings
  • 1 wing
  • 1/2 sandwich
  • 1 small pile of sweet potato fries

DH hates leftovers.  They pretty much repulse him.  Me?  There are starving children in Ethiopia and I cannot, will not, throw anything away.  Well, unless it starts to look like a science project and even then I have a problem with it.

So against hubby’s wishes I told the server to wrap it all up.  That was Saturday.  Yesterday was Monday.  DH tried to toss out my leftovers twice but I caught him and threatened bodily harm.

So I ate this for lunch to save it’s life:

photo

Even though I wasn’t hungry.  If I didn’t, it would go into the garbage and I couldn’t live with myself.  I guess that explains why I look like this now:

IMG_0326

All because I can’t throw away food.  Ok, I’ll say it…I’m middle aged too.  I know that doesn’t help.  I also know I’ll never have that 23 year old body again.  But come on.  A bale of hay?