United States of Motherhood: August 2009

Sunday, August 23, 2009

The Good and the Bad and the Pragmatic

We have good days.

We have bad.

It's so difficult when you have a pet struck down by illness. By metastatic cancer. Melanoma. Carcinoma. Lung Cancer.

You want to keep them with you as long as possible. You're selfish that way.

You love them too much.

You also want to balance this selfish love with their dignity, quality of life, crushing pain, and with what is humane.

Since getting getting the right dose of synthetic morphine Tamadol and the anti-inflammatory Rimadyl, luckily we are having more good days than bad.

I won't lie that I thought it was the end more than once in the last week, but then my girl comes back wiggling her rump and begging for table food.

I realize then there is much more life in her to be lived.

Her pain is under control.

Her cough is that of a 2-pack a day 20-year smoker in the mornings. She walks slowly with her head at an odd angle since the multiple tumors in her chest and lungs have impacted her range of movement.

She still sleeps a lot, but wouldn't you if you were elderly? She's at least 15!

Yesterday, she had enough spunk to steal Seb's chewy--an old trick for which our old Grendel was known.

She is telling me something I think. She is still kicking. Her tail is still thumping. Her eyes still have a glimpse of the old Grendel's sparkle.

So, we are not making a call yet. We will let her enjoy life as long as she can while we enjoy her.

It gives us more time to let it sink in for kids. For us.

We walk blind. Not knowing day to day whether this will be another sudden change like last week or continuation of a few more sunny days.

We know not to hope.

We are pragmatic.

She will be with us for months at best, days at worst.

We make plans. We can find humor because we know she has had a pampered existence and discuss having her stuffed.

Yep, that one's more the husband's idea.

More reasonably, we discuss cremation. My heart likes the idea of a sunny spot in the garden perhaps dappled by a auburn-leaved tree the color of my girl.

She loves the sun.

Always has with her suspected Basenji African dog roots. It most probably started this change of events.

At the risk of sounding like Bob Barker, please spay or neuter your pets AND put sunscreen on them if they are short-haired, pink-skinned, and sun-worshipping.

In the meantime, I want to thank you all for the comments, advice, and shared stories. They were beyond helpful and truly appreciated.

This community and compassion is why I blog.

As for that cancer?


Yep, gotta keep laughing.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Stewing Mother F@#%*#$% Bastard

It is 2:45 in the afternoon on Friday.

My house is alive with good smells. He is making a favorite.

Thanks be Sunset Magazine.

Beef Ale Stew With Green Onion Buttermilk Dumplings.

It smells beyond heavenly.

Photo Credit: Jim Franco 

I twit:

It's dark & chilly here in Seattle. Husband is making hearty beef stew with dumplings. #178,894,125 reason why I love him. {{smooch}} #love from TweetDeck
I have now changed my mind.

My stomach is rumbling.  It is 2:46 and I will have to smell this for FOUR hours before it is ready.

I hate him.

This is torture.

He needs to be taken out to to back shed and shot.

Evil man.

Sorry, did I write that?

Oopsie.  That was my stomach talking.  Off to nosh on something that will pale to the drool inspiring scents in our kitchen, living room, and...

...Yes, I can even smell it in the front yard.


Right Back'atcha

I sit here at the kitchen table, ignoring the clutter and typing away.

I suddenly I feel two icy cold arms wrap around my neck. Seattle's weather isn't pleasant on this summer's day.

"Oh, honey," I say.   "Are you cold?"

""No, Mommy, I just want to give you a hug and  I'm not going going to let go for a long time."

My hearts sighs.

I need this.

With life hurting my heart, my seven year old is an infusion of love and hope.

"You make my heart melt when you do this." I whisper softly into his neck.

His head pops up and with a big grin, he says those all too familiar words, "Right back'atcha!"

Yep, he is my son.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Houston, We MIGHT have Hit Teenage Male Vanity

Today, we hit a new milestone.

It's school registration and pictures day for 8th grade.

Eldest has insisted on growing out the mop long even though, as a prior military family, we prefer short. He has promised to work on the grooming. We have insisted he style it off the forehead before coming down stairs.

Thick hair and bed head don't mix.

So, he generally is not a vain boy. He couldn't care less about his appearance, but with the arrival of zitastic living in his puberty driven world, he might be a little concerned when it comes to pictures.

Yep, so concerned, he might have asked for a little cosmetic help from his mom.


Not saying.

However, this mom might have thought back to the days when her brother might have also asked to borrow her concealer which definitely did not match his skin tone as she was a goth with incredibly pale skin and he an outside sports nut who was rather tan. Splot, splot, splotchy.

Lucky for Eldest, he inherited my skin tone.

Or at least, he might have inherited my skin tone. MIGHT!

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Oh, Harry Giveway! This is Where I Admit My Lust For the One Who Must Not Be Named, The Dark Lord

I was a book worm in elementary school. Often I forewent playground antics to curl up in a corner to voraciously read my latest book.

It was definitely a form of escapism that I learned from my father. He constantly was ordering books and swapping good reads with neighbors. He still today often gets overwhelmed by family gatherings and chooses to find a quiet corner or go out to his car to read.

Like cooking, my mom wasn't a big reader, yet she encouraged me. I think she understood this similarity to my father.

My mom became my enabler, much to her regret when I would lock myself as a teenager in the bathroom to read.

I give large credit to my mom and Scholastic Books for getting me to Berkeley. Once I went through our family's extensive Box Car Kids, Nancy Drew, and Hollisters collection, I was starving for more.

There was never a school book order that didn't include several books for me, especially Beverly Cleary. I would get the class order form each month and I would carefully take my #2 pencil to circle every book that interested me.

At least 3/4 of the books would be circled. Mom? She let me get about half.

Although making ends meet with six kids on one salary was difficult at best, she always let me indulge in this simple pleasure. She couldn't drive, so the public library, over 5 miles away, was out. The school library was pathetic. Scholastic helped in that they made books affordable.

They had books for 99 cents. Today? They still do!

Today, when my kids go to school and come home with their Scholastic order sheets, I see they are still reasonably priced. Way less expensive than the local Barnes & Noble. They make reading accessible. Even better, the classroom gets free books for those unable to purchase. Win! Win!

Eldest also has benefited from their moderately priced wares. I indulged as my mother did, supplementing his love of Harry Potter, with favorites like Super Fudge and Magic Tree House Books. He was an early reader who loved a variety of levels. Yet, Harry Potter, having read the first volume in kindergarten at five years old, remains a favorite.

They've since been handed down begrudgingly for his 9 year old younger sister to absorb this summer. I am sure they'll eventually circulate to our youngest. It's funny to see our kids discuss the books with adult family member and neighbors alike. The series is truly ubiquitous.

So imagine my pleasure when Scholastic Books approached me with an offer to share my family's love of reading and Harry Potter with my readers and their families.

Yes, you! It's my and Scholastic's way of giving back.

Bonus? I get a set to give to PB so she isn't always fighting with Eldest to borrow his beloved Harry Potter classics.

I have FIVE sets of Harry Potter books to giveaway. Scholastic will ship them directly to your home for your family to enjoy.

Five (5) winners* will receive the following set in paperback:
  • Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone Book
  • Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Book
  • Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Each prize pack is worth $40
So how to decide? Hmmmm....think, think, think.
LOYALTY: One set will be awarded for loyalty. I will enter all those who have linked to my blog on their own site into a random drawing. Leave me the link to your blog in my comments and I will follow to your site to check you out.

FANDOM: Two sets I will award for fandom. Tell me your favorite Harry Potter moment from the books and why you or your children would like a set in comments. Two will be picked by my son, Eldest.

MEMORIES: Three sets will be awarded for the best moments photos of you, your children, or your family either reading any book or in Harry Potter costume. We'll vote on the winners as a family. Of course, my vote will break ties. Leave a link to the pic in the comments. I'll do a round up post with all the pics on a post in October.
So 1,2,3: You can enter in all three categories of contests. Leave a separate comment for each contest. Why not increase the odds? Heh! Can't hurt and perhaps you'll get some new readers of your own following the link.

Giveaway ends October 7th. Just in time to get them for you for Halloween.

*Once winners have been selected, I will notify you and ask for a shipping address which will not be used for anything other than to ship your books.

HARRY POTTER “The Magic of Reading


Share the Magic of Reading with Harry Potter!It’s been 10 years since Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone was first published and a whole new generation of children await the magic of Hogwarts, and Quidditch, of Sorting Hats and Spells. Introduce your “back-to-schooler” to the first three books in this remarkable series and get them started on the reading adventure of a lifetime just in time for school!

Monday, August 17, 2009

This is Where I Turn to My Husband and Say, "What the F%@#, Mr. Money Bags!"

I convinced my red-blooded, former Army captain, now geeky blogger and work from home husband to get a mani-pedi with PB and I a few days ago.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, tee hee, my friends.

The other boys in the family were having none of it.

Their loss.

We got mango bubble tea after of which they were waaay jealous

So CG? He was balking, red-faced, pouting all the way up to the massage chair. It was only when I started to taunt him loudly for the whole salon to hear that he realized it might be better to acquiesce.

He still bitched about the massage chair. Waaah!

The manicure he was cool with as long as no clear nail polish was at all involved.

You see, Maxim or maybe GQ, told him manicures were cool as long as he didn't stoop to the clear polish. And obviously, those manly magazines rank above his wife of thirteen year's opinion.

This would be the second manicure I've convinced him to have in our relationship. The first was a week before our wedding of which that time he got the clear because he hadn't sealed the deal and was still trying to impress me.

Little did he know that once it was sealed I'd be even more difficult. See that pic to the right? Sucker!

So trimmed hang nails and toenails not worthy of the best of a shark's cage? That's how long it's been. He had the creepy cuticles and gnawed on nails to show for it.

So back to the salon, we did our thing to our comfort level.

PB got a flowery nail design.

I got a scarlet red.

He got buffed to a fine gleam.

Bonus? He was able to pay, so I need not bother my freshly painted appendages.

As we walked out, I casually ask how much he tipped. He's been known in this marriage to screw it up. He said the bill was $110 for all three of us.


So he gave them a $45 tip.

"Forty-five American dollars?" I screeched. What the ever living fuck.

"That's...that's...like 40 percent."

He grabbed his iPhone to prove me wrong. For a Berkeley-taught Mechanical Engineer, he never ever was good at the 'rithmetic.

A few plips of the iPhone and he came up with..."uhhhh ... 40.9999 %"

Well, he spluttered, "It should be a flat rate. You wouldn't leave 10 cents for a $1 coffee would you?" Besides the fact I haven't seen a coffee for a $1 in years and got charged 50 cents for my ice water at Taco Bell today, he started to make me feel cheap with my 20 % tips of the past.

That was until I saw the manicurist had messed up on three nails and left one cuticle raggedy.


I could kill him. Forty PERCENT!

Tonight, I looked up the conventional standards for tips guideline on CNN's How Much To Tip:
Taxi driver: Varies depending on locality. Assume 15% will be enough; an extra $1 to $2 for help with bags.
Food delivery person:* 10% of the bill (excl. tax), at least $1 for bills up to $10. Should tip 15%-20% for a difficult delivery.
Grocery loader: Check with store policy if tips are accepted. If so, $1 for bringing bags to car; $1.50 to $3 if you have more than 3 bags.
Barber: 15% to 20%, minimum $1, for a haircut. For other services (shampoo, shave or manicure) tip $1 to $2 to service provider.
Hairdresser: 15% to 20%. (It is now acceptable to tip owner, unless he or she says otherwise.)
Shampoo person: $2
Manicurist: 15%
Spa service (e.g., massage): 15% to 20%. If service is provided by owner, no tip.
Staff at coffee/food retailers with tip jars: No tip required. It's completely optional.
Handyman: No tip
Gas attendant: No tip
I get pissy all over again.

going to kill him. So what should have been a $16-20 tip turned into $45.

I can't justify family mani-pedis if that is what he pays. I barely justify them as a guilty , given the state of our credit card balances, once every 3 month pleasure as it is. You'll recall I cut everyone in our family's hair including my own.

It's decided.

He will not be coming with us next time.

He's out of the mani-pedi clique.

We can't afford him. Leave the mani-pedis to the ladies:

Aren't we purty? Okay, his nails look mighty manly too.


So my friends, what do you tip? Was he out of line or am I cheap? Just curious.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Death & Family: She Glued Our Hearts

My hands cup her silky soft throat tonight.

Her breathing is rough and labored.

We sit on her couch in the darkened office cocooned in a quilt made by a grandmother.

We have spent all afternoon covering her in praises, kisses, and tears as her now frail body shuddering the life out of her slowly, breath by trembling breath, shivered.

Death has come seeking her fast. Too fast. We are not ready.

Yesterday, she bounced with joy, with a sparkle in her eye as she chewed on small pieces of juicy steak. Last week she went with us on a two hour walk that exhausted Seb.

Today, our family spends hours watching.

Watching. Waiting. Sobbing.

Today, she limps. She barely moves. She shakes. She pants. She is listless.

Seb was chastised for being too rough around her. Too clumsy. He has stayed away. He knows something has changed.

Her eyes look different. They look both sad and soulful. I can see the pain in their amber-hued depths.

We have discovered beyond the stubborn cancerous tumor in her chest and lungs, a new hard growth in her spine. Today, she limps and her back contorts.

It is night and day from yesterday. Almost unbelievable.

PB sees hope in the slightest of changes. She pleads that she is just fine. She begs me to agree that she is fine.

I cannot give her false hope as much as she would like, my other brown eyed girl.

I wipe my swollen eyes and call the boys to give words of love that I think might be their last time to give.

We quietly click photos of her with the kids since I am unsure whether there will be another chance. More time.

Death begins to hurry the moment forward.

Always independent and spry, today if you pick her up, she is limp and stays glued to the position you put her.

She takes small amounts of water, but the effort leaves her breathless and grunting.

I crush baby aspirin for her to take.

My only wish is that she does not suffer. My fear is that she will slip away in the dark alone.

So I sit here tonight, with heavy heart, typing with one-hand, the other holding my first baby.

The medication takes affect. She suddenly realizes this is not her routine. This hand holding her is not her man.

He is slumbering upstairs. With a gasp, after hours of labored resting with little movement, she stumbles off the couch.

She seems confused. Altered. Suddenly, there is purpose in those amber-hued depths.

She takes the stairs agonizingly halted. One leg, by leg, by leg, by leg.

Despite her struggle, she is determined in her path. I consider picking her up, carrying her to her purpose, but this purpose is what keeps her with us.

Her place is upstairs. In her bed of 12 years. By her man. Her will, her stubbornness will not be overcome by her pain and her struggle with this disease and the clock.

She curls up in her place.

We will see what the morning brings.

If she makes it through the night, we will beg the vet for palliative relief.

Perhaps in the form of pills and patches? Unswervingly, at some point, for a final injection of relief and peace.

She has lived for at least 15 years. She has been a part of our family for almost 14.

Not bad for a dog found starved, parasite ridden, and homeless all those years ago by a young fanciful couple who did not know yet of the baby growing within who would make them a family.

All they knew is a love for this pup that made them a family even before that first pregnancy test. She was their glue.

She has had a good life, I remind myself as do friends.

She has been loved. I know this. She knows this.

I still struggle only with the when? When is it time?

When she stops eating and drinking?

When she cries out in pain although literature says her kind tolerates pain beyond most others?

When she stops wagging her tail?

When she gives me the look everyone talks about and I argued internally today whether I saw?

Or when she stops risking pain, fatigue, and her very breath to get to her people. To her man?

Her name is Grendel. She is a part of our family like any other.

She is loved.

She will always be loved.

Update: Went to vet specialist today. So the X-rays say it's spread all over. Several "baseballs" and several golf ball sized tumors through out her chest cavity. I don't know how this damned malignant melanoma fits inside a slight 38 lb dog. One large tumor is at the "Y" in her trachea which is causing the airway to be compromised. We've got some doggy style morphine to test and see if it makes her more comfortable. There's nothing else to be done. We have only to make her comfortable and release her when her quality of life starts to decline. PB won't accept it. The vet is shocked she has made it 8 months since last diagnosis of nodules in lungs. He gives her 3-4 months tops. Sigh...

Saturday, August 15, 2009

When Did I Become a Bona Fide Mother of a Teenager?

Oh. My. Gott.

He went from little boy to young man over night.

He's 13 today.

Never thought as a college student at Berkeley with temperamental birth control 13 years ago that I would be a mother of a teenager today.

I thought I would be deep into a career.

I thought around now would be the time to start thinking about beginning a family.

I never thought I'd have a son looking me dead straight into my eyes.

Who knew!

I wouldn't change a single thing.

He can be challenging and I know as we start this road of teenage angst it will get worse before it gets better, {deep breathe} but it's okay because he has my heart.

He has my heart. He always has. He always will:

Happy 13th Birthday, baby.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

The Suckitude I Call Motherhood: Baking Cookies with a Type A Mom

No, no, don't get the wrong idea. I love baking. I adore baking cookies and I covet spending special time with my only daughter.

She and I alone.


My perfectionist tendencies start to come to the surface. I fight my myself not to let the sharp words, "No, not that. No, not that way."

Or, to immediately start cleaning up or having her clean up. I cannot stand the mess.

Or just tsking, "Stop!" Brushing small flour-dusted hands away and finishing the task myself.

Sigh. It's shameful.

I was not raised this way. My mom was pretty laid back in the kitchen. So laid back that I can remember making cookies entirely by myself at 8 or 9 years old.

She had six kids plus another handful of foster kids.

There was no way to contain the mess. The chaos. So she let us do our thing. She encouraged us.

I love that about my mother.

She encouraged my Martha Stewart nature. She encouraged me during the holidays as I painstaking decorated Thanksgiving tables and carefully spaced silverware. She let me buy oxtails to make a Jacques Pepin recipe on saw on PBS. She let me obsess about finding the perfect ingredients.

My mother doesn't like to cook--not then and not now. She was always a Shake 'N Bake chicken with packaged au gratin cook. She always lacked self-confidence in that regard. It just was not her thing, but she let it be mine.

She did love to bake bread and I have great memories coming home from school to a warm kitchen that smelled glorious of yeasty bread. She also still rocks making Almond Roca at the holidays and bakes sugar cookies for weeks before.

And yet? She loved it when we kids would cook for her. She still does. I do not think she's hosted a holiday dinner at her house since we children have had homes of our own.

I try to be like her. We've encouraged PB to enjoy cooking. She made scrambled eggs for the whole family a few days ago entirely by herself.

And yet again? I had her in tears while we baked cookies yesterday.

She mentioned she "might not like making cookies after all." Gone was the sparkling smile that we started with and bright anticipation as she asked me to to tie my floral apron around her tiny waist.

I think I enjoyed cooking as a child because in a crazy, out of control childhood and household, I could control the recipe.

I could exactly measure the flour. I could make the temperature just right. I could achieve an almost perfection or reliable results.

Today, I've taken that perfection to perfectly containing the mess, exactly measuring flour on a scale, perfecting a cookie recipe for which I always receive acclaim.

However, I cannot control PB when baking in that same regard.

She slops the flour.

She miscalculates and throws in ingredients before I can stop her. I lament the waste of ingredients.

I get frustrated at her lack of attention to the math skill required to double the recipe. I think of the imperfection of the cookie result, not of the experience of cooking together.

This is my issue.

I saw the tears in her eyes while we baked my mint double chocolate cookie recipe and realized she will never achieve her own perfection if I do not allow mistakes.

I tell myself to shut up. I wrap my fingers tightly behind my back and let her control the result. I touch nothing. I give suggestions.

I step back.

The mood lightens. Her cookies come out. They are perfection to her. She smiles.

I stop myself from criticially picking apart the result as I do with all my cooking...always seeking a better result.

Childhood cannot be controlled.

I have much to learn from my mother.

PB is artistic. She is creative. She is flexible. Everything I was not as a child and yet my mother let me be.

I need to realize perfection is my thing and PB must be allowed to find her perfection.

And? I realize I need to call my mother and thank her for letting me be me.

Driven: She Wants a Sister

I have such guilt lately.

No matter our ups and downs, I know I have four sisters that have my back and always have. We come from the same place. We have the same childhood. The same hometown.

My daughter does not. She will not.

She mourns the absence of a sister.

She grieves.

She pleads for me to fix it like I fix other problems for her.

This I cannot fix. Our decision was quite final. Three is enough. It is manageable. There is no going back.

She does not understand. She sees friends with that sister bond. She sees me with my array of sisters.

She send me emails from her bedroom when I am on my laptop in the kitchen. It is a campaign.

She pleads. I whisper to her out of the boys hearing that it is special to be my only daughter.

She creates little notes left on my pillow to be found at bedtime with love and signed as, "Your only daughter and soon to be oldest daughter."

She glazes and shrugs when I mention her father's 2nd vasectomy making it impossible.

I tell her she will make close girl friends that will make up for it. I tell her she will have a daughter one day too. Or more...

It falls on deaf ears.

She will not understand that I can deny her what I have so generously in my life.

How could I deny her this?

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Summer Days & Siblings Crazy Train

See this?

This is what happens when you get two boys together on a rainy summer day in Seattle.

Why, yes, thanks for noticing. Yes, that's scotch tape.

It seems 12 year old thought it would be a brilliant idea to tape a rubber ducky to his seven year old brother's wee head.

It seems seven year old thought it was a fine idea as well.

It seems they didn't think out the repercussions.

Me thinks the little guy isn't going to think it's so humorous when his sister rips it off his head to get her ducky back.

{a few minutes later}

Nope, that he didn't.

Note to my boys:

M'kay, my bored boys, can we think of something a little more constructive to do during our time off? I honestly do not need to see any more inside out eyelids, light saber fights, or farting contests. Oh, yes, no more scotch tape on body parts either. Many thanks.



Monday, August 10, 2009

No Awards Here: Bragging on Twitter Turns You Into a Big Fat Zero of a Mother

The Twitter Gods heard me bragging about sending my kids out in blustery weather on bikes.

I wrote at ScoutsHonor:

Just sent kids out to brave blustery Seattle rain and take their whine somewhere else...on bicycles. I deserve an award, eh?

I couldn't handle the teasing. The whines. I laughed at the Motherhood Gods of Retribution.

Of Kharma.

Of Whatever.

I most assuredly forgot my kids are swimmers. They have lost all connection with gravity.

Kid #1 just came back with this war wound from a fight with our wet Seattle asphalt:

And this one:

Yes, that would be a bicycle gear imprint punctured in to Eldest's leg.

When will I learn to shut up? No awards here necessary. I take my bow.

Beetchin' Tires: A Post Where Scout's Head Explodes Like Guacamole Drizzle, Fo-Shizzle

See this burger? It's me. All sloppy. Unorganized. Out of my depth. It just takes one thing to throw my world out of balance.

Take for instance transportation.

It's been a rough year for the Scout mobiles, especially mine.


Someone broke into it in April.

Punched the lock out. Yes, this would be the third break in in four years for my car here in Seattle.

Why? I wail. There's nothing but moldy swim bags, fast food wrappers, and smashed goldfish, I promise you.

Oh, okay, there was that $3000 laptop bag by asshat of a husband left in the front seat that shouted , "Take me! Take me!"

That husband also came back with huge scraped fender by parking in lot when using my car. Someone got it good. He's not learned he needs to park far away because of space; people are less than kind to SUVs. We didn't bother calling insurance on that one.

Ah, well, someone, let's call it fate, let the air out of his tires. Yin-yang, baby.

Now, at last swim meet of the year, I got hit again.

Yep, hit. Someone hit me.

I was backing up and my motion sensors go crazy.

I stop, look in my rear view mirror to watch someone back into me hard, put it in forward, and start to drive off all while the motion sensors beeping turned into a solid stream of "watch the hell out" and my hand honked the horn.

Eldest's eyes widened as a steady stream of inappropriate words fly from my lips.

Luckily, there were pedestrians ahead so she had to stop after 200 yards .

She claimed with her beater car with evidence of past collisions that she felt nothing.

I asked with shrill voice if she heard me honk as I started snapping evidence of collision and license plates and car positions like I was a cheesy CSI Miami minion with my handy-dandy camera. I channeled the hot blond chick.

Her ghetto passenger said they heard nothing and then...wait for it... that, "We don't know who hit who."

You are joking, right?

Uh, no.

Luckily, witnesses intervened with them and said with snarky tone, "You didn't hear the horn? Well that's not saying much because you didn't feel you hitting her either."

They were caught. Witnesses left me with their card and assurance they would vouch for us that they were planning on leaving the scene of an accident.

No worries. This is what insurance is for, right? I go to call insurance and ask for their info.

She then tells me she has no insurance.

"You're kidding?!" Ghetto boyfriend starts getting aggressive.

I call police.

In meantime I send son with friend back to swim meet for finals without dinner. Thirty tense minutes later, police arrive.

Police ticket her for no insurance, but can not assess blame in parking lots collisions on private property.


There goes another $500 deductible down the drain. When does the Scout mobile bad kharma end?

With last break in, husbands tires, now this, this is third auto claim plus household claim for laptop bag, so fourth in 3 months.

If we aren't careful, our insurance company is going to drop us like bad guacamole on a greasy bacon burger. Spludge!

So, I still haven't fixed car from break in. Now I have $1290 damage to bumper. I don't have the five days they need to take my car.

I know people have much bigger problems, but this one is making my head explode. Like dropped guacamole from a greasy bacon cheeseburger in a hot parking lot. Splat!

So, how do I make it better? I've added these:

Nothing says back off beetches & ghetto boyfriends from this swim mom more than some hard core tire valves, 'ight?

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Marriage, Food, & Snobbery: That Meat is Dead To Me

It's final. Decided. Unalterable.

The father of my children has finally gone and scorned my cooking.

I've married a food snob.

I found the second portion of a flank steak we had the other day in the meat drawer.

The first portion had been cooked up by CG, and while good, it had been tough because he had rushed the marinade time to thirty minutes.

In the efforts to have something quick to make that was already marinated, I innocuously added some barbeque sauce to the ziploc bag of meat yesterday.

Clever me I thought. Thinking ahead for a quick Sunday lunch time nosh.

Then I saw CG's reaction. Ahem. His over-reaction.

CG gasped.

He made sweeping generalizations about ruining a perfectly good piece of meat with a commercial BBQ sauce.

Then he spat the words.

"That meat is dead to me."

Seriously? Seriously?! You want to play that way, my husband?

Fast forward to today. Dead to you, huh?

I'm sorry, are you talking about this ruined piece of meat?

Oh, yes, let's add some of these

And little tangy bit of that

Let rest then tenderly slice the lot. Juicy, juicy, juicy...

Let's fold the tender sliced bits into a tortilla

While you get to make your own sad blah chicken

You didn't believe me did you?! Keep on laughing, my husband

I know you didn't think I was serious, but you were not going to get one bit of my tender, juicy, tangy wraps I made for the kids and me.

Remember? They're ruined. The meat is dead to you?

It was kind of me to even give you a bite and that was only because I wanted you to know what you were missing.


Next time watch yo' mouth, my friend. You scorn this beetches' food, you suffer.


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