I Declare Tortillas A Snack!!

In some ways I am glad not to have cable. Like, for instance, I am not getting myself all worked up over the stock market crash and can peruse news sites at my leisure, deciding whether or not I'm going to try my hand at capitalizing on other people's monumental loss. And, I don't have to bitch about commercials except for when they are at the beginning of a youtube video that I just want to watch now without seeing what kind of fucking cat food someone else thinks I should buy for my imaginary cat Mitzy. She's just fine on her steady diet of marshmallows and glitter, thank you.

Commercials are just about the worst. Except Super Bowl commercials. Except for last year. Usually they're pretty funny. And, who are these people telling me what to eat, or wear, or consume, anyway? You don't know me!! I am unique. I am a goddamned snowflake. You don't tell snowflakes what to eat or drink (coincidentally, they they drink whatever is the cheapest at Circle K). I don't conform to your societal rules of what is classified as a "snack," ok??

Cheez-its, fine, that's a snack. Goldfish crackers, alright... Getting colder, but still ok. Jell-O? No. Not a snack. Go screw yourselves, marketing team. Now, tortillas, THAT'S a snack. In fact, I had two in bed last night after work after Goldfish crackers left me unsatisfied. That's right. TORTILLAS. Stop judging me!!

Meh.

That's what I'm talking about.

Who ever decided that these little babies were just one small integral part of a meal? I mean, no one is underestimating the pillowy goodness and importance of a tortilla (because if they did... so help them...), but seriously, when's the last time you saw a tortilla commercial? The tortilla team needs to up the ante is all I'm getting at. These things are A-MAZ-ING.

They not only are the glue that holds a burrito or a chimichanga together, but they're better at sopping up left over juices and thinner foods from your plate than dumb old bread. Which, by the way, is on my laundry list of complaints and future blog entries. What in the hell has happened to bread?? It's like pockets of air surrounded by molecules of bread-like crumbs. Anyway, getting off the topic. Tortillas are the business. 

I'm sorry, did I miss the meeting when it was decided that the Swiss are making bread now??

Unforgivable.

And, furthermore, (this is the part of the blog where I am now pretending to be a haughty lawyer hot shot, executing one hell of a closing statement to a jury of my peers) if tortillas could just be accepted as an actual snack food I won't have to feel my husband's eyes staring at me in disbelief as I gobble up two tortillas for my midnight snack anymore. Just do this for me, tortilla people. I don't ask for much. I just want to live in a world where I can eat mayonnaise and sweet chili sauce on a tortilla and not be considered some sort of low class freak because you can't get your marketing act together. I demand satisfaction. 

The next time I'm watching television somewhere else, if I don't see an obscene amount of tortilla commercials bombarding the public's eye and someone else telling people that tortillas are now a snack, I'm writing a letter. And, I beg my readers to do the same if they have ever felt the shame of shoving something into their mouths that technically isn't a snack. Like, a whole chicken leg, or three avocados, or celery. But, I kind of have to admit, if you're eating celery as a snack, we can't be friends anymore. Unless it is doused in mayo and sweet chili sauce, then it's cool, I'll over look it. 

Here is the phone number, email address, and physical address for La Tortilla Factory. Let's get the ball rolling, people.

How Many ?'s Does A Mom Get Asked Before She Asks For Xanax?

So far this morning the tally is at IIII III. Questions are good! Questions are what makes man strive toward a better, brighter future as we unlock the secrets of the past and form new views on the present and what days ahead should bring. If you're a scientist or a child, questions are the very fabric of your being. If you happen to be a mom, questions will make you question your sanity and leave you depleted and lifeless by nightfall each and every day of your career as a mom and that is why I will tally their questions like a prisoner tallies the days spent behind bars. Because that's how it feels.

My kids don't understand why I say, "I don't know," about a hundred times a day. Honestly, sometimes I do know the answer to their question but my brain is so damn tired it makes me say, "I don't know." And, sometimes I genuinely do not know the answers that my children are seeking. Like when my now 13 year old asked me a few years ago, "If light is attracted to dark colors, why are there shadows?" MIND. BLOWN.

I don't know about you, but the duck one just looks like a duck getting strangled. 

And, the goat looks kind of sad.

We are at IIII IIII I now. I have found that most questions that I am asked are asked out of pure boredom or the extreme need that all children have to be the center of all attention ever. I can sit and stare at my kids for an hour, never blinking, talking relentlessly about chores that need to be done, good deeds they need to accomplish in order to receive their treats at the end of the month for their chore charts that I concocted, homework that they need to be completing, and so on. Not a single word of it is processed or even heard. They ignore me when I talk to them directly. 

If the phone rings and it's someone I want to talk to and not just another damn bill collector, the kids automatically sense that I am happy and engaging with another human being and in the words of The Dude, "This aggression will not stand, man." My attention immediately needs to be gained back by all four of them. Someone decides to have a melt down, and another kid might decide they are hungry even though I have spent an average of six hours a day feeding these creatures since their birth RIGHT NOW IS THE TIME THEY NEED NOURISHMENT OR THEY WILL COLLAPSE. 

If I'm trying to sit down and write for fifteen minutes, THIS IS THE PERFECT TIME TO REMEMBER THE SCIENCE PROJECT THAT WAS DUE TWO WEEKS AGO AND MY SOLE ATTENTION AND GUIDANCE IS REQUIRED. I am pretty sure that this is normal and every parent goes through something similar, if not downright creepily exact, to what I'm talking about here. And, maybe I wouldn't be such a crazy person if I weren't required to not only pay attention to things that I'm not immersed in in that immediate moment, but pretend like I care most days, and answer ten billion questions about life, friendship, homework, poop, farts, bugs, shadows, gravity, puberty, what's in the casserole, and if I can start giving allowance for chores the kids don't hear me tell them to do.

LALALALALALALALALALA

NOT LISTENING!!!!

IIII IIII IIII II. And counting...

I started this entry as a way to vent about the seemingly endless string of questions threaded throughout my seemingly endless days as a mom, and I can not remember most of what I have typed because the seemingly endless amount of times a mom can be interrupted while trying to just think. I love my kids so, so much and I would never encourage them to stop asking questions because asking questions is how you learn to be the person you become in this world. Having said that... Sometimes I just want to be a brainless zombie with an infinite amount of free time to create whatever craft is on the dockett for the day, or jot a couple of sentences down without having to raise my head from my notebook twenty-seven times to answer my daughter's questions about whether or not there is a God or if Poptarts are better toasted or plain. I. DON'T. KNOW. Those are very personal quests in life that one must figure out solo. 

No.

I think my brain services are needed and I'm going to have to sign off for now because I seem to be the only person who can figure out how to dry a shirt, put a Poptart in a toaster, and referee a fight over said Poptarts.

P.S. We are now at IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII. If my calculations are correct, the amount of questions I am asked per day averages out to the amount of minutes my children have been awake. 

Visit me on Facebook and post your favorite question on my wall!!

I Will Just Have To Train My Body To Never Fail Again

Last week was rough. I was down for the count and supposed to be resting for one whole week. I don't know how other people can do this rest thing without going crazy. My mother in law and my brother in law came to stay with us and help out with everything around the house and I was supposed to just sit there and watch while they, and my husband, took over and filled my shoes as the live in maids and chefs.

Basically, I spent a week in a codeine induced fog drinking beer and eating food I didn't have to prepare while I waited for my body to get it's act together so I could drive and work and get out of my house. I know it doesn't sound bad on paper, but believe me, it isn't as fun as you'd think after about four days. Even though I was unable to do much, I still accomplished a ton this week. I'm bringing back the old List Of Productivity, guys. Here it goes...

LIST OF THINGS I WANTED TO ACCOMPLISH AFTER MY UTERUS PULLED A FAST ONE:

• Play outside with the kids on my week long hiatus from work/responsibility 

• Keep up on all of the laundry after my mother in law left (SHE DID ALL THE LAUNDRY... I am convinced she is a robot)

• Find a pressure cooker and swap recipes with my brother in law until we both die of diabetes

• Clean my room

• Build a patio furniture set out of cinder blocks and studs

• Sew pillows for back patio set

• Finish getting the adhesive off of the floor where I decided to rip out all of our carpet a couple days before my surgery

• Find or make a decorative rug for the tile floor that I didn't realize had been carpeted over FOR A REASON

• Buy or make thank you notes to everyone who helped us out at the drop of a hat when I went in for surgery

• Watch Parks And Recreation from the top again because that show is probably best friends for life with codeine

Now for the big finale...


THINGS I ACTUALLY ACCOMPLISHED POST OP:

• Watched every episode of Planet Earth (Don't get me wrong, this wasn't a waste of time. I saw the largest penis on earth during a whale episode. Those lady whales don't have a pectoral fin to stand on if they try complaining at their krill tasting parties about being satisfied by their man)

• I finished a puzzle in bed

• I ate all of the leftovers

• Got drunk with the neighbor

• Played hide and seek with the baby around the tree in the front yard 

• Checked off "Play Outside With Kids" in an exaggerated fashion from my imaginary list of things to do

• Delegated (a lot)

• Supervised (even more)

• Took more codeine and demoted myself as mom in a formal ceremony in a nap dream

• Picked up six cups off the floor that were starting to form a Wiccan Ouroboros around my bed

• Checked off "Clean Room" in another exaggerated movement while no one was watching me

• Found construction paper and glitter to make thank you cards

• Found some old string and a crochet hook while finding thank you note making supplies and tried my hand at crocheting tiny Christmas tree ornaments because there are only 94 days left until Xmas!!!

• Wrote this blog entry

I officially have one day left until I can get out of the house and go back to work and I'd like to say that I'm not going to take any codeine today and accomplish at least half of the things on my invisible-until-now list, but let's be honest, there's at least two desert episodes and one jungle documentary in the Planet Earth collection that are calling my name and the only strength I feel in my wobbly bones is going to be conserved for those thank you notes because I seriously have the best family and friends a codeine addict girl can ask for.

This puzzle might not look like it's difficult, but believe me, when you're seeing double and itching uncontrollably from the pain meds, this shit is almost impossible to finish.

This is the recipe my brother in law followed that is making me obsessed over finding a pressure cooker. Make it. Eat it. Thank me later. 

Princes, Paupers, Daydreams, And Delusions

The smell of curry caresses the air and slowly wafts throughout the house. Children are loitering near the kitchen door, waiting for a handout. Looking at the short line they have formed for food, wearing drab and dirty clothes that have been through an entire school day, the chicken coop, and mud holes in the yard, my mind wanders to the memory of my favorite childhood musical, Oliver Twist. 

I picture my own little ones donning flour sacks, stitched together with haste and contempt. Their feet are bare, and their hair matted. Each of them hold out crude wooden bowls that they were forced to carve themselves out of desperation, hoping to have them filled with just a bit of gruel to keep their bellies warm and their spirits intact. 

My brain is on a switchback, weaving back and forth from my imaginary orphans to reality. My three girls are wearing severely abused Roxy, Justice, and Old Navy jackets, and the baby is in some sweatshirt that cost me twenty bucks and was surely made in an overseas sweatshop. Instead of politely holding out a heavy bowl for a bite to eat, grumbles seep out of the two picky eaters about the pungent aroma of curry, and I think I make out, "There better not be tomatoes in it this time...," over the shoving and shouting.

I slip back into daydream mode. Soot smudged cheeks, sunken from malnutrition and sadness, and solemn eyes, beg silently for my charity. The children, accustomed to tasteless slop, see what I have cooking on the stovetop, and their eyes light up with gratitude and joy. I think I make out, "I've never had such a beautiful meal! Can you believe it? Curry chicken??! What a treat...," over the abundant enthusiasm that these starving angels can not contain.

My semi-morbid daydream is interrupted by one of my children whining. 

"Oniiiioooons? I hate onions!" 

The rice is finished steaming and the deep pot of curry chicken looks just right. I set up an assembly line of bowls and spoons across the counter, avoiding inevitable meltdowns by making sure that this kid gets the pink bowl, and that one gets the green, because we all know that the color of your eating vessel greatly determines the quality of the food within it. 

I picture myself a frumpy, but kindly, old kitchen maid. My unruly white hair is stuffed into a puffy grey cap. I ladle rice and curry chicken into each child's bowl and they hug my legs tightly as tears start forming in the corners of their eyes. I smile down at these unlucky little urchins with compassion and a heavy heart. One of the unkempt kids asks me quietly, "Please, ma'am, may I have some more?" I ladle out an extra helping, complimenting him on his manners, and I consider adopting him.

"I SAID I HATE TOMATOES!!"

My foolish fantasy of polite paupers shatters. Gritting my teeth, I quietly spoon as many of the tomatoes out of the bowl as my blood pressure reaches a record breaking high. Handing over my hard work, in the form of a meal, to my ungrateful munchkin, I want to slink back into my daydream.

Barely clad and unbathed, the orphans slurp the last drops of supper from their bowls and head off to makeshift beds of straw and lumpy, sweat stained cots lined up in their leaky upstairs attic. Not a single unsolicited complaint is offered to the cook, only sleepy smiles pass the kitchen maid on their way to dreamland.

I dish myself a portion of the dinner, sit with the children to eat, and watch my idea of a tasty change of pace dissipate into thin air. The children are poking at the green bits in their bowls with their forks as if they might be bionic intruders or extraterrestrial invaders. They are wary of the red and yellow things in there, too, and the chicken. 

I see them try to inconspicuously signal each other, even though they are all full aware that their mother possesses two keen sets of eyes, one on each side of her head. The oldest signals to the middle girl, like a catcher signals a curveball from his pitcher. They have chosen a speaker. 

"We're full, mom."

Over the years, and after giving several lectures on table etiquette, I have come to recognize this sentence as the polite way of saying, "Look, lady, your dinner sucked. We're trying to be nice by saying we are full, but really, we are just going to ask for something else that will pass as edible in ten minutes. Try making pizza or Lucky Charms if you expect a standing ovation."

I excuse them, finish my dinner and start the clean up, irritated with my epic food fail. I decide that I will remain determined in expanding my kids' horizons and palettes. I roll through my internal Rolodex of recipes and decide tomorrow's menu will be vegetarian quiche, quinoa and goat cheese.

That'll teach them to be "full."

If Fertility Were A Super Power, I'd Save The World

After our son was born two and half years ago, I distinctly remember telling the doctor to burn out my insides (twice, if she really loved me) because I am physically incapable of not making adorable babies without the assistance of modern medicine and being cauterized. I have proven this to be an indisputable fact this week.

After suffering through almost twelve insufferable hours of what I was convinced was a lack of fiber, I told my husband to take me to the hospital. I googled my symptoms and was pretty sure I was heading in to the hospital for what would be the removal of either my useless appendix or my worthless gall bladder. After waiting around (and enjoying the complimentary morphine) a lady doctor came into my curtain fort and said, "You are pregnant."

My response was a flat, "Of course I am." And, not because I don't want another squishy baby to kiss and smoosh and love and cuddle and put through therapy, but because I knew there was not a super great chance that this would be a viable pregnancy. And, it wasn't.

At first I was in shock, then I was sad, and now I am just happy I'm alive because apparently ectopic pregnancies can seriously mess you up if they are not detected right away. The doctor who performed the surgery was amazing, and funny, and kind, and my entire family stepped up and just took over what tasks I would normally have to do as mom around here.

This is less of a funny post this week, unless the pain medication has completely taken over and I'm actually typing up a story about the time I accidentally tucked my skirt into my pantyhose and walked around a meeting hall with my butt hanging out for twenty minutes until my friend's dad came up, tapped me on the shoulder, and asked me, "Is this the new fashion trend or something?" But, I'm feeling confident the codeine is directing this post the way I want it to go.

I am so grateful for a husband who worries himself sick over me, four awesome kids who love me to the moon, and for my in-laws for rushing over and doing all of my laundry and cooking me delicious food to eat while I lay around doing nothing all day. I'm also grateful that we are not in a Mad Max type of situation where I would be held captive as a breeder, because that definitely would be my post apocalyptic role.

"YOU'RE FIRED."

My friend Christopher Waldrop, who writes the blog Freethinkers Anonymous, is an amazing guy who has a great perspective on life, along with a fantastic sense of humor. We are blog swapping this week and we hope you enjoy our stories!! -No Trade Jack

As soon as I heard the creaking I tensed up. I didn’t know what was coming, but I knew it would be something. Then I felt his hand hit the middle of my back.

“Come on, biggun, we’ve got another job you can do.” 

That was my third nickname of the day, and the least creative. It was the summer I worked for a temp agency, which meant being sent around to a lot of crappy jobs, mostly in warehouses. And it wasn’t that bad. I’d met some nice people, had a few laughs. Somehow I knew today would be different. I walked into a hot, windowless room of rows of scarred tables. It was like shop class without the equipment. There were boxes of Glamour magazines, the same issue over and over, the same airbrushed, overpainted, highly styled model giving me the “What are you lookin’ at?” face.

Jerry was a squat little guy in khaki slacks and a flannel shirt. I still don’t know how he could stand to wear a flannel shirt in the middle of July in a room with no air conditioning. And maybe he wasn’t really squat. Maybe he just seemed that way because of the way he walked. Either one or both of Jerry’s legs was a prosthetic so he had kind of a weird rolling gait, like a walking horseshoe. And he creaked like he walked, like his joints needed some WD-40. I’m not trying to make fun of it. In fact I was sympathetic even after he pointed to a stool and said, “Grab a seat there buttercup.” 

Buttercup was my first nickname of the day.

I then got a stack of Glamour issues, a jar of rubber cement with a brush, and a box of perfume samples.

You’ve always wondered how perfume samples get into magazines, haven’t you? I’m kidding, of course. No one cares how perfume samples get into magazines. If you’ve thought about it at all you’ve probably thought machines did it, not sweaty people sitting around carpenter’s tables in a dusty basement somewhere. Hopefully this makes you feel better about throwing away those perfume samples unopened.

Unlike other places I’d worked no one seemed interested in talking to me. In fact no one even sat next to me. There were a couple of women sitting opposite me who kept up a running dialogue, mostly about how slow everyone else was compared to them. One of the woman wore a t-shirt with a faded American flag and the logo “Try and burn this one YOU ASSHOLE.” Good job, I thought, that’s a lovely way to show your respect for the flag. The effect was enhanced by the fact that she appeared to be smuggling prizewinning watermelons under her shirt—and not just two, but at least half a dozen.

I put my head down and got into a rhythm. I was slow at first. The perfume samples had to go on a specific page and it wasn’t a matter of just slopping down some rubber cement and sticking them in there. It had to be carefully applied in two strips and the perfume sample had to be pressed in place without damaging the magazine. But after an hour I got into a rhythm and was moving along at a pretty good clip. I paused to wipe the sweat off my forehead.

“Play with your hair on your own time Goldilocks!” Jerry snapped as he creaked by. I thought about saying maybe Rapunzel would be more appropriate, or even Snow White since I’m not a blonde, but I thought it would be better to keep my head down. According to the temp agency I was going to be stuck here for a week. Grin and bear it, I told myself.

After lunch I started to go back to it, but that’s when Jerry addressed me as “biggun” and gave me a different job. One of my fellow employees had been putting the perfume samples on the wrong page, so I was given the task of pulling them out and reboxing the magazines so someone else could insert them correctly. And it was someone who’d worked there longer than me, so I had days’ worth of samples to pull. It was okay, though. I was taken away from the table where I’d been and sat down on an overstuffed couch instead. It was almost like sitting at home flipping through magazines, except there was no TV and the whole place smelled like feet. 

That evening a woman from the temp agency called me.

“You’re not going back to that place tomorrow. They don’t want you.”

“Great.” I may or may not have said that, but I was genuinely relieved. I needed money, but they weren’t paying me enough to grin and bear it for another six days. I knew I’d snap if I went back there.

“They fired you,” the woman went on, “because you barely did half as much as any of the other people who work there.”

I didn’t need to know that, and I really didn’t care, but pride made me speak up anyway. After all this was the first time I’d been fired, and it was a wrongful termination. I didn’t say anything about Jerry, but I explained why I’d barely done half as much as the others. And how did they know, anyway? Sure, they’d caught someone else’s screw-up, but it didn’t seem like a place where quality control was a priority.

She sighed. “I shouldn’t tell you this…”

Oh please, I thought, please tell me. I don’t know what it is, but if you’re going to tell me something bad about Jerry I want to hear it. 

“We’ve had a lot of trouble with this company and we’re dropping them as a client. The real reason you’re not going back is we’re not sending any more of our employees there.”

I just wish I’d seen Jerry’s face when they told him he was the one being fired. 

Read more of Chris's life and musings here at Freethinkers Anonymous!! 

I'm Going To Crack From The Pressure Or The Excitement Of It All

Yesterday I received a message from a lady who (whom?) I greatly admire asking if I would let her help me compile a book of my writing for publication. This chick is bad ass. She knows her stuff. She is hilarious and tough as nails and asked me to respond to her proposition by simply replying, "Y" or "N."

I responded, "A MILLION TIMES Y!!" Ok, maybe not in all caps, but that's how I felt inside. I know that if anyone can help get my butt into gear and actually get a decent book pulled together, it's this lady.

So, I started writing. This was my process:

1. Get comfortable.

2. Get back up and smoke and pace for a few minutes.

3. Decide whether or not a nobody should even have a prologue or if I should leave that to the pros who people are actually interested in.

4. Wrote a prologue.

5. Paced around a little more thinking about what in the hell I want to put "out there."

6. Started in on Chapter 1.

7. Had childhood flashbacks (mostly about peeing my pants in the fifth grade and my L.A. Gears) midway through the first chapter.

8. Started to edit and decided I'd leave it up to MY NEW EDITOR. I'm like so fucking official, guys, it's unreal.

9. Emailed MY NEW EDITOR.

10. Thought about when I would stop italicizing the phrase MY NEW EDITOR and the answer is NEVER.

11. Started getting panicky about the material I sent off.

12. Tried to write a second chapter.

13. GOT WRITER'S BLOCK.

14. Texted everyone I know that I am going to be famous.


So, if you ever need advice on how to write a book, just refer to my handy 14 step process as laid out above.