The One In Which Everyone Know's It's....

' Windy'

I've been busy lately.  I know everyone says that ...but these past two or three weeks , for me?  I have been running around like the proverbial chicken with my head cut off.  And that's on a good day. 

It is Spring here on the left coast.  And Spring means greenery and warmer weather.  And wind.  And that means my girls have to mainline the Zyrtec ...We are the proverbial booger factory around here.  And the dry skin...oh the armadillo skin!  (We are not a supple people, folks- probably from years of our ancestors walking in the dessert.)

And Spring means warmer weather and that means...shorts!  I can't remember the last time I went shorts shopping.   I am more of a skort girl.  Or a coulotte.  Whatever happened to the coulotte anyway?  There was never a time when I would sport a pair of 'daisy dukes', but nowadays - I'd love to find a stylish pair of coulottes that would hide the junk in my trunk but still let my pasty white legs catch a breath.  I remember when I was a girl, they were like shorts with a flap that looked like a skirt.  Then came the gaucho in the 80's.  At this point - I am considering going full-on burka.  Modesty is not the issue.  Humiliation is.  Tu-Tu's are in for little girls this year.  Hmmmmm, how'd I look sporting one of those?

And Spring means longer daylight hours which means the cherubs get to bed a little later.  The little one says major-league adorable stuff like "I can't sleep in the daytime".  And then she sneaks out of her room for one more kiss (a nightly occurrence around here which has prompted the return of the 'ole bell on the doorknob trick so she doesn't scare the beejeezus out me when she creeps up on me at the computer or the liquor cabinet) and says wildly adorable shit like "I can't find a comfortable place to sleep.  It feels like my waist doesn't belong to my tushy"  - I have to flip her pillow over  which causes the treasure trove of crap that she puts under her pillow to fall between the bed and the wall which means I need to contort myself like a Le Cirque-us clown to retrieve the capless Sharpie, plastic coins, tinkerbell shoes,  and various and sundry flotsam and jetsam that she stores under there from being swallowed up by the Leprauchan that lives under her bed.  Botton line is that puts me behind on my American I-dull or Real Harpies of New York Shitty and that makes mommy stabbier than usual.

And if chronic tired isn't enough...it seems like every time I turn around  - there's another play, or PTA event, or meeting, or orientation , or softball practice, or game day or selling Daisy's Girl Scout Cookies (read: pimping my daughter out and teaching her how to say "Do-Si- Don't you wanna buy some Thin Mints?) or whatever.  I am the ulitmate in Mom-Taxi.  I need to put a meter on my 'dash' and start making some money at this job. 

And Spring means it's time for an invitation.  An invitation to a pity party. I really need a vacation.  Alone.  No offense to the Hubby - but I am really need a day or twelve two with no time frames to live by.  A few hours a day just doesn't seem to cut it because it's bounded by when I have to do this or that.  Alone time - where I don't have to drive, or pick-up, or prepare, or pretend, or talk or smile.  And when I am done playing the world's smallest violin at my pity party - I'll put my big girl coulotte's back on and start all over again.  (If you'd like, you can come  to come to my pity party.  Admission is one large bottle of Grey Goose, and something from the 'tos food group : chee, fri, dori or pota please and if you have pharmaceuticals, you get to pick your spot on the couch)

So I'll leave you with a little game - a sort of Caption This, if you will.

This has been making the rounds and it frickin' cracks me up!  And I need to laugh or else I will explode over this whole debacle about health care reform.  I voted for the guy - as the evil of two lessers. But don't get me started on that...it's not cocktail hour yet.

  You know what they say. "Once Barack, never back!"

An Open Letter to the Maker of Her Ruby Slippers

Dear Ruby Slippers;
Today marked the end of an era.  I know, I know - as much as you'd rather be slipped on the precious tootsies of my little one, your days were  numbered.  You've served us well, dear Ruby Slippers.  But my little one just can't have your broken -strapped , scraped - glitter, sand-filled , leather-soled goodness anymore.   Sadly, you are relegated to the land-fill of Ick after years of frolicking in the land of Oz.

She clicked your heels three times and repeated the lines "I want to go home" over and over again, but you remained tattered and tired. 

Gone are the days of innocence when mommy could just walk into Target and get another pair of you. And just so you know - you folks at Target ...they are RUBY slippers and are meant to be festooned with (if not actual rubies or)  red sequins and have real heels that make that clicky sound when you walk down the Yellow Brick Road of life.  NOT the cheezy pink glitter ballet flats with stapled elastic straps that make squishy air sounds as you run towards the combo Starbucks-Pizza Hut in the front of the super-store that you guys are trying to pass off as the real thing.  If you need a copy of the movie, go to aisle 16 and you'll find it.   Just sayin'.

She's crushed, but she'll muddle through.  I don't know about mom, though.

For more Wordful Wednesdays. Go Visit Seven Clown Circus.

The One in Which She Has Too Much Ability

When my kid had the stomach flu for two days, she didn't eat much, the poor thing. After she felt better - all she wanted was a cheeseburger. She said "It's not so much that I am craving the flavor of the cheeseburger, Mom. I can live without that. It's that I am craving the ability to eat it! That's what I can't live without!" That about sums up the past 40+ years of eating habits for me.

No will power and too much ability.

I have always craved eating.  Not the food per se, or the flavors -  but the action of the eating itself.   I crave textures and temperatures.   Sometimes I feel like eating something with my fingers. (who doesn't love licking their fingers after downing an entire bag  a handful of processed cheese-food covered Cheetos?)  Sometimes I feel like eating something with chopsticks. (sushi, really good Ramen, anyone?)  Sometimes I feel like crunching, slurping, sipping my craving, while other times I feel like noshing and grazing it.  And yes, I do crave a good chew now and then.  Sometimes I just want to masticate on a well marbled , perfectly seasoned steak.  And don't even get me going on lamb chops...Mmmm, Mmmm goooooood.

I have always said that I'd rather take 100 bites of 100 different things than 100 bites of one thing.  I love the whole concept of 'small plate' dining.  And don't be confused by that term 'small plate' - it has nothing to do with portion control.  When one goes to a Tapas restaurant like this one and eats the entire menu...there is nothing controlled about that!  You just think you are eating less because you only have a tiny little plate in front of you and maybe a little bamboo skewer to spear your teeny tiny 'papas canarias' (teeny tiny salty wrinkly potatos with a mojo verde dipping sauce) you have the air of being a dainty eater..but the ability of a Sumo wrestler carbing up before the next match.   And don't even get me started on those 'philly cheese steaks' (individual salty puffs of crunchy air bread with hot, oozy cheese inside covered in a super thin slice of just seared Wagu beef).  Texture and temperature - I'm salivating at the memory as I type.

But don't get me wrong - I am not a buffet lover.  As it would seem that I would enjoy the options that a buffet could offer; I eat with my eyes , and there is nothing appealing about seeing globs of food splayed in even even the fanciest of chafing dishes.  Not that I wouldn't eat at a buffet restaurant, but given other options, I would opt out. 

It really sucks being a good cook - and even worse being married to one.  Our children have grown up on 3 or 4 course meals.  Their favorite foods run the gamut from hot dogs to rack of lamb.  When asked "what do you want for lunch?' they have been known to shout out things like " a simple charcuterie and triple creme Brie , please!"  When (and if ) they eat chicken fingers and boxed mac and cheese, they consider it a treat.  And doing so is tantamount to eating out...since they don't get that stuff around here.  (not that I am knocking prepared foods by any means...but my damned ability to cook has spoiled my kids)

In this , the year of me going from Flabulous to Fabulous  (and so far I am living up to my end of the bargain.  What about you thighs..I mean you guys?) I have managed to stave off some of those cravings.  I am trying to prepare meals that satisfy my need to become physically involved with my food.  In fact, it is a little known fact that if you eat directly out of the refrigerator {substitute pantry, or kid's lunchbox, or grocery store bags} you will lose weight since you are expending energy with all that bending, tearing open, and devouring; thus, burning unwanted calories and satisfying the required physical exertion required in any healthy diet and exercise plan.

*definition of overboard for a family of 4?

Part of my plan is to redefine my Abilily.  Because there really is such a thing as too much for your own good.