I made a grocery list

Aaaaaaaaand I know where it is.

I feel so accomplished.

Pudding is stuffing his face with all the things lately so the budget has been expanded to allow for the copious amount of cheerios, lunch meat, peas and carrots, and the lactose free milk (sigh) it takes to stave off his hangry rages. We are now working with $175 a month.

No, that wasn't a typo. You ever get hangry? Hunger + Anger = Little Baby Meltdown complete with a headslam into the floor of the cub scout social hall. This child is going to be the death of me, I can feel it. Right now he's alternating between throwing a temper tantrum when I won't let him touch my phone while it's playing Blue's Clues and abject fury when touching the damned phone causes Yahoo Mail to pop up instead of his beloved Steve.

So anyway, yeah, groceries.

Thursday: Chili Mac

Friday: Fried fish, broccoli, au gratin potatoes (from the box because we're classy like that.)

Saturday breakfast: Sausage, egg, and cheese crescent wrap with fried apples

Saturday: Broccoli cheddar braid and salad

Sunday: Swedish meatballs per peteybird request with egg noodles and roasted cauliflower

Sunday dessert: Peach crunch cake ala mode without the crunch as mr man "doesn't like nuts in his mouth" because he's 12

Monday: Beef tips but I'm putting them in the crock pot, mashed potatoes, and corn.

Tuesday: Grilled chicken salad

$141 + $20 produce box = under budget. Hooray for me!

A plague on both your houses

Sometimes, I don't like the people I live with.

Mr is never sick. Peteybird only gets headaches now and then, sometimes the occasional fever. Pinky somehow manages to only get a case of the sniffles. However, every.single.time homegirl brings home a case of a slightly runny nose, pudding and I take to our beds for a week with the downright miserables. Poor baby is cutting molars too and generally suffering from an unfun life which means I'm suffering from an unfun life and have accomplished preeeetty much nothing in the last few days.

However, as February is Black History Month and features Valentine's Day, I have fought through the fog of congestion and stuffy ears to post this sweet picture of a couple in love. I hope you'll stop by every day this month for a fresh picture of black couples throughout history looking all sappy-like at each other.

Also, stop by later today so I can tell you all about Sew Grateful week and make fresh excuses about my procrastination.

Grocery Day!!!

I'm feeling awful proud of myself this week. I actually had my list prepped yesterday. I promise you this is a bigger miracle than you know, like Mother Theresa in a shriveled up raisin miracle, aka a miracle only in the minds of the faithful, or the not so faithful. You know, me.

I guess that explains why I seemingly couldn't follow my own damned list even though I draw it up in a way that puts all the like things together. So don't ask me why my dumb ass had to go back to the soup aisle twenty times and the cereal aisle four more. Just know that it happened.

Actually, I know exactly why. It was that baby of mine, that's what it was. I love the squirmy little bugger but man, oh man, he makes things hard than it has to be. I shouldn't tell tales on this kid. He's actually really mellow. When we arrive, he hangs out in the driver's seat of his swaggermobile, aka, the grocery cart with the steering wheel and vroom vrooms up and down the various aisles, playing with the brand new, oh no, never obnoxious monkey his grandma sent him for Christmas. (No seriously, this thing is adoooooooorable, for the most part.) But inevitably, his interest wanes and there starts up a distinct whine from which a mother can never escape. Then comes the various attempts to dissuade him from the meltdown.

First, you try to get him to play tricks. "How big is pudding?" I ask while trying to remember why the hell I didn't write down what size cans of tomatoes I needed. Once he gets tired of raises his arms, I try to get him to clap his little hands, then we wave our arms, but eventually, this isn't working either. Then comes the cookies. After he's coated in a fine layer of gross, we begin the whining and wheedling portion of our afternoon. 

And no, I'm not talking about the baby.

Finally, when the baby is slobbering and whimpering and you've finally found that illusive can of tomato paste, (why the hell are the tiny cans always on the tippie top shelf??), you head from the home stretch and pull into the check out lane after taking out a tower of carefully stacked saltines. There, the baby sobs into his grimy little fists, behaving as if you're beating him while you silently plead with the cashier to hurry it up already. Finally, the groceries are on the conveyor belt and you can pick up the kid. Instantly, he shuts his face, as if you've somehow brought about world peace through the simple act of allowing the fruit of your womb to share his gummed up banana cookies with the front of your cardigan. All you have to do now is hand over your debit card for a quick swipe and you're home free.

Except that your debit card is under the front seat of the car.

::le sigh::

It's always the baby's fault.

Anyway, if you made it through, here's the weekly menu.

Tonight: spaghetti with garlic bread (make extra large batch of sauce and use on Sunday and Tuesday)

Friday: pesto chicken salad (bake chicken thighs with pesto sauce, save half for Saturday's dinner)

Saturday Breakfast: a variation of this involving crescent rolls

Saturday Dinner: creamy garlic pasta with pesto chicken and cornbread twists (w/Friday's chicken)

Sunday: chicken parm sandwiches, chips, apple bacon slaw, and hummingbird cake (w/tonight's sauce)

Monday: crockpot beef tips over egg noodles with broccoli

Tuesday: beef and barley soup and cornbread twists (w/tonight's sauce)

I came in at $128, including $7 worth of coffee, some garbage bags, and the crystal lite drink mixes mr man likes for work. Add in what I saved by shopping at the commissary, and we're at about $150 or so for the average family of 4.

The Weekly Gif Parade: Homework version

I find it odd how much time is spent discussing, debating, and prepping parents for the first three or four years of your kid's life. If you peruse the internet for anything more than a hot minute, you'll stumble across many of the landmines and rocket propelled grenades on the front lines of the mommy wars. Twenty minutes on google will give you all the talking points you need to do battle at major cities like BreastorFormulatam, Toddler Tempersburg, Nappomattox, and all sorts of historic sites. And yet oddly enough, all of that tapers off once you send those life ruining altering little blabbermouths down the way to the nearest, well researched schoolhouse.

Why is that?

I'll tell you why. It's because getting your kid to sleep through the night, wondering what age to introduce solids, even the ear shattering shrieks of a baby who wails inconsolably the moment water touches her skin (I'm looking at you, pinky) pales in comparison to the living, breathing hell that is guiding your child through their homework every night.

It all starts off innocently enough.

There's a table, a pencil, a stack of paper, and perhaps a school book or two and there's a child who just moments earlier was making you think about ending it all regaling you with tales of how her bff has a boyfriend that kisses her on the playground. Then you get home and you are forced to ask a question that will turn the tide of your evening in irreparable ways.

"Do you have homework?"

Suddenly, the child who was charming you just moments before,

is looking at you like you've asked them if you can kick their puppy.







You get yourself together,

And find something else to do in the misguided hope that for once, they will just finish the work already and leave you in peace. But before you can settle in all comfortable-like,


 

Inevitably, one of your kids has to roll up on you and interrupt you polishing off the rest of the sweet potato pie with a question. Obviously, no one wants to believe their kids are dumb and most kids are not dumb. However, if you've never looked at your kid and wondered if their brain fell out of their head between the school and your front door, you might not be a parent.

"Mommy, I don't know if I should add or subtract."

Now look, I'd love to tell you that I am the soul of patience, but I'm quite happy with the length of my nose.




So instead I'll confess a little irritation with the fact that no matter how many times I tell them that I'm not telling them the answer, they continue to come at me with questions that can I can only assist with by doing just that. Instead, I end up spitting out, "read it.again," through clenched teeth while wearing a plastered on smile.




This goes on at least three more times before they creep back up all sheepishly, paper in hand to ask you another question.


Just when you're about to lose your damned mind,



your child utters the words that save your sanity, "Will you check this for me?"


Seems innocuous enough I know but truly, this is a good thing. It means your whole ordeal is very nearly over.




So you gladly accept his paper, stare at it for a long moment,




And remind yourself that you did graduate high school once upon a time and dammit, you were pretty good at it. But that was then, this is now, and startlingly, you're right back in the fifth grade cutting your eyes at your hosebeast teacher and wondering what the hell good math will ever do you anyway.







You spend a few moments reacquainting yourself with the material, figuring out what new crap they're calling the terms your teachers spent all that time drilling into your head,





Until finally, you can issue a coherent explanation without risking your kid looking at you like this,




However, it's all worth it for bliss of seeing the look on your baby's face the exact moment they grasp a new concept.





Or perhaps the moment you can send them to bed. I don't know. But I'll let you know when I figure it out. This stuff has to pay off sometime, right?


The Hot Mess Housewife, molding young minds since 2001.

The wheels on the bus go round and round

So today, I woke up this morning and said to myself, "Self, wouldn't you like to spend a fun filled day listening to an eight year old yammer in your ear about nothing all morning?" Oh I wish I'd had that conversation as I lay in the comfort of my memory foam because let me tell you, the answer would have been a resounding no.

Look, I love my daughter. She's absolutely adorable with her flair for the dramatic but dear lord in heaven, that child does not know when to quit. And yet, without fail, I forget this little detail when I take it upon myself to ask the girlchild if she might like to accompany me and her little brother on a milk and soda run.

It was cute in the beginning. We started off in the car, music turned up, with the windows rolled down and all the interstate blowing in our faces. Ahh, Georgia. There's nothing like the smell of marsh in the morning. Oh, you've never smelled marsh? Imagine the mingling scent of dead animal and rotting vegetation. But I digress.

"Mom, pudding thinks my hair is funny because he's laughing at me."

Pudding is not yet three months old. He's probably laughing at the surge of warmth that just filled his diaper. But whatever makes pinky happy and doesn't involve an indepth conversation interrupting my favorite Queen song gets the hot mess heifer seal of approval. Plus, this is my not-so quiet time, the calm before the storm as it were. Or rather the 80's Arena Rock before the jibba jabba.

We pull into the parking lot and right away I can see where I've gone wrong. Before I even open the car door, pinky is looking for ways to be helpful. If you don't have children, you're probably tilting your head at the screen and narrowing your mouth into an awwwww. But if you have children, you just let out a heavy sigh in anticipation of how much work an eight year old's help can be.

"Can I unbuckle the baby?"

"Yup."

The child proceeds to grunt like a lumbering ox at the front of a cart full of manure.

"The buckle is too hard, Mommy. Can you do it?"

I knew we would end up here but had I denied her the chance to unharness her baby brother, she would have looked at me like I was silly to doubt the raging power in her linguini arms. I get the baby out and snuggled into the Moby and we're off to the races, you know, if the races were interrupted by questions I'm sure she knows the answer to.

"What kind of flower is that?"

"It's a petunia, the same kind I planted in the backyard. Remember?"

"Oh yeaaaah! It's preeeeeetttttyyyyy! Will you geeeetttt a piiiinnnkkkk one? Pink is my faaaaavvvorite!"

"I already have petunias, remember?"

"But you don't have a piiiiiiiiinnnnnnnk petunia!"

"I don't want a pink petunia. I have pink dianthus."

"How 'bout a fuschia petunia?"

Yes, she knows fuschia is a shade of pink. She also knows it's illegal to leave your children in walmart. I think she's testing me. I decide it's time to turn the tables on her lest I be tempted to ditch the child right in the middle of the gardening section.

"Pinky, you wanna fight?"

"Not in walmart, mom."

"But you have to be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" she says, watching me with a mixture of doubt and curiosity.

"For bad guys, lurking around every corner. You are a superhero, are you not?"

She stops for just a moment, wondering if I'm playing some kind of trick on her.

"Sometimes I am. What kind of bad guy?"

Pinky's favorite superhero at the moment is Thor. She nearly peed herself waiting for it to come out and I'm surprised she don't go through more underwear such is her anticipation over the new Avengers movie.

"I dunno, maybe Loki."

"Alright, but I'm gonna need my superhero suit and you're gonna have to remember to use my superhero name if you see him before I do."

"I don't know your super hero name."

"I'll tell you but you can't tell anyone else or they'll know it's me and we'll all be in trouble."

"Fine. Shoot."

Do you know how hard is to lean over to a little girl's mouth level with a twelve pound baby strapped to your chest? Turns out, I really didn't have to. Girlfriend's whisper is louder than a jackhammer.

"Lightning Speed."

And this, my friends is how I got roped into making a superhero costume for one antsy little girl. And guess what color it's going to be?



Fuuuuuuuuusssssschhhhhhiaaaaaaaa!

I changed my mind. Perhaps listening to little girl gum flapping is a rather fine way to spend the morning after all.



Oh the horror!

Today, my son misidentified Take It On the Run as a Beatles song.

Three of the Fab Four just rolled over in their graves.



Oh, Ringo's not dead?
Someone tell his eyes.



My friend Elizabeth is going to drive her happy behind all the way from Connecticut and burn my house down unless I rectify this unfortunate situation. Despite being perfect for pretending you're an 80's front man while booking 75 on the highway, on no planet does REO Speedwagon sound like the Beatles.

No way, no how.

::sigh::

It's a long way to the top if you're going to rock n roll, especially if you can't tell one era from another. I wonder if Dewey Finn might be willing to live in my sewing room for a few months. I'm pretty sure I can manage to scrounge up enough Mountain Dew, gummy peaches, and a couple months of WOW subscriptions with which to pay him.

 

What up? Level 80 paladin the house!

Speaking of 80's front bands, please, please, please explain to me who told Tom Cruise he could be a rocker? He couldn't be mistaken for a roadie and yet someone cast him in the role of a rock god.

Really? I mean really???!?

I'll petition the court myself to get Russell Brand half of Katy Perry's money if it will keep him from selling his soul to a certain Xenu loving pygmy. But clearly it's too late. Instead of gifting Tommy boy with the derision he deserves, Russell is actually starring in Rock of Ages along side Catherine Zeta-Jones and one of the proactive girls.

It's too late for that face, Russell.
You already took the money.

To make matters worse, it looks like Tom Cruise is going to spend the majority of the movie sans shirt.

Tom Cruise:
More effective than ipecac syrup since 1987

It's a shame Justin Timberlake's too busy seducing dukes, romancing penniless writers, and singing about diamonds. Someone needs to bring sexy back again and it shouldn't be Tom "don't mind the lifts in my shoes" Cruise.

"Don't tell him I told you about the lifts."

Sadly, judging by the girlchild's response to the Rock of Ages trailer, I suspect I'll be forced to watch it. At least the music will be good. Too bad my powers of make believe will be challenged and my eyeballs assaulted by Tom Cruise's sweaty nipples. Whatever will I do to clease my brain of such horrific sights?





I'm suddenly feeling a lot better.