I do so solemnly swear

to be less of a hot mess and get back to blogging and other housewifey type things.


pics on Sodahead

While we're discussing my lack of getting done crap, can we discuss Park Seed? Is there a reason it's taking them forever to send me my damned seeds already? How much effort does it take to drop some peas in a damned envelope, slap a stamp on it and send it my way?

Hmmmmmmmmm?

GAH!

The next time I complain about my fat belly

Please remind me that it took me three days to blow through these.

And that instead of disgust, I am giving serious consideration to making these for Sunday Dinner.

Whomever said "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels," doesn't have taste buds. Actually, it was Kate Moss who said it which makes total sense since she's more interested in the kind of stuff you shoot or snort and not the stuff you put in your mouth.

I'm going slightly mad

It finally happened, woah oh

Remember my meandering Sunday wallyworld thread?

Welp, I realized Tuesday when headed out the door with plans to raid goodwill that I hadn't seen my debit card or my I.D since my last run in with my Sam Walton stalker. I scrounged my car, my purse, the diaper bag, the trunkish thing that's not a trunk but totally is the back of the car where you put trunk stuff, the diaper bag again, the backseat, the front seat, the pocket of every pair of jeans I own, the bathroom floor, even my kid's jeans since I remember sticking my keys in there as I had no pockets on Sunday and wasn't carrying a purse.

No dice. Up against the clock and a lunch date with a cool lady and her awesome kid, I snatched Mr Man's debit card and dashed out of the door. After being treated to the antics of very smart four year old with a perfect Mario imitation, I came back home and repeated my search to no avail.

So yesterday morning, I rouse my lazy ass from bed and consider which will be more painful, playing round robin with the stupid voice automation feature on the phone or dealing with the heavy sighs, starched shirts, and eerie quiet of the bank. Choosing the latter, I got the pudding dressed and hot footed it out to the car ready to take on the day. I went to straighten the straps on his carseat and what do my fingers graze??

That's right, my debit card. Don't ask me. I just live here.

A bank trip avoided. Now I am free to run into Joann's real quick for a couple invisible zippers and see what else randomly attacks my cart. Seersucker maybe? mmmhmmm! And two bolts of a really pretty peachy rose cotton with green birds on it? Oh yes please especially as I not only had a 40% off Joann's coupon but thanks to a wise comment on Gertie's blog post from the other day, I was also in possession of a beautiful, gorgeous, shiny 20% off your total purchase coupon.

Tada!!!

Oh yeah, baby!

My high lasted exactly six hours when standing in walmart (see, sucked in again!) I realized I actually had lost my debit card. I carried it in when I ran in to get yogurt, somehow set it down when I was distracted by a bolt of brown, pink, and cream striped knit and somehow, by the time I headed towards the grocery side of the place, I'd lost it.

Grrr

Guess I'm going to have to deal with the bank tellers after all. At least I won't spend 30 minutes yelling NO, LOST CARD, YES, BACK, SCREW YOU AUTOMATED SYSTEM!!

See, I can look on the bright side.

I think I deserve ice cream today, don't you?

Cold Stone, here I come!

Ice cream fixes everything,
except a raving case of fatass of course.

Sweet Dreams are made of these

Dude, I think Walmart is out to get me.

It all starts off innocently enough. I carefully plan my meals, make my list, and slowly meander up and down every single aisle. As I check off the list, I also manage to find crap I didn't know I need or have been meaning to pick up. More ketchup, a new thermos for the ever forgetful and inadvertently destructive pinky, cinnamon raisin English muffins I didn't know I was craving until just then, etc. Before heading to one of the only three among 15 check out lanes that are open, I do a quick perusal of the cart. Out comes things I really don't need to be buying, off I send the monster children for the dish washing detergent I almost forgot. And yet, despite my best intentions, without fail, it occurs to me come Sunday morning that there's something I've forgotten.

Ugh.

Have you ever been in a Walmart in the South at 12:30 on a Sunday afternoon?

Double ugh.

Apparently, Walmart is out to get us all, particular women who enjoy tettering among pews in a pair of absolutely perfect nude round toe heels. But at least I'm not the only one hobbling about, shoving a cart down the aisles, trying to see how many points you can get from mowing down small children screetching over the doritos mommy won't buy for them (except that she totally will if the kid wails hard enough, you can tell.)

Chicken broth, onion, trellis line, cool whip. I repeat these words over and over to myself in a bid to stay focused.

Yeah, fat chance. I didn't make it out of the gardening section before somehow, mysteriously, there are four cells of begonias in my cart. What's that you say? I didn't need begonias?? But they were $1.48 per cell and they are going to look so cute nestled around the mini rose bushes that also inexplicably also ended up in my cart. Add the tomato cages, the jar of nutella, coconut kid's shampoo, quarter inch elastic, and hair clips for pinky. Now I'm headed towards check out, sweating from spending too much time in the gardening section with at least $35 dollars worth of crap I had no intention of buying when I pulled into the Walmart parking lot. Then I get to sit there and wait in one of three lanes among 15 that are actually open. Of course, if you stand there long enough, your cart seemingly multiplies with crap you're going to regret buying when you get home.

Did I mention sweating? Because really, that right there should have been a sign from God that there was stupidity afoot. I'm standing there, sweltering like a pig and not once does it occur to me that I'm going to have to dig out a place in the yard to shove the coleus I'm loading into the back of my car while my youngest screams in his car seat like man size mosquitos are eating his face.

And mother heifer! I forgot the trellis line!

Thank God Home Depot is right next door.

Trayvon Martin and a Sewing Project

Because of gas prices and my old ass needs to be replaced car, my family and I have been doing a lot more walking and taking more public transportation. My kids, eight and ten, wear hoodies like its their damned underwear. They both have at least three of them. In fact, I'm usually screetching at them because they never seem to make it into the washer and I can't stand how gross hoodies get at the sleeve.

We walk to the corner store, to the library, to pinky's dance class, or even just downtown to do some window shopping. They both wear their hoodies. Hell, I wear a hoodie, H wears one too. Pete likes to wear the hood pulled up because he says it's warm and comfy in there. I always tell him not to wear it up unless it's raining.

As all you moms can attest, there's nothing more annoying that repeating yourself so I got irritated last time I had to tell him yet again to pull down the damned hood because it's not raining. He looked at me like I'd lost my ever loving mind but he did what I asked. Meanwhile, because he looked so confused I thought, well maybe I'm just being stupid. Who cares if he wears his hood up?

Guess what??

People like George Zimmerman care. Simply because of the color of his skin, people in this world will look at my son and assume he's not just up to no good but that he's a danger to the community, so dangerous one needs a gun for protection, so dangerous that he could not wait for the police to respond to his call. A danger to the community for what? For being in a nice neighborhood while wearing the same article of clothing every other kid wears???

Just a few months ago for Christmas, I sewed my kid a hoodie. I bought the fabric on Black Friday from Joann's, cartoon aliens on black fleece. I was careful with all the seams, spent days trying to decide what size to cut since my kid is skinny but tall. It might have thrown it across the room once or twice when the zipper refused to go in nicely. When he put it on Christmas morning, he looked pleased as punch. In fact, he looked a lot like Trayvon Martin did in the picture that's being shown with the accompanying news articles.

According to Geraldo Rivera, an article of clothing that I labored over for my son is justification for chasing him down on a public street, standing over him, and shooting him despite his screams for help.

I always knew I'd have to explain to my kid that this world doesn't treat black men well. I just didn't realize I'd have to teach him that black little boys are just as feared.

Sunday Kind of Love

Oh there was so much to adore today. For starters, I made it out of wallyworld with my sanity in spite of teetering on tiny heels with a honking seven week old draped over my shoulder. And when I say honking, I mean it. This kid sounds like a goose when he starts feeling hostile. He was in no mood to pushed along sedately in his car seat and he certainly wasn't obliging of my need to browse the pattern catalogs in the fabric section.

Babies really do cramp your style. Good thing they're cute.

To make up for throwing down between the bobbins and the bias tape, little man took a nice, long nap, giving me time to enjoy the sunshine and look over the remnants of last summer's garden. Between morning sickness and my ten year old's inability to comprehend how to fully water potted plants, the only things that survived our neglect are a scrawny rosemary that only Charlie Brown could love and a beautiful draping bit of unknown bursting with pink blossoms and a red ant colony.

Just when I was starting to feel depressed about the demise of so pretty a plant, I remembered my slab of beef thawing, and everything else faded away.

Mesquite steak, bernaise sauce, sauteed mushrooms, steamed broccoli, and tarragon buttered potatoes . . . well, a meal like that makes everything better. Not even finding the asparagus all wilted and useless could dim the sense of contentment that comes from cutting into a perfect steak.

Oh how I love Sunday Dinner.