February 2011
85 posts
“It’s true. I read it in the tabloids, I mean, the real tabloids.”
– A statement straight out of the mouth of a future teacher of America. If this isn’t an oxymoron, I don’t know what is.
January 2011
108 posts
DINNER WITH THE MISTER . . .
I’m gonna venture to say that this might be the beginning of a beautiful tradition for the family … although, not so much for my body image. Tonight the Mister got bold and decided to make fresh-from-scratch ravioli. But this wasn’t just any ravioli, it was stuffed with a pear-ricotta mixture and topped with a blue cheese cream sauce and slices of caramelized sweet pears with...
IT HAS BEGUN . . .
TIME STAMP: 11:27 p.m. Sunday Suppers is in progress. Stay tuned.
A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS . . .
What child wants to do math on the weekends? But with a little Skittles bribery, I got the neighborhood kids to help me with my math lesson project. The lengths I will go to get an A.
INTERRUPTIONS FROM THE GHETTO . . .
There goes my productive Saturday. Here I am developing detail-intensive lesson plans and all of the sudden six kids come running into my kitchen screaming that one of the kids is “playing with a real gun” WTF!! So here comes this third grader waving around her silver metal “play” gun. I am not going to lie, I had to actually do a double take because this thing looks and...
MAKE IT WORK . . .
Walking into class and praying that no assignments are due is not a good feeling. I have been surviving on a week to week basis with school and it’s not going to cut it. So this Saturday, I woke up, took a long shower, had a high carb breakfast and now it’s time to make it happen. Let’s hope for a productive Saturday, folks.
IT'S YOU, NOT ME . . .
Dear TOMS:
I know we have never met, but I feel like I know you so well since three out of five people wear you on my campus (the others wear flip flops or those trendy pirate boot looking things, which I haven’t quite been able to understand yet). And yet, I really don’t get you. You rant and rave about being the shoes of tomorrow, but you look pretty third world to me. Then you...
OH, WHAT A NIGHT . . .
It’s almost a sad thing that I have to blog and reminisce about dinners that happened three years ago, but yes, that’s how pathetic and uneventful my current days are. And after my previous Roseanne tribute, I had no choice but to conjure up images from that great night.
I love how you put a group of fairly wholesome twenty-somethings in a trendy French brassiere and throw in some...
TO BE A WALKING ARTIFACT . . .
When you are on a campus with thousands of other students, certain people will stand out. Sometimes it’s the girl with way too much make up or the guy who is always riding his skateboard so fast that you have to jump out of the way or maybe it’s the girl who wears her pink glittered Toms, which are annoying on their own. And then there is me. I am the girl who walks around with the...
CAUGHT!!!
Me: (On my cell phone making a call . . . it's ringing).
Mister: Hello?
Me: Hi . . . oh, wait . . . is that you, Mister?
Mister: Hello? Yeah, it's me. What's up?
Me: Ooooh . . . sorry . . . I thought I was calling another guy.
Mister: Wait, what? What other guy are you calling?
Me: Gotta go!
UNBELIEVABLE!!!!!!!!
Me: It's gonna be rough with my clinical practice and work. I don't really know what my work is going to do if I can't put in the hours. They might let me go.
Mister: Well, don't worry. I can get you a job as a server at my friend's bar.
Me: Are you crazy? Look at me? They need pretty people to be servers.
Mister: (Snickers at my statement and shakes his head from side to side) No . . . you haven't seen the servers.
Mister, I am going to need you to remember who you are talking to when such nonsense comes out of your mouth. Thanks again for uplifting my self-esteem and letting me know that I will fit in just fine at the bar with the UGLY SERVERS!
BACK AT THE OFFICE . . .
Boss Lady: I got this crazy email. If you take 111, add the last two digits from your date of birth and add your age, you come back to 111. Isn't that spooky?
Me: Really, okay let me try . . . (Jeopardy song in the background and lots of incorrect addition later) . . . wait, I got 221.
Boss Lady: How did you get 221? I was born in 67 and I'm 44 and I got 111.
Me: Ummm . . .
BOSS LADY, in case you forgot - I am a little busy with the work that you pay me to do. Don't let my sudden urge to vomit from the stress induced environment you and SHREK create make you believe that I don't have time to play math games with you. Of course, now I am trying to juggle calendaring all the attorneys and hassling with a calculator to figure out why I can't get 111. C'MON!!
BACK ON CAMPUS . . .
Dumb Girl #1: Oh my gosh, how did you do in aerobics class?
Dumb Girl #2: Oh yeah, that was such a tough class.
Dumb Girl #1: Did you pass?
Dumb Girl #2: Barely, did you?
As T-Bone would put it, "Shut the front door!" I do not have time to hear such nonsense like this while I am trying to juggle being a mom, a full time job and a full load of credits. Are you serious? It's either the aforementioned or my favorite, "God, I just woke up and am still hungover". Wah, wah, wah . . . call the wah-mbulance!! What a sad story, but what's more sad is that it's five in the afternoon and you just woke up. OK . . . so maybe I AM jealous that you can sleep till five in the afternoon, BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT!!
HOW DOES ONE GET THEIR LIFE BACK . . .
And unfortunately sometimes you can’t. SHREK has this habit of diverting his anger to those who have nothing to do with anything. I especially love when he has meetings to hollar and yell at his staff for no purpose, camoflauging them as a sincere effort to communicate and boost morale. Just like the meeting we just had … him ranting about something like … lack of common sense....
REMINISCING . . .
Dos X (my older son) was talking to me about liking a girl in his class and wanted to know how I told the Mister I liked him . . . oh son, if you only knew . . . but it went something like this . . . (cue the blurring screen and dreamlike music while I stare up into oblivion)
The Mister: You are not getting out of this car until we figure out what we are!
Me: Alright . . . we are nothing.
The Mister: That's not good enough. You are not getting out of this car until you tell me you'll be my girlfriend.
Me: FINE, I'LL BE YOUR GIRLFRIEND. NOW LET ME OUT OF THE CAR!
Oh son, how sweet it is to believe that your parents actually had a traditional love story. If you take anything from my little story, never follow in our footsteps and never trap girls in a moving vehicle until you like what you hear - that's also known as kidnapping.
TO BE LOVED . . .
The Teeny Little Super Guy has gotten into the bad habit of coming over to sit on my lap and leave me a little surprise, namely a silent but deadly fart.
Me: Son, that is so gross and not okay. Don't come over here, sit on my lap and fart.
Son: **Evil Villian Laugh**.
Me: I hope you are not doing that to your friends at school.
Son: No, I don't do that to the people at school.
Me: Why to me and not to them.
Son: Mom, they are my friends.
So soon, that kind of behavior will just not be adorable anymore.
AND SO IT BEGINS . . .
I know it sounds ungrateful, but there is a reason behind the name of this blog and it has a lot to do with the Mister’s profession. For the past few years, I have been able to limit the diabetes-inducing, cholesterol-rich dishes to Sundays at maximum, but now that his two weeks notice has finalized, this blog could seriously become titled morbidlyobesenotpregnant.tumblr.com sooner than...
“The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them.”
– Maya Angelou.
Speak it, Maya! I cannot stress enough how true this is and how so many women refuse to heed this advice. While we might be able to smooth out the corners, we can NEVER change them. TRUST.
LOOKING FORWARD TO SOME "BROWN" WATER . . .
Sitting around with my cousin and his "wifie", getting some insider tips on the real dramas we will be encountering in Colombia such as cold showers, "brown" water and having to strategically rotate the money we carry around, when my sister busts out with a pitcher of cucumber water.
MCSS: Do you want some more cucumber water?
Me: Is that what that taste is?
MCSS: It's so refreshing, I love it.
Ricky Bobby: I don't like it at all.
Me: Wow, I just thought you had given me the unwashed flower vase again. That or just a dirty cup.
MCSS: What?
Me: Well, I didn't want to be rude and make a big deal about your lack of washing skills.
Cousin: Hey look on the bright side, she's just getting preparing you for things to come in Colombia.
“She might be handling a No. 3.”
– When my sister went missing for quite some time, my cousin threw out this term. Apparently, if you ain’t in the bathroom handling a No. 1 or a No. 2 … chances are, you got a No. 3 on your hands. Can I get a No. 2 … once a month???
“Can you bring some appetizer plates?”
– Only the Middle Child Syndrome Sister would waste my time to get appetizer plates. Here I am offering to bring something for dinner at her place and this is the request? This says so much about her usual nonsense.
DESPERATE MEASURES . .
Teeny Little Super Guy has been having a difficult time dealing with the fact that SillyBandz are WORTHLESS CAMOUFLAGED RUBBER BANDS. Although, I will say that I do enjoy reaping the “Best Mom in the World” praise for my little MacGyver moment. But I guess I should tell him that we can fix this situation with a little trip to the 99 cents store.
“JUST START CRYING”
– T-Bone’s strategy when trying to haggle unpaid and overdue bills.
“SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!”
– The good girl’s way of handling the BS life hands to you!!
“You wanna know how to kill the romance? How about a child custody hearing?”
– Dear Modest Asian:
I plead you to not call me at work with escapades of make out sessions on the weekends and custody battles by Wednesday and then wonder why and how it got to this point. It’s time to finally realize why the term ”babies’ daddies” is not ”cool”...
“Why are you in the office so early? Are you that behind on your work?”
– SHREK
IT’S ALWAYS GREAT TO START YOUR MORNING WITH A LITTLE PASSIVE AGRESSION. And for the record, I walked in at 4:55 a.m. instead of the usual start time of 5:00 a.m.
RETRACTIONS, PART DEUX . . .
The Middle Child Syndrome Sister has also advised me that she feels my blog does not accurately portray her. She seems to feel that the nonsense statements I publish do not actually eminate from her mouth. Maybe there is a plus side to having a blog because it actually documents the gibberish that she “unconsciously” speaks. Sorry, MCSS, you may not recall, but I do and yes, you really...
RETRACTIONS . . .
The Mister has brought it to my attention (at 4 a.m.) that I am failing to adequate catch his witty flair on my blog, specifically in our last conversation regarding tattoos (refer back to January 17, 2011). As such, he has asked me to re-blog our conversation CORRECTLY . . . .
Mister: I want to get a tattoo.
Me: Absolutely not.
Mister: Why?
Me: At your age, it's way too midlife crisis. And where are you gonna get this tattoo?
Mister: I don't know.
Me: Please don't tell me you are gonna try to get some gigantic tattoo on your back or your non-existent bicep. If you are gonna get a tattoo, you better put it somewhere I won't ever have to see.
Mister: Well in that case, I should get a tattoo on my balls.
Well, if anyone actually cares, there is a slight change somewhere in there and if you caught it, I hope you can now truly appreciate the Mister's prowess of comedic timing. Nevertheless, the dismal state of our love life continues to remain . . . dismal.
BACK AT THE OFFICE . . .
Me: I can't find the vehicle code section for running a stop sign. Do you possibly know it?
Attorney: Hold on (runs away with a giggle).
Me: (Rolling my eyes)
Attorney: If you promise to be nice, I will tell you where I keep this little gem (proceeds to take out from behind his back a giant book that resembles a Bible).
Me: Is that the Vehicle Code?
Attorney: That's right, it's a rarity . . . but I got my hands on it.
Me: You mean the same one that is on the internet?
DON'T WASTE MY TIME!! I may not be hip to technology, but this is ridiculous. Needless to say, I burst his little balloon with pleasure.
BOOKED!!
Whether I like it or not, I have officially booked our flights for COLOMBIA 2011.
“The plan is to bring together their enthusiastic, prodigal mother who has not...”
– OOHHHHH WHEEE RICKY BOBBY - you got some figthing words going on right there. Did you just call my mother “prodigal”? I’ll let you know how I feel about that once I find out what that word means. But hey, I ain’t gonna lie - you might be right on the Mister.
OH, IT'S ON LIKE DONKEY KONG . . .
Right now, I am in my cubicle at the workplace DYING. D.Y.I.N.G!!! Guess who is ready for a little rumble in the blog jungle. Blogging ain’t for the faint at heart! You want a piece of this Ricky Bobby - it’s on brother (in-law)!!!!
FAIL!
Me: Mom, we need to get our acts together on this trip. We spent six hours last week discussing dates and flights only to find out that all the prices [Middle Child Syndrome Sister a.k.a. MCSS] quoted didn't include taxes and fees.
Mom: You can do whatever you want. I need to make sure Ricky Bobby is clear with his school schedule so he can go.
Me: Are you kidding me? Look, I don't care if the two of you want to go on a romantic honeymoon in Colombia - I have four tickets to buy and the prices go up every day.
MCSS: I don't care what you guys do, I am flying out on a red eye.
Cruella DeVille: Look, I found some flights that leave on the date that we want.
Me: Then we need to book them right now.
Mom: Well I am going whenever MCSS goes.
MCSS: Is the airlines even legit? I don't think I trust it - I read some bad reviews.
Mom: I am not going with any run of the mill airlines. I rather pay more and be secure.
Me: You know what, why don't you, Ricky Bobby and MCSS hold hands together and charter your own diamond encrusted private jet. The rest of us have budgets.
Dad: (giggling in the background)
Me: Dad, I wouldn't be laughing if I were you - you're gonna be footing that bill.
Dad: (stands up from his chair and starts yellling and waving his hands in the air) You're mom doesn't care about anything. She pretends like she's one of those ladies in the telenovelas (walks out of the room in disgust)
Mom: (motions to my dad to zip it)
Grandma: I can't hear my telenovelas with all your hollering (my version is a lot tamer than her Spanish one and now she has decided to turn that volume dangerously high).
Mom: How about we think about moving the trip to the following week - maybe fares will be cheaper.
MCSS: Mom, I can't promise you anything. I might have a job by then.
Me: I'm sorry? You haven't had a job for more than a year. How about less Chinese classes and more job applications.
Cruella DeVille: Ok, are we ready to book or what - these fares are pretty good.
Me: Wait . . . hold on . . . (Squinting at the screen) Does that say June or January 2011 on the flight date.
Cruella DeVille: Oh, my bad.
Me: Alright, I have to go - I don't have time for this (rubbing my temples)
Dear Lord,
I know that you are the only one who can actually understand the method to the madness that is my family, but please send down some grace from above because I am not really sure about what I am getting into. It's like I am intentionally choosing to spend two weeks in a third world country with all the headaches in my life at the same time - the Mister, my mom, MCSS, etc. Throw me a bone!
TMI . . .
Mister: I want to get a tattoo.
Me: Absolutely not.
Mister: Why?
Me: At your age, it's way too midlife crisis. And where are you gonna get this tattoo?
Mister: I don't know.
Me: Please don't tell me you are gonna try to get some gigantic tattoo on your back or your non-existent bicep. If anything, I think tattoos in areas that are rarely seen are a little more tolerable.
Mister: Well in that case, I should get a tattoo on my balls.
I know, I know, way too much insight into our dysfunctional marriage but we couldn't help but DIE laughing at his poor attempt to let me know our love life is lacking.
