I got home from a trip to Wal-Mart a little while ago. What's so special about that? Not much until I looked at the contents of my shopping trip sailing past me on the little black conveyor belt...
Super Plus tampons, a bag of Fudgee-Os, a bag of chocolate covered almonds, a bag of chocolate macaroons and a four litre jug of skim milk. ( I feel like the person who goes through a drive thru and orders a second super-sized meal for an imaginary friend but gets a Diet Coke).
Pretty impressive, hey? I'm just thankful the cashier was not me because I'm not sure I could let someone pass through with an order like that without comment or at least a smirk.
I feel pretty.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Mo' Money Blues
One last thing. My two eldest children have recently taken to commenting on my money management. This led to the following discussion with my 16 year old last night.
16: Why didn't I get to go to a concert for my Grade 8 Grad?
Me: You got a fucking $200 guitar. Yes, I'm aware profanity and parenting don't mix. Please note the Title...PMS.
16: It was only $190.
Me: No, it was over $200 and I can check that. I know it was. Don't really have a way to confirm. Not without more effort than I'm actually willing to put forth.
16: Whatever.
Me: I'm tired of you people commenting on my money. I eat shit everyday (at work) for my money and if I fucking want to spend it all on magic beans and vodka I can! At this point I can hear my husband giggling at the table. Had the hormones not been raging, I might have joined him. However feeling too indignant.
16: Muttering to himself and likely wishing he'd never said anything.
Me: It's one concert ticket. Like a dog with a bone. She even offered to pay for half.
16: Okay! Fine! Good!
So in hindsight I may have overreacted. A little. Why my daughter wants to see Justin Bieber in concert is beyond me, but then again, at 13, I possessed my very own Milli Vanilli tape. I can't therefore judge.
16: Why didn't I get to go to a concert for my Grade 8 Grad?
Me: You got a fucking $200 guitar. Yes, I'm aware profanity and parenting don't mix. Please note the Title...PMS.
16: It was only $190.
Me: No, it was over $200 and I can check that. I know it was. Don't really have a way to confirm. Not without more effort than I'm actually willing to put forth.
16: Whatever.
Me: I'm tired of you people commenting on my money. I eat shit everyday (at work) for my money and if I fucking want to spend it all on magic beans and vodka I can! At this point I can hear my husband giggling at the table. Had the hormones not been raging, I might have joined him. However feeling too indignant.
16: Muttering to himself and likely wishing he'd never said anything.
Me: It's one concert ticket. Like a dog with a bone. She even offered to pay for half.
16: Okay! Fine! Good!
So in hindsight I may have overreacted. A little. Why my daughter wants to see Justin Bieber in concert is beyond me, but then again, at 13, I possessed my very own Milli Vanilli tape. I can't therefore judge.
Beef Jerky is a Bitch
Oh boys and girls, it's not been a pretty week. It took me a day or two to catch on as to why, but I've got it figured out. It also explained my affinity for beef jerky and chocolate combined. So where to begin?
Let's start with the chicken pox that barely were. Yes, Reese got the chicken pox but it may have just been the mildest case in the history of the world. This made me almost inexplicably angry. Even a little at him which was warning sign #1. Really, in the end, I convinced myself to feel happy the little focker did not suffer. At all. However, I had to return to work Friday because his daycare provider was willing to have him back and given how mild of a case he had and the stuff I had read, it was more than okay for him to go to school too.
I realized this Thursday afternoon. Bitch factor increased at that moment by 100% which is why the following conversation was almost too much to bear. I have to preface it by saying a friend was over Wednesday night and he brought beer and he and my husband drank the beer. I had one. The next morning I was having Reese take the empties to recycling when he asked how many beer a person can drink and still drive. My answer was "one or two". He then asked how many our friend had the previous evening. I couldn't lie as he was staring at the empties and can count, so I said he shouldn't have driven.
Cut to 3:20 in the afternoon and we are driving to pick up his sister from school and I am stuck in the vortex of hell that is driving through this town and a grand speed of 25 km/h.
Reese: Mom, what do you and Dad do when you drink too many beer? I didn't feel it prudent to correct him by pointing out the obvious...Mommy favours vodka.
Me: Well, you know how we sometimes have to go pick our truck up from (friend's) house?
Reese: Yeah.
Me: Well, that's because we had more than one or two beer and so we call a cab or last time, Steven came and picked us up.
Reese: What's a cab?
Meanwhile we are crawling along at barely moving speed and I'm running late AND I left my cell at home so can't even reach my daughter.
Me: Sigh. You call a cab to come and pick you up at a certain address, and then when it gets there, you tell them which address to take you to, and then you pay them money for driving you.
Reese: Why wouldn't you just take a taxi?
Me: For the Love of God. A taxi and a cab are the same thing.
Reese: Are they the same colour?
Me: Voice beginning to slightly raise. It doesn't matter they are exactly the same thing!
Reese: Oh.
Crying on the inside.
Cut to Friday. Went back to work. Never a good thing but by 11 a.m. I was on my way to P.A., which again is a 3 1/2 hour drive one-way. By the time I got home at 9:30 that night, I had ingested more salt than anyone in the free world should. And again, I was undeniably drawn to beef jerky chased by chocolate. This time it was chocolate cupcakes with a cream filling. Not Hostess. Oh no, friends, McSweeney's is where it's at. I attacked those things like it was going out of style and then looked at the caloric content of such bliss. 440 calories. Just like that. In a matter of what couldn't have been more than a minute.
Thank you to my body for not overly betraying these clandestine car cravings.
Then this morning my husband (whom I'm pretty sure I still love, not sure about like, but yes, love) and I had 'words'. Guess what? All the marriage advice folks out there always provide the same pre-marital words of wisdom: discuss finances and children. Well, I have another one: children should be incumbent on sleep schedules. If you are like me and have married a Nocturnal Ned who sucks at getting out of bed in the morning for anything other than home renovations (again not our own) or anything other than parenting, you need to know this going in. I shared thoughts similar to this with him this morning. He did not respond in a positive fashion. Fucker is lucky he left. With his truck. I, at present, am not a woman to be messed with.
Insert evil laugh here as well as the smackings of rampant beef jerky ingesting.
Let's start with the chicken pox that barely were. Yes, Reese got the chicken pox but it may have just been the mildest case in the history of the world. This made me almost inexplicably angry. Even a little at him which was warning sign #1. Really, in the end, I convinced myself to feel happy the little focker did not suffer. At all. However, I had to return to work Friday because his daycare provider was willing to have him back and given how mild of a case he had and the stuff I had read, it was more than okay for him to go to school too.
I realized this Thursday afternoon. Bitch factor increased at that moment by 100% which is why the following conversation was almost too much to bear. I have to preface it by saying a friend was over Wednesday night and he brought beer and he and my husband drank the beer. I had one. The next morning I was having Reese take the empties to recycling when he asked how many beer a person can drink and still drive. My answer was "one or two". He then asked how many our friend had the previous evening. I couldn't lie as he was staring at the empties and can count, so I said he shouldn't have driven.
Cut to 3:20 in the afternoon and we are driving to pick up his sister from school and I am stuck in the vortex of hell that is driving through this town and a grand speed of 25 km/h.
Reese: Mom, what do you and Dad do when you drink too many beer? I didn't feel it prudent to correct him by pointing out the obvious...Mommy favours vodka.
Me: Well, you know how we sometimes have to go pick our truck up from (friend's) house?
Reese: Yeah.
Me: Well, that's because we had more than one or two beer and so we call a cab or last time, Steven came and picked us up.
Reese: What's a cab?
Meanwhile we are crawling along at barely moving speed and I'm running late AND I left my cell at home so can't even reach my daughter.
Me: Sigh. You call a cab to come and pick you up at a certain address, and then when it gets there, you tell them which address to take you to, and then you pay them money for driving you.
Reese: Why wouldn't you just take a taxi?
Me: For the Love of God. A taxi and a cab are the same thing.
Reese: Are they the same colour?
Me: Voice beginning to slightly raise. It doesn't matter they are exactly the same thing!
Reese: Oh.
Crying on the inside.
Cut to Friday. Went back to work. Never a good thing but by 11 a.m. I was on my way to P.A., which again is a 3 1/2 hour drive one-way. By the time I got home at 9:30 that night, I had ingested more salt than anyone in the free world should. And again, I was undeniably drawn to beef jerky chased by chocolate. This time it was chocolate cupcakes with a cream filling. Not Hostess. Oh no, friends, McSweeney's is where it's at. I attacked those things like it was going out of style and then looked at the caloric content of such bliss. 440 calories. Just like that. In a matter of what couldn't have been more than a minute.
Thank you to my body for not overly betraying these clandestine car cravings.
Then this morning my husband (whom I'm pretty sure I still love, not sure about like, but yes, love) and I had 'words'. Guess what? All the marriage advice folks out there always provide the same pre-marital words of wisdom: discuss finances and children. Well, I have another one: children should be incumbent on sleep schedules. If you are like me and have married a Nocturnal Ned who sucks at getting out of bed in the morning for anything other than home renovations (again not our own) or anything other than parenting, you need to know this going in. I shared thoughts similar to this with him this morning. He did not respond in a positive fashion. Fucker is lucky he left. With his truck. I, at present, am not a woman to be messed with.
Insert evil laugh here as well as the smackings of rampant beef jerky ingesting.
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