Monday, November 30, 2009

Chubby People and Pure Joy

The other day I noticed that "Every Bite is Pure Joy" is printed on the side of each McDonald's bag.

At first I was a little horrified.

McDonald's is an institution that I hold in a similar regard as Walmart and Suntrust Bank. I wholly believe that these companies actively dream up new, different and twisted ways to kill our souls and bodies just a little bit faster in the form of greasy foods, astronomical fees, long lines and disgruntled employees.

Therefore, I try to keep my patronage infrequent and only by necessity.

But seriously, pure joy? It made me angry because this was EXACTLY what McDonald's wanted me to do: ponder the joy of a French fry.

And you know what? Dammit, they are right! It IS pure joy.

French fries? When they are hot and salty and just perfectly golden and crunchy? Bliss.

A Big Mac? When the special sauce is dripping out the other side? Awesome.

Quarter Pounders with cheese? In all of their greasiness and cheesiness? Perfect.

It was at that moment I realized that I will never be skinny. Never.

I have an inappropriate relationship with food that transcends "just getting up and moving a little bit" and watching what I eat.

I love to watch what I eat.

I love the look of food, even if it is something as bourgeois as meat gravy on top of mashed potatoes. I love the taste of food. There isn't much of anything that I will refuse. The nicest thing one can do for me, in my opinion, is cook for me or bring me food.

Our best friends in Iowa had this figured out. When Chris was in Iraq they brought us spaghetti, meatballs and salad on a weekly basis. And Cherry Garcia ice cream.

Meatballs. Mongolian beef. Soy sauce. Pad Thai.

Some of my very favorite things in life. No raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens for me ~~ PF Chang's Mongolian beef delights me, thank you very much.

I am convinced that the skinny people ~the TRULY skinny ~ don't have a pure love of food. And if they do have that love, they are spending their lives horribly, truly miserable by depriving themselves.

And that is how I rationalize my chubbiness.

It is my hope every day that I am on the verge of ending a 35-year phase. One day I will wake up and will be able to "take it or leave it."

In the meantime, I will enjoy my cold cut combo from Subway with the extra jalapenos and run a 1/2 mile more tomorrow.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Bicycle Rides and Painful Lady Parts

{I fooled you, didn't I? You thought this was ME on the bicycle. Silly goose. Although she is a dead ringer for me, I could never ride with only one hand. And I tried to wear shorts, but I thought it would be best to put on my capris because of wind and indecent exposure issues. And I have PINK, not GREY Uggs. Tsk, tsk. Onto my story~~}

We just returned from a bike ride. It is a beautiful day; it made sense.

I had gone out and did an approximate 2.25 shuffle around our neighborhood earlier today. Although I was able to check off my daily exercise contribution, Chris reminded me of our desire to be a more active couple.

I had not been a bike for about 25 years. And hot damn, what d'ya know? The saying WAS true! It came back to me quickly and I wobbled down the street.

I made it halfway to our new lot (about .25 mile) when I realized this just wasn't going to happen. At least, not with the seat I was currently using.

"Chris! It hurts," I cried. "I can't do it."

"Yes, you can. Your butt just has to get used to the seat."

"I want your seat," I said as I pointed to his padded contraption. He was busy adjusting my seat to a higher (and more comfortable, he claimed) position.

He sighed and took the padded cover off of his seat and put it on mine.

We weren't even a block away from home.

The padding helped a little bit. I personally feel as if I have as much padding as should be necessary, a la "junk in the trunk," but apparently this isn't so. The bicycle seat cut right up through the junk and invaded my lady parts, and not pleasantly so.

We cut through a trail on our new property that various children/teenagers have burned through over the years to get to a bike path directly behind our new house. The trail was rugged, might I add?

I bounced and cried out in pain as I wobbled off of the trail momentarily. My heart lurched as I tore through a small shrub that could have been poison ivy. I've never been able to discern poison ivy, although I studied it online at various points in my life when I had reason to be concerned.

What I DID know was that there are snakes in these here parts, and I wasn't keen on startling one. I peddled faster to get out off of the trail.

Dead palm branches and twigs smacked me in the face as I bounced out onto the bike path. "Seriously, Chris. I don't know if I can do this, " I said pitifully.

I knew that our destination was a newly constructed house with a similar floorplan to ours, and I knew that this was located another mile or so south. My ass was already on fire and I was **this close** to tears. Exaggeration? No.

I followed along behind him, trying different positions. A new position would momentarily make my backside feel a twinge better, but something would shortly begin to sting. Shift. My va-jayjay fell asleep. Shift again. Now THAT position was just WRONG. My 14-year-old son's "soul would die a little bit" (as he likes to say) if he knew what I was doing to his bicycle seat.

"Isn't this great," Chris asked happily. I didn't respond, but glared at glare on the back of his bald head and wished bad things for him at that moment.

We arrived at the house and I immediately got off of the bike. We looked in windows and peered in doors to get a lookey-loo at what our house was going to look like with different exterior, interior fixtures and location.

We have been staring at a mere floorplan for months and while some people can "visualize" the end result from a drawing, I cannot. People who are able to do so are are gifted in such a way that makes them useful in interesting occupations such as engineering, interior designering and architecture. I chose to go into journalism for different reasons, such as the diminuitive math requirement.

After we spent some moments at the house, we resumed the ride home.

I didn't think, as I crawled back on the bicycle, that I was going to make it. We took a different way and stopped to gaze out at the canal for a while. The water was peaceful, if not murky and full of algae, but the trees and the blue sky were welcome reliefs to the tedium of the bicycle ride.

"Will you buy me a new seat," I asked.

"Yeah, sure. We'll find you a seat."

"They're called Hobson seats, you know. I know that because a friend of mine with the last name "Hobson" bought a Hobson Seat," I informed him. She shared the delightful irony with me years and years ago. I still remember the conversation.

I shifted, cried and complained much of the way home.

I don't think Chris will ask me to accompany him on any more bicycle rides with him in the future.

At least, not until a new seat is purchased for me that will not cause my girl bits to fall asleep, scream or sob in protest.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Beginnings 2

Our lot is being cleared this week. We are being super freaks and stalking it daily. We are wildly excited to see a backhoe parked there now. The brush is gone, but the large pine trees are still there.

Interruptions and Unexpected Intrusions

I am listening to Maggie chatter in her crib.

She was premature awakened from her nap by the doorbell.

I was busy watching this video (which I find oddly intriguing), measuring my hips and spraying myself with my Thierry Mugler's Alien perfume.

To say that I am not a fan of the doorbell is sort of an understatement.

I hate the phone, too, but I can always hit the "ignore" button. The aversion to the doorbell is unique and more acute. I cringe when the doorbell rings unless, a.) there is something good and expected on its way (i.e. buffalo wings and/or pizza) or, b.) I am looking forward to someone coming over to babysit or bring me cookies.

Doorbells in the middle of the day are not good.

It is usually someone whom I don't want to see or do not care to speak with. In addition, I don't want them to see ME as I am usually in my stained tank with the shelf bra and drawstring shorts and sporting greasy hair.

Oh yea, and today I had just sprayed myself with a hefty dose of Alien because **I** find the fragrance appealing and felt like smelling delicious .

Anyway, anyone worth a nickel would leave whatever business they have with me on my doorstep. I hoped it was a package, or something fun.

Today was especially weird, though. The doorbell rang, the dog barked and I heard a declaration on the front porch from the person ringing the doorbell. The dog was confused and I hid in the kitchen. I prayed that Maggie wouldn't start crying (a dead giveaway that I was home and merely hiding).

The doorbell rang again, followed by another declaration.

The dog, not sure whether to bark snuffled loudly at the door jam.

I found my phone and called Chris.

"There's someone outside ringing the doorbell and yelling."


"Someone is ringing the doorbell and saying something really loud. What should I do?"

He suggested I answer the door, but I decided against it. I had placed my phone call to him and informed him what was going on. That was good enough for me.

I peeked outside and saw a car that vaguely looked like the mail car, speed off. I peered outside the front door. Nothing.

I immediately began to fret. Could it be a certified letter? Could it have to do with to the charges I filed in September against the mental senior citizen in the scooter who ran into my car ON PURPOSE? I've been sort of ignoring the letters from the State Attorney's office. Never a good idea, I know. The whole thing just causes me so much ANGST.

I can only speculate and fret.

And retrieve my wide-awake 18 month old. The mid-day interruption prematurely robbed me of my daily quiet time and the opportunity to do wildly important stuff. Like ~ cough, cough~ conquering my mounting chores. Or measuring body parts. Or sampling my perfume collection.

Damn it all, anyways.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Target and Dumpy Looking Housewives

This morning I went to Target.

I purchased three items: a package of Bakugan cards/balls, some synthetic motor oil for my SUV and a Gerber Graduates meal for Maggie's lunch.

It was a quick transaction, as it usually is when one has three items. There was not much time for small talk.

As I walked away, the cashier exclaimed, "Have fun cleaning!"

"Yea, thanks," I said and waved as I walked away with my purchases.

It took me a approximately two seconds.

Wait. A. Minute.

Have fun cleaning? Why would she say something like that? Did we have a conversation that I was unaware of? Was I buying a product used to clean some sort of surface in my home? Did she overhear something said to Wesley?

All of the answers were big, fat "no's."

I looked at what I was wearing. Exercise clothes.

I made the effort and did 25 minutes of exercise this morning.

**I pat myself on the back.**

I am about 15 pounds heavier than earlier this summer, so the "exercise" process of the daily walk/jog is a bit more laborious, but I did it.

(The second part of my Grande Strategy is not eating everything in sight. This is, as always, the more difficult half of the battle for me.)

I was wearing cropped yoga pants, a zip up jacket and my baseball cap to hide the fact that I hadn't showered in two days. was my APPEARANCE, apparently, that intimated that I was cleaning. I didn't know whether to be amused or pissed.

I thought about calling my sister in law to tell her I was highly offended in order to get free stuff.

My sister-in-law works at the corporate headquarters at Target and has been very helpful. She provides an attentive ear for our pissed off complaints about the Target missteps that we have encountered over the years.

"Molly. We waited for FIVE WHOLE MINUTES to be waited on at Food Avenue. It was completely unacceptable and we expect that you will take care of this problem."

We heard there was some sort of meeting to address this.

We were appeased.

"Molly. We were at Super Target today and the lines were RIDONKULOUS. We might as well have been at Walmart!"

Nothing moves a Target corporate individual faster to action than a comparison to Walmart.

She inquired whether or not we needed coupons to feel better.

We felt as if we did not, as we were not PERSONALLY offended. But we kept the offer in the back of our minds.

"Molly. I was buying groceries today at Super Target and the check out moron asked for Calvin's ID when I was buying a bottle of wine."


"Seriously. I am not even joking," I said.

"I was buying groceries and a bottle of shiraz for dinner," I continued.
"The check out girl asked for Calvin's ID. I told her 'My son is 14 and is just accompanying me for a grocery run,' but she was adamant that she needed an ID to prove he was 21."

I didn't think this was the Target policy, but I am not the type to cause a scene and ask for a manager.

Instead, I handed my cell phone to Calvin and said, "Call Molly."

She didn't answer, but I felt powerful. Like I was somebody with a little hidden superpower, ready to use it on unsuspecting Target employees who dared to err me.

Molly again asked if we wanted coupons.

We declined because we were satisfied that this erroneous error on the cashier's part was addressed. Chris received a phone call from a manager apologizing about the situation.

The cashier was informed, again, of the alcohol policy. We were, again, appeased.

So should I, or shouldn't I, rat out this particular cashier who commented on my appearance?

I am still trying to decide.

It is an embarrassing situation, because honestly, was I THAT dumpy? It says something about ME to be out in public looking like such a wreck. It is sort of like being asked if you are having a garage sale when you are, indeed, not having a garage sale. Embarrassing, right?

And...I WAS dumpy.

The black yoga pants I was wearing have holes in the crotch. But Chris assures me that the holes are not visible when I am walking. And hell....I don't do yoga, so I am not stretching out my inner thighs in public. No one will know that there are holes except for me.

And now, you.

There is a small chance that I smelled foul. My hair was greasy, but it was hidden underneath a baseball cap.

I suppose I looked as if I might have plans to clean.

But, really. I didn't need that pointed out to me.

I have said it before; I should take care in my appearance. Right now I am not in a place to care too much. Except when someone else takes notice. Then I am all over it. Like today.

Perhaps I will lodge a complaint that my feelings were hurt. Can you put a coupon amount on that?

We shall see.

Friday, November 13, 2009

The Beginning

These are a couple pictures of the lot that we are going to be building on. We are facing east, the front of the house will be to the west. As I mentioned, it is in a cul de sac.

I'll continue to take pics as the house goes up.

Taping Trees and Meeting New Neighbors

We just returned home from marking trees on our new property.

The builder tries to save the trees that we mark, as well as any hardwoods that aren't ten feet away from the property. The lot should be cleared in the next week.

It's really handy to be building about a block away from our current home. It is a mere five minute (or less) walk from our house and brings out the neurotic in us.

Want to drive by the lot five times a day? Sure! Why not? Want to take a walk by for the sixth time today?? Heck, yes!

Between Chris and I, the current homeowners on the quiet cul de sac must have been scratching their heads for the past two months.

The same two cars appear to be constantly lost.

"Why is that red SUV driving by AGAIN?"

"Haven't we seen that sand colored Corolla before? Those cars all look alike..."

So, today we took the bundled-up baby, the dog and a hoe to inspect and tape. Actually, Chris inspected and taped. I watched from the street and gave him orders.

"There is a palm way back there," I would yell. "Way in back. Make sure to get that!"

"Why are you using all of the tape on that one tree!? We're going to run out!"

"You're wrapping the tape around a dead branch, Chris! Tape it around something green!"

I think I observed some fist shaking in my direction several times. I would have joined him myself, if not for the threat of rattlers and water moccasins. We are rather close to a freshwater canal.

I understood his frustration with me, I suppose. He was trying to concentrate on not startling a snake, a nest of critters, or a badger. (I actually saw a dead badger on the side of the road not too far from here. I ALMOST stopped to take a picture, but thought better of it).

I think it would be very ironic for Chris to be attacked by a pissed off badger.

The neighbors returned home as we were in the middle of our process. I made Chris put down the hoe before we approached them. I don't think we appear threatening, but I didn't want to get off on the wrong foot.

He was from Connecticut; she was from Miami. They mentioned they were trying to decide whether to move or not. I hope meeting Chris and I, along with a screaming toddler and a scrappy Cairn Terrier, didn't push them over the edge. They seem like they would be nice neighbors.

We also received the scoop on the other neighbors, which was very handy.

Apparently we are building right next door to a "jerk." The husband used this word several times while talking to Chris. The wife used more tactful phrases like "he's quiet and keeps to himself," and "we only speak to him about once a year."

This is unfortunate because the "jerk" has a shed that is in a questionable location. It is set diagonally in his backyard, partially located on our lot.

His day is really going to suck when he hears that, a.) the empty lot he has been enjoying for years and years is going to disappear. And, oh yeah, 2.) that shed that looks to have been placed there twenty years ago with vines growing over it? It needs to be moved ~ pronto ~ because the permits are being pulled tomorrow and the bulldozers are coming.

I'm glad it is not us who has to inform him, but I am morbidly curious how that conversation is going to go.

Oh, and apparently the girl next door to him is a nurse is quite a "looker." The husband nodded and winked when he gave Chris this information.

The wife told me, "she's nice and she works a lot."

I want to be a "looker" again. Maybe someday.

We returned home, even more excited to be able to watch the process on a daily basis.

Once the ground is broken, we'll be even more OCD than we are now. There is no stopping us from walking/driving by a dozen times a day.

We signed an agreement not to walk around inside the property for liability reasons. I KNOW how we are and how much effort it will take for us to adhere to this.

It will take every fiber of our being.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Friday, November 6, 2009

Wenches and Perfect Asses

I am pretty sure I hate this woman and I am certain she is a total bee-yotch.

I'm pretty sure
these things don't work.

But I'll probably buy
them anyway.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


Tonight, my 8 year old son asked what year 9/11 happened in , because he wasn't sure if he was alive.

He was. He was a newborn baby and I was nursing him while I watched THIS FIRST BROADCAST.

Our country needs to remember this.

Many of us have forgotten, and have reverted into being, in my opinion, weak-minded wieners (I was going to use a different word, but thought it might be distractingly offensive).

Yes, America has enemies. No, America is not perfect. But YES, she is worth fighting for.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

How To Get Rid of Fruit Flies and Tainted Cabernet

It took me over an hour to eat my dinner.

I ventured out to the local Panda Express for my pile of sadness in a bowl of desperation.

I brought it home to eat in relative peace; the husband and boys are at church tonight, the baby is not. The glass of cabernet that I poured took me about as long to drink.

Towards the end of the glass, I noticed chunks in the bottom. Hmm, I thought. Must have been the bottom of the barrel.

Alas, no. It was not.

A pesky fruit fly had been bothering me all night. Apparently, however, it was a multitude of fruit flies.
I don't know where they came from, but one never does. There is no fruit around here to be had.

Unfortunately, we haven't been models of a healthy, balanced diet in OUR house lately.

There were four dead fruit flies in the bottom of my glass.

Now, my blog is about to take a different turn momentarily.

I have a piece of unusually domestic advice to bestow upon you.
A friend told me this several years ago and I have used it numerous times to get rid of fruit flies.

You will need:

A glass
Two drops of dish soap
3 TBSP. sugar

1/4 C. cider vinegar

Directions: Place two drops of dish soap in the bottom of an 8 oz. glass. Add sugar, then cider vinegar. Fill it up w/ water, stirring to dissolve sugar. There will be bubbles on top, and these will trap the flies and they will fall to the bottom.

Place the glass in an area in the kitchen and watch the demise of the fruit flies.

It's actually quite entertaining.

I'm no Martha Stewart, but that is my good thing for the day.

**Takes a bow.