Daily Diatribes

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Moving right along through hell, the fifth circle is the family vacation. When I was growing up, my family took very few vacations. As with everything else in my children’s lives, I have over compensated in this department until all possible pleasure has been removed from these excursions.

We have dragged these children to museums all across the country, we have traisped through aquariums, we have been to the beach, to the mountains, and to the city. We have been to amusement parks and state parks and national parks and city parks. We’ve hit the zoos, the woods, the wetlands, the wildlife preserves and even the bayous. Frankly, there’s not much we haven’t done in the name of the family vacation.

And I absolutely loathe it. I hate the whole idea of a vacation for so many reasons, the main one being that planning falls under my realm of responsibility, along with scrubbing the toilet and forcing my children and the lizard to eat their vegetables.

First of all, I have to come up with a destination. This is not nearly as easy as it sounds. “Why don’t we go to Atlanta?” I’ll suggest to Tim. “I hate cities,” he’ll grunt in return. “Well, let’s go to the beach,” says I. “I hate the beach,” says Tim. “Fine, let’s go to Disney World,” I propose. “I hate Disney World,” he growls. “Fine, let’s go to the Cahaba, I’ll weight you down with those damn coins you collect, sink the car, collect the insurance and I’ll go to Paris without you!!” I say sweetly. “Fine, whatever,” he says.

So you see, we are already not off to a good start. After we pick the destination, then it is my duty to secure lodging. Tim would like to keep the cost around $5.00 a night, but it has to be air conditioned, have cable and HBO, be within 5 minutes of all activities, have an indoor pool, and have king size beds. And you know how fast those places book up!

Once I have the lodging, then I have to plan the activities. Let’s name all the things Tim hates to do. He hates to swim, he hates to walk, he hates to look at museums, he hates to drive, he hates everything that does not involve sitting in MY red chair and channel surfing. If we could find a museum that was filled with couches and plasma tv’s with separate remotes for each guest, he would be in heaven!! Otherwise, he is completely annoyed by everything. When I suggest to him that all activities do not have to be planned just to please him, he gapes at me like I’ve just suggested the sky is not blue. What, Tim not be the focus of the family vacation?? How dare I suggest we do something that entertains the children as well????

Ok, maybe he’s not quite this bad, but he really is pretty close!! Then there is the transport to the vacation spot. We will drive of course, because I don’t fly unmedicated and Tim does not want to supervise three children on an airplane by himself. So we have to pack the car full of everything we might possibly ever conceive of needing, including gear for extreme climate changes, such as parkas and tank tops, and a selection of 37 DVDs the children have only seen twenty times as opposed to two hundred.

Once we take off, the kids begin the fighting immediately. They don’t want to miss the extraordinary opportunity of close quarters to make my life a living hell. “Mom, Josh keeps hitting me,” moans Abby. “Well she put her feet on my seat,” he retorts as he belts her across the head. “I want to watch Sponge Bob now!!!” screams the demon goddess from her car seat. “I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, are we there yet????” Animals who eat their young at birth are much more sensible than any human. I will say the kids know better than to ask for bathroom stops; we actually had our children genetically modified to have iron bladders.

Then comes the dreaded stop for lunch. I am far too lazy to pack a lunch and Tim and I both feel that since it’s a vacation, we should eat out as often as possible. This is one area of total harmony for us. However, food starts a whole new shouting match. “I want McDonald’s,” sing out the children. “No, we have to eat in a sit down restaurant,” I insist. “But you can sit in McDonalds,” they protest innocently. Little tykes, should have sold them to that guy in the Wal Mart parking lot when I had the chance. “No fast food,” Tim bellows. “How about Cracker Barrel?” I suggest. “I hate Cracker Barrel,” moans Abby. “How about Hooters?” Tim says, at which point I pinch him very hard, right under the arm where it hurts the most.

Finally, we stop for lunch, and then we’re on our way again. When we get where we’re going, the unpacking of the car begins. Everything must be hauled upstairs, all garbage disposed of and the car generally cleaned out. The elevator presents a new set of challenges. “I want to push the button,” says Abby. “No, it’s my turn,” says Anna. “Fine, I’ll push the outside button and you push the inside,” says Abby. They agree and then when we get in the elevator Josh jumps over and pushes the button. Then Anna screams and then I scream and then we all scream. I love a good family scream!!

Once we get into the room, the argument over the beds begins. To liven things up, the kids begin their favorite game of “let’s jump from bed to bed and see how many times we can jump before we crack our heads open on the corner of the nightstand.” By now, I am fantasizing about taping them all together with duct tape, putting out the Do Not Disturb sign, and heading for the mythical beach in Mexico. We get the bed assignments made and then head for dinner. By now, everyone is too tired to complain so that’s pretty tame. Then everyone wants to go to the pool. Along with every other aspect of the trip, this is my job. I hate going to the pool. If it’s an indoor pool, the steamy chlorine smell makes me ill and the closed in feel makes me claustrophobic. Tim is always the first one to suggest it, but then he’s too tired to actually monitor them at the pool. So he gets to lay on the bed and flip through the cable channels while I keep Josh and Abby from trying to beat each other to death with the pool noodle.

Bed time is the worst, though, because it’s lights out, especially if we are in a hotel room together. Usually, we get everyone settled and then I go hide in the bathroom and read, while I wait for the Tylenol PM and Bud Light to work their magic. I will say, I sleep better on vacation than anywhere else. Mostly because of the mental exhaustion.

We spend the next several days seeing whatever it was we came to see and arguing all the way. The entire time, I am still providing meals, and doing laundry and watching children, so I am not really sure what part of it constitutes vacation for me. I think if I could have a full domestic staff go along, so that I don’t have to do anything, it might actually be a vacation for me!! When we finally go home, we have had enough togetherness to last for at least a decade. Or until the next time we are stupid enough to decide to go on vacation!!
Now if you’ll excuse me, we are leaving for the beach tomorrow and I have to go and pack everyone’s clothes!! Sigh!!

The first thing I want to know is where my remote control has gone???  It still has not turned up and we are getting tired of moving from the couch to the television set to change channels.  This increased physical activity will seriously interfere with our quest to enter a complete vegetative state.  I am going to contact Crime Stoppers to see if I can get a poster made.  We will, of course, be offering a reward for any information leading to the whereabouts of the remote control.  I may have to get America’s Most Wanted involved.

I want to know why no one in my family wants anything to do with me until I am on the phone or on the toilet.  As soon as I become occupied in one (or both) of those activities, I suddenly become fascinating to the people who live with me, including my husband.  This morning, my children did not speak to me at all until I got on the phone.  Then Josh started waving newspapers in my face, demanding I read a news story.  It was extremely urgent that I drop everything right then to look at the World Cup Scores.  Never mind that I was in the middle of a conversation with Kathleen, or that I had been home all day and he hadn’t spoken one word to me, he needed my attention right then.  Why??

I want to know why no one ever reads the books we pick for our book group?  It seems kind of basic to me:  if you join a book group, you read the books.  Yet month after month, no matter what book is chosen, people show up and have not even cracked the cover.  A lot of times, it’s because they haven’t been able to borrow my copy or the library’s copy.  Well hello, Books A Million and Barnes and Noble are fully stocked.  You can even go to the Thrift Store and pick up a copy of most books extremely cheap.  Most activities you join require some sort of fee, so is it too much to ask for people to pick up one paperback a month??  Why would you join a book group if you are not going to read the books? 

When you go to Dairy Queen and order a chocolate dipped cone, why does the ice cream not fall out of the cone when the worker dips it in the chocolate?  We went today and I watched him dip all the cones and not one drop of ice cream fell out.  Why?  I asked the girl at the counter if ice cream ever fell out into the chocolate and she looked at me like I was crazy and said “no”.  I came home and looked all over the internet, researching the physical properties of Dairy Queen ice cream and found nothing to answer my question.  My theory is that they use Elmer’s glue in with the cream and sugar and it holds it all together.  I am still looking to confirm this theory.

Why does my husband think I should be at his beck and call 24/7?  If he wants something done, I am supposed to drop everything and do it immediately.  If I suggest he do it himself, he goes nuts and acts like I am lower than an insect for refusing to instantly gratify whatever whim he has.  We’re not just talking about sex here; I mean if he wants the remote control located, a roll of toilet paper brought to him, a field hoed, I am supposed to drop whatever I am doing and run to his side immediately to perform the task at hand.  I could be in the middle of doing research for my Nobel Prize winning project, and he would throw a fit if I didn’t drop my bunsen burner and help him find his favorite blue shirt.  Why are men helpless??

More questions to be pondered later….

I went to a Southern Livng at Home party tonight and several things of interest happened. 

First off, my father has a significant Native American heritage which is clearly evident in all three of his children.  If you have not seen me lately, trust me, I get very dark in the summer.  You can imagine the kinds of comments I get.  I actually had one dotty old grandmother ask me once at a wedding if I had African American blood.  Tonight at the party, Margie walks in, gives me a big hug and whispers in my ear “You’re a black woman.” 

Hmm, this is not normally the way I greet people.  Generally, I start out with hello, how are you, or even you’re looking well this evening.  But I would not, for example, hug Margie around the neck and say “damn woman, could you get any whiter?”  I am thinking Peggy Post would have something to say about greeting a dear friend with what could be constituted as a racial slur.  I am not black; I tend to be more reddish brown, or maybe even burnt umber, which was always my favorite color in the 64 count crayon box with the sharpener on the back which did not sharpen the crayons at all, it just mutilated them.  So I do not appreciate being called black; let’s stick with burnt umber please.

So anyway, this party was to benefit Roseanna and Joey and we were to buy attractive accesorizing things for our homes.  Now here is the thing about me:  I am missing the essential female gene that allows one to look at an empty toilet paper tube and think that with the right flowers and a hot glue gun it would look great in my guest room.  I do not accessorize at all.  It just isn’t in me.

So the first thing we did was play a game to find out who was the queen of hospitality.  Everyone, including me, knew I was a shoe in to win.  After all, who could possibly be more hospitable than me?  But the game was rigged.  She didn’t ask questions like what essential ingredient makes a cosmopolitan (cointreau or triple sec if you’re poor) or what karaoke song is most appropriate to use as an ice breaker (Don’t Go Changin’ if it’s a mellow crowd or Summer Lovin’ if it’s a little more hip). 

No, this woman asked really stupid questions like whether you had more than three sets of matching placemats or if you ironed today.  Or did you iron your placemats today.  I don’t use placemats.  They are such a waste of time.  It’s just one more thing to wash at the end of the day.  And as for ironing, well anyone who saw me at the party knows I don’t iron!  Especially on a day when it’s 100 degrees in the shade. 

My favorite question was can you make a curtain?  You got bonus points if you could line the curtain.  I can’t even operate a hot glue gun, let alone a sewing machine.  I would probably sew the lining to my fingers and have to go the emergency room to have the sewing machine removed from my hand.  Besides, why would you want to make a curtain when you can go to Target and buy one?

So needless to say, I DID NOT win Queen of Hospitality, which given my competitive nature, made me grit my teeth a lot.  Bitch who won probably churns her own butter and makes tea cozies out of dental floss, but I bet she never fed a meal worm to a bearded dragon!  So I smiled and clapped for her, but secretly I wanted to smother her to death with a set of matching placemats.  Then she goes and gives her beautifully wrapped prize to Roseanna.  Now I’m sorry, if I win a present, I am opening it.  Then, if I don’t like it, I will give it to Roseanna.  I know Joey has seizures and all, but presents are presents.  So it was probably good I didn’t win.

Well anyway, then the consultant moved on to her presentation and she held up lots of little knick knacky things for everyone to ooh and ah over.  I was holding Joey, so I was able to roll my eyes a lot behind his head and mutter every so often “oh dear that’s so cunning” in a very ironic tone that no one else could hear.  When she held up the polka dotted flower pot and said you could fill it with plastic cutlery wrapped in a napkin and tied with a ribbon, I actually wanted to stand up and scream “but why would you bother???”  When I am ready to eat, I do not want to have to untie a ribbon and work it off the cutlery so I can eat.  I want to get down to business immediately.

I really really want to get it.  I want to understand all the fuss about rickrack and doilies and the door thing flower holder that Margie the white woman got.  But it just goes right over my head.  I’d rather spend my money on books or clothes or something useful.  When the Queen of Hospitality “all my linen napkins are ironed and match the curtains I sewed while feeding children at the orphanage in Uganda” won her second prize of the evening and gave it to Roseanna, a gasp of delight went up from the crowd.  Oooooh, a tea towel, with a small pear embroidered on one corner.  Oh good lord, I thought, the orgasms are gonna start!!  Use the towel to mop up the mess. 

So anyway, I bought a highly expensive ornate cookbook holder to hold a picture and I got the hostess special, which is a flatware holder.  Roseanna knows I love her and I do not need to buy a set of handpainted toilet bowl brushes to prove it!!

I have several acquaintances suffering under the burdens of illness or pain.  Some have cancer, some have chronic pain, and some suffer from that not so fresh feeling and painful, burning itching.  Myself, I have been pretty lucky.  Until recently.

My children attended vacation Bible school last week.  One night, there was a church service, followed by a potluck supper.  Lured by the promise of not cooking, I made plans to attend.  The service was fine and the kids sang the little songs they had learned during the week.  Not being afflicted with a whole lot of pride, I enthusiastically joined in, much to the dismay of the 16 year old cousin.

Imagine my horror, when, during the “Yes Lord” song, I learned that I could no longer perform the “Loser” sign with my left hand.  Everyone else was doing thumbs up and then an L.  I could do the thumbs up, but I absolutely could not make my thumb bend down into an L; it stopped at a sort of “V”.  So instead of Yes Lord, I was doing kind of a ridiculous Yes Victory, Yes Victory, Yes Victory, Yes.  At least that’s how it looked on my left hand!!! 

Yes, it’s true, I have afflicted with flexornoloseroitis of the left thumb.  I literally cannot force it down more than 15 degrees or so.  Or maybe it’s 30 degrees, I failed geometry.  Whatever the degrees, I simply cannot make my thumb go down.  It doesn’t hurt, but I can no longer hurl out the double loser sign to those who offend me.

I do not think I was born this way.  I am pretty sure I used to be able to do “loser” with my left hand.  I am puzzled as to why it is the left hand afflicted, since I am right handed.  What could cause me to lose this ability?

My theory is excessive blogging.  In order to better serve my public, I have taken to blogging three or four times a week.  The excessive repetitive motion has taken its toll on my body and has robbed me of a vital insult tool. 

I will no longer be able to belt out the lyrics of “All Star” and make my “finger and thumb in the shape of an L on my forehead…”  No longer will I be able to taunt my children with the double loser sign.  In fact, my taunting is now limited to the single loser variety.

I am thinking that if I lose powers of speech and hearing tomorrow, I will be in deep doodoo, since my range of motion is limited.  I won’t be able to spell out any words with a double L, so that elimnates, hell, hello and pillow.  My communication will be limited to “heo how are you?  ovey weather today.  I ove you.”  You get the idea. 

Do you remember Electric Company and the ode to silent “e”?  I need to compose an ode to the “l”:  who can turn a he/into a hell/who can turn a kne/into a knell/our skinny little friend the L!!  Who can turn a ha/into a hall/who can turn a wa/into a wall….wait, maybe I’m on to something here.

I do not think the letter “L” gets enough recognition as the vital member of the alphabet it is.  Oh sure, vowels are all good and well, but you can’t love anyone without an “L”.  And you sure can’t Lick a Lollipop or Learn a Language without an L. 

So anyway, here I am, crippled but still blogging away, oh faithful readers.  I guess I will have to go see Renee at some point and hold up my hand and when she asks me what the victory is, I’ll tell her it’s not a victory, it’s a loss!!!

And Without Further Adieu, the Fourth Circle of Hell is…..The Galleria. Or as Gina calls it, the Gonorrhea.

How could I have forgotten how much I hate going there, or to any shopping mall for that matter? Target, Kohl’s and Wal-Mart satisfy all of my shopping needs; there is no reason to fight the traffic, circle for a space, find and memorize an entrance (ok everyone, we came in by the plus size girdles, don’t forget…) and then tromp for hours.

Last night I took all the girls in my care to the Galleria. I brutally refused to bring Napoleon, which was simply self preservation on my part. The girls included the 16 year old cousin, MA, her friend Gigi, and the goddess, who began the trip by whining all the way there because she was sitting in the back seat instead of in the middle. I should have gone with my gut right then and turned around.

But no, masochist that I am, I plugged on, determined to plunder the Galleria for retail riches. We arrived and scored a fairly decent parking space at Parisians. We went in (by the men’s shoes everyone…) and began our shopping odyssey.

We first headed for the food court. We had been at the pool all day (which is a whole other topic, but remember the Baby Ruth scene from Caddyshack???) and we were starving. But first, the goddess HAD to ride the carousel. The carousel used to be the highlight of a trip. When Napoleon and MA were little, it was a buck and you paid the little retarded guy who ran it. He did a great job and was always smiling.

Now it’s two dollars and you have to buy a stupid token. Well, all I had was change, so I had to borrow the dollars from MA and Gigi. It’s always embarrassing when you have to borrow money from 11 year olds, but payday is tomorrow! Well, then I spent five minutes, and I am not exaggerating, trying to force the money into the token machine!! It wasn’t just me. There was another lady there, and we were grunting and groaning and smoothing our dollars and making faces trying to get the stupid machine to take the stupid money. I got it to take one, but it just didn’t want the other dollar and the goddess is standing there the whole time, pulling on me and telling me she wanted to ride the carousel. I finally got the token and she was off!! She picked her pony and I went and stood by the exit to wait. I do not ride the carousel because I get motion sick!

While I was standing there, I noticed a Libby Lu birthday party in progress. That just may be its own circle of hell. And who should be at the party but my dear friend Margie?? I made eye contact with her daughter Mary Margaret first, the little cherub. She was so cute, she saw me staring and her eyes got really big like she was thinking “whoa, the Brunos are here”? She grabbed Margie who looked up and waved. I waved back, but then turned to see the goddess whizzing around again on her horse.

When the ride was done, we went to the Chick Fil A line to order food. We sat down to eat and I looked up and Margie was gone. We saw the goddess’s preschool teacher though, so we chatted for a few minutes. I found out later that Margie had to leave suddenly because Mary Margaret had a carousel induced meltdown. Margie, being a woman possessed of inordinate amounts of common sense, did not want to arm wrestle the machine for a token, and told Mary Margaret she could not ride. This apparently led to a meltdown worthy of the demon goddess herself and Mary had to be forcibly escorted from the building. Ah, the joys of the Galleria are too many to enumerate….

We ate our dinner and then the journey began. We headed to Belk’s and walked around for awhile and then MA wanted to go to Limited Too to spend a gift card. MA is at a difficult age because she has not defined herself yet and picking out clothing is agonizing. Any suggestion I make is completely disregarded or brushed off as stupid. I can’t wait to go back to school shopping!! Maybe I should rethink that Catholic school thing!! She spent thirty minutes flitting around trying to decide and finally I yanked her.

Along our way, I was accosted by a lovely Israeli woman who ruthlessly yanked me over to her kiosk. “I have to ask you a question,” she told me smilingly as she reeled me in. “Do you know what the Dead Sea is?” I literally could not get away from her and she forced me to scrub my hands, moisturize, buff my nails, etc. The whole time she was smiling and making relentless eye contact, but she would not let me go until I had gotten the full treatment. I think she was shocked when I rejected the one time offer of all these products for only $25, but she did finally let me go!!

We hit the escalator next, because the goddess loves the escalator. Those of you who are long time readers or simply know me well know I am, well, a bit of a worrier. Ha ha. I have a complete escalator phobia. I know my children are going to be sucked into it and mutilated beyond recognition. Before we get on, I always do a shoe check, I hold their hands, and make sure they step to the center of the escalator. At the top, we step off and I heave a huge sigh of relief, because we have dodged dismemberment one more time!

We walked and walked and walked and stayed for hours. We went back to the Limited, where MA finally spent her money on three pairs of socks and a pin. Then MA and Kara, the cousin, wanted to see the upper level shops. I was absolutely over it by then, so I told them fine, go ahead.

I sat at a table in the food court after forking over 1.47 in change for a bottle of water. The goddess and Gigi were bored, so they decided to go play on the escalator which very nearly did me in. At first, they were very careful, possibly because I was shrieking instructions from the food court. Then they got careless and started leaping around on it. After three trips, I had to curtail their fun, since I was hyperventilating. So they moved to the elevator, which is much safer and just as much fun. I contented myself with watching the gangbangers and the Goths congregate in various groups around me.

We left at 9 pm, with all of our limbs intact after the escalators and still reasonably financially solvent. I had a massive, pounding headache and it was time to go!!! We will return another day, with crisp dollars, shoestrings tied and gloves on to avoid the Dead Sea lady!!!

Wow, my last entry created quite a stir and elicited heated reactions from many of my readers.  Let me assure you the only reason I wrote about my life as an at home mom is becuase I was pissed off at my husband and I was using this as a public forum to whine.  I reserve the right to whine a lot here because it’s my blog and I can whine if I want to.  Your job, as a reader, is to sympathize completely with me, assure me of my right to whine, and offer to come over and drink cosmopolitans with me while we watch the Titanic and root for Leo not to freeze to death and sink to the bottom of the ocean like a rock.

So moving right along, we have lost our remote control.  This is a huge problem.  We have searched and searched and it is nowhere to be found.  I have looked under the couches, under the chair, in Anna’s toy mess, in the entertainment center cabinets, on the shelves and even in the fireplace.  It’s just gone. 

I understand the remote control is a fairly recent invention.  But you know in the 1950’s, on a good day, they only had three channels, and on any given night, only two came in unless you got little Jimmy to stand on one leg and hold the rabbit ear wrapped in tinfoil in one hand, facing south, with his mouth half open so the radio waves could penetrate.  I mean, there just wasn’t a whole lot to channel surf back then.

Now there are 200 hundred channels to surf and it is necessary to flip through them continuously in case there is a Lifetime movie marathon or a run of all the Police Academy films on Spike.  It is necessary for our home life to be able to flip back and forth between CSI, Sponge Bob and the Food network.  Anna operates the remote better than I do and her request is always “first three and then one” which is Anna speak for channel 31, which is Nickelodeon.  God forbid the little darling should miss Fairly Oddparents.

So here we are, with no remote and we do not know how to act.  Tim’s cousin is staying with us and she is 16 and she cannot function without TV.  Now we just turn it on and stare and hope maybe the control will magically appear in front of us and change the channel from TLC to MTV.  If you walk in to our family room, you will find us all laid out on various chairs, staring at the weather channel or whatever happens to be on and moaning about who is going to get up and change the channel next.  And if you don’t like what’s on, too damn bad.  You’ll have to get up and change it yourself.

I know why Americans are obese.  We are lazy and we want to achieve our hearts desire with as little physical activity as possible.  This is why we have remote controls.  To actually have to leave the couch, walk to the television set, change channels until something decent is located and then return to the couch is simply too much exertion.  The very idea of that much activity is enough to make me break a sweat!!

The funny thing is I hardly ever watch television.  And if I do, it’s usually in my bedroom because that’s where the cable box is located.  But now the remote control is missing, I want to watch tv in the family room.  I desire nothing more than to sit on the couch and flip channels.  And I guess since I know I can’t do it, it has become all the more desirable.

All I can say is “I want my MTV”!!!!

Today is my brother in laws birthday.  We have a tradition in our extended family whereby the birthday boy/girl gets to pick a restaurant of his/her choice and pays for everyone’s meal.  Obviously my family gets the short end of the stick since there’s five of us; we end up paying most of the time and Tim’s parents get a free meal five times a year!

Tim’s brother recently relocated to Birmingham from Wisconsin and so gets to become part of the tradition.  Only he doesn’t have a whole lot of money, so he is going to cook for us today.  And I can hardly wait because the menu is bear steak and bear burgers.

Yes, you would be correct if you guessed we are going to eat Smokey the Bear for dinner.  And you, dear readers, can be the first to know that I will be driving through McDonald’s on my way to the birthday feast.  I don’t have a problem with people eating wild game.  Some people even claim to enjoy it, although I have my doubts as to the integrity of their taste buds.  I have had venison before and in every incarnation, I have found it to be tough and gamy. 

But bear is not something I am eager to try.  Ok, yes, it did sound sort of exotic and yummy in the “Little House on the Prairie” books, but they had to eat bear because there was not a McDonald’s close to the little house in the big woods.  I am sure Laura would have chosen a Happy Meal instead of bear had she been given a choice. 

I might have been stupid enough to try the bear burger had one of our friends not cautioned us to make sure it was cooked very well.  When I innocently asked why, he told me you had to cook the meat of predators thoroughly to kill all the parasites.  Whoa, you had me at worm.  I am not eating anything that I know for sure has had roundworms, hookworms, whipworms, tapeworms, or any kind of worm frolicking through its intestines.  In fact, thanks to modern science, I know my McDonalds hamburger has been thoroughly subjected to all kinds of dewormers, antibiotics and radiation, which is just the way nature intended it to be.

I believe God gave Adam dominion over all the birds and beasts so that he could have a steady supply of protein.  And I also believe God gave Adam the supermarket so Adam would not have to go through the messy slaughter procedure and could just pick up his pork chops pre packaged and parasite free.  God has given man (and woman!!) free will and I am going to exercise my free will to not eat parasite ridden, gamy, tough, stinky Smokey The Bear.  I am going to get a Quarter Pounder with cheese and yes I would like fries with that!

And no, it’s not because I’m giving all my love to just one man.  I am at a stage in my life where I don’t want to give my love to any man.  I would prefer a bowl of popcorn, a diet coke and a Harlequin romance to any sort of intimate contact with my husband or any other man (except, possibly, George Clooney, but we all have our weak spots!!)

It’s because, sob, no one appreciates me!  I am currently not employed outside of the home because I cannot find a job that fits into my busy schedule.  As a friend of mine used to joke “between my volunteering and shopping, I can’t possibly have a job too!!”  Truer words were never spoken.  So because I do not work, my husband views me as a drain on the family finances. 

It’s amazing how, when he needs something, there is always a way to write it off as a business expense.  New clothes, new car, bass boat, whatever, it’s a business expense, somehow!  Unfortunately, my business does not lend itself to write offs.  Mostly because the CEO (Tim “Big Shot” Brunner) does not recognize any of my write offs.  For example, while I might consider a pedicure necessary to maintaining my professional appearance at PTO meetings, he does not.  My “business lunches” at McDonald’s do not qualify as such in his narrow mind.  Or when I have to entertain potential clients at the Galleria and I hit a sale or two, it is not acceptable.

I have tried to explain to him that my subscription to People magazine should be written off as “continuing ed” because if I don’t know what’s going on with TomKat or Brangelina, I won’t have anything to contribute at playgroup.  It is vitally important for me to be as up to date as possible on current events, such as whether Denise Richards and Richie Sambora are sleeping together and if Heather Locklear is retaliating by cavorting with David Spade (and ewwww, just what is that about anyway???).  Well educated homemakers of my status are required not only to be aware of these things, but to also be able to converse about them at Pampered Chef shows at a moment’s notice. 

And I don’t get an expense account or a company car.  Tim can go out to lunch at Hooters every day and the company pays for it.  If I go to Krystal and spend forty nine cents on a Krystal burger, I hear about it for a week.  Not that I would go to Krystal, but you see my point!  If I had an expense account, then I could get reimbursed for the Krystal burger and life would be just grand.  And if I don’t get a new company car every two years; I am simply expected to keep driving the same thing until the wheels fall off and even then, I may be expected to power it with my feet, a la Fred Flintstone!

Yes, I know you working moms are reading this with derision, but my life is very stressful and hectic.  It is vitally important to know whether it is acceptable to serve red or green kool aid with goldfish crackers.  And there is a fine art to trimming the crusts off bread to retain as much of the actual bread product as possible.  And I can knowledgeably discuss the 75 different brands of juice box, discoursing on sugar content and stain factor. 

Here are some of the things stay at home moms know:  letting your 4 year old take a two hour shower is just fine if it keeps her quiet; grape jelly counts toward the 5 a day fruit and vegetable goal and so does ketchup; raisins and corn do not digest; neither does Santa Fe soup, because I saw it in a diaper once and it looked the same as it did in the soup pot; Happy Meal toys are more important than the actual meal; tongue depressors can entertain children for hours in the doctors office; never stick out your hand to receive anything when your child says “here mommy”‘ because there’s no telling what is going to be deposited; and never leave Sharpie’s lying around.

So see, being an at home mom is a highly specialized career path and it is not for everyone!  I do not get annual performance reviews, although I am sure my husband would jump all over that one!!  I can see it now:  Jennifer, overall we find your performance satisfactory, but you need some improvement in a couple of areas, including getting the whites whiter and making the meatloaf a bit moister and lighter on the ketchup.  Also, your performance in the bedroom has slacked off and you need to start meeting your production quotas or else we may have to outsource your job.

In fact, after writing all this down, I am all for outsourcing.  Send all the laundry and cooking to India, get an au pair for the children, a blow up doll for the bedroom and I am heading to Mexico to live on the beach!!  But notice how much it took to replace me??!!! 

So I decide to send out an email the other day, a simple task which I have performed numerous times.  The Knights of Columbus, a fraternal organization of which Tim is a member, is having a picnic on Sunday.  A mass email went out, reminding everyone of the event, and I clicked “reply all” to remind everyone what to bring.

As I was attempting to send it, my account suddenly logged off and a note popped up informing me I had violated the terms of my contract by sending out bulk email.  I thought it was a joke, so I tried to log back on, but sure enough, the bastards had frozen me out.  I became deeply offended.  It’s not like I was sending out penis enlargement messages or free naked goat pictures.  I was simply telling folks whether they needed to bring potato salad or brownies.  I realize in some countries that is treasonous and can be construed as an act of rebellion against the government, but by God, this is America and I can ask you to bring potato salad if I want to!!!!

As I was pondering all this, another message popped up, offering me a chance to chat with a customer service rep.  Elated, I clicked yes, convinced my problem would be resolved without a phone call.  I do not have three hours built into my day to sit on hold until the next customer service rep in Paraguay becomes available to speak to me in not so good English.  So the online chat wait was only seven minutes.  Seven minutes to resolve my internet crisis sounded like a bargain to me.

So I waited and in the interim, I called Roseanna, knowing she would be completely sympathetic to my plight.  Soon enough, my online representative introduced himself as “Auwie” and asked for my problem.  I typed in that I had been trying to email out picnic instructions to a group of church members and my account had been frozen by George Bush’s CIA operatives.  He responded with “I understand your problem completely.  In order to resolve it, I must verify your identity.”

I realized then that he was also working for the CIA, but I fell for it anyway, and typed in my name.  From there, it went downhill.  He immediately responded that I was not listed as the primary contact on the account and therefore he could not talk to me about the account.  I told him I was the account holders wife and I knew all the secret words so I should be able to get my account back online.

He told me he understood my frustration, but he could not do anything.  The primary contact would have to call AOL to resolve the problem.  I wanted to respond with “fine, then you call him at work right now and tell him to stop spaying that poodle and get on the phone with AOL immediately” but Roseanna advised me it would be a bad idea.  So I thanked Auwie and praised Allah and disconnected.

Then I called Tim at work and told him he had to call AOL.  When he did, he found out I had been accused of emailing 600 spam letters.  Like I know 600 people with small penises who like to look at naked nanny goats!!!  That’s a very specialized niche in cyberspace!! 

So needless to say, Tim got the account back online and I did not try to email out picnic instructions again because the risk was too great.  So if we have no potato salad, it’s Auwie’s fault!!!