Lunchables and the Importance of Being Gay

Get 8 adults together and you will learn many things, like, pregnant women travel in packs and draw out other pregnant women, if you are a large group at a restaurant in a bad economy it will warrant you a free bottle of wine and it helps when you buy 2, anyway, or that your daughter’s social life is in jeopardy, she might be gay and you had no clue.  Oh how hard Amber’s life is as a first grader.  She has had boyfriend problems, friend problems, her cat died and…I could go on but really I don’t need the tears to short circuit anyone’s computer.  I am not totally unfeeling.  I do feel for her and all the hardships that come along with being a first grader in the 21st century, but EVERYDAY.  So many in fact that I can’t remember them all.  Like the sands in the sandbox, so are the irritations of our lives.

I have chronicled Amber’s boyfriend problems before.  Well, they are continuing only with a new boy.  The boy from last year is still her friend, but since they only see each at recess their relationship has blossomed from a co-dependent train wreck to a nice friendship where they get along and can play without much fuss.  Or it could be that Amber has a new focus in her quest for drama.  There are teasings from the other girls, who introduced my daughter to the term boyfriend, who this time have go on to explain exactly what a boyfriend means.  I won’t place all the blame on Amber’s classmates, there are other outside influences like Hannah Montana and iCarly.  Sure I could turn these shows off and let her go back to watching Dora and the Wonder Pets, however, that might further scar her social life.  Are you starting to see the tragedy of being a mother?  You can never win. 

Last night at dinner I was informed that the lunch I had packed for Amber could cause future beach houses and fast cars for some lucky therapist.  We had a slight problem when contemplating lunch for Friday, we were out of bread.  I had meant to stop at the store to pick some up, but being pregnant, and not having full use of my brain, I forgot.  So at 7pm at night we were scrambling to find something, anything, that would be a good lunch.  I will admit I was not thinking of my daughter’s social life at the time, just making sure she didn’t starve.  Amber mentioned how she wanted Lunchables and how I was mean to not buy her any and all her friends have them, blah, blah.  Being the smart, creative (HA!) mom that I am I exclaimed, “You want Lunchables!  I can make you Lunchables!”  And that is when I cut up some ham and cheddar cheese and packed it into a container.  Another problem arose, we were out of crackers.  DAMMIT!!  I could have sworn I bought crackers just a couple of weeks ago.  No worries we had little toasts left over from Sam’s party and they would be perfect for a gourmet version of Lunchables.  Lunch problem solved, crisis averted, now, everyone to bed.  The next day, I would find the cheese rolling around in the lunch bag and the toasts crunched into a fine powder.  Amber’s answer to this mess, “The bread broke, Mama.”  *sigh* I tried and failed, but I still refused to buy overpriced sub-quality cheese and ham just so my daughter doesn’t feel like a leper at the lunch table.  Sure with a nice, store bought Lunchable she would be the belle of the lunch room, but what about her clogged arteries and expanding waist line later in life?  Besides, have you ever tasted one of those things?  YUCK!!! 

Another stain on Amber’s social record is that she has been labeled as A GAY by another classmate.  I was not privy to this conversation, but what I learned from my husband, at a nice restaurant in front of 6 other people, is that some kid told Amber she is gay because she LOVES one of her teachers, one of her FEMALE teachers.  Basically, Amber had asked SoHubby if being gay meant that you love someone of the same sex.  It is true that Amber has a special relationship with her drama teacher.  However, not to go into too much detail of the intimate details of the homosexual lifestyle (we haven’t even had the heterosexual discussion, yet!) SoHubby informed her that she was not gay.  It is hard to find the words, without giving too much information, that you can love anybody and not be gay or otherwise with them.  Maybe I will just bring her down to the Quarter one Southern Decadence for a little show and tell.  Nah, I think that might scar all of us for a long time. 

I can understand the Lunchables and have no problem with telling Amber to just suck it up and ignore these little kids talking with their mouths full of processed food.  I mean we are not totally without fault in the food department.  She has brought pre-packaged cookies, chips and a hot dog or two to school, before.  I mean I don’t make her eat granola and dirt everyday, so I doubt that the Lunchables will be a big problem.  I do have to wonder about the gay comment and how this little boy came about  his definition.  I won’t point any fingers, just yet, because he may have older siblings or just misunderstood a conversation that he wasn’t suppose to hear.  I mean, as parents, we have all been there, thought our kids weren’t listening or forgot that they have super sonic hearing when they are listening to something that has nothing to do with them.  I just wish that some topics would lay dormant until our kids are around 30 years old and explaining the working of a sexual relationship would be an easier conversation to have.  I know that these things need to be discussed and records set straight, but at 6 YEARS OLD?  *sigh* Maybe we should stop feeling sorry for the children of the 21st century and START worrying about the parents of 21st century.  Something tells me we are going to need all the sympathy and therapy we can get.  Once again the only people who win are the therapists.  DAMMIT!!!

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Summer Update 7: I Survived

Amber hates our dates night.  So much so, that you would think that when we leave we will never come back and she will have to live the rest of her life with MawMaw.  I haven’t told her, but I think if she just took a minute to thinkabout it, it wouldn’t be such a bad setup.  MawMaw tires easily and is quick to give in.  This pass week, with our visitor, I had decided that it would be better to take her along with us.  This led Amber to more hysterics, because why does Teen get to go and not her.  Well, because I am a horrible mother hell bent on destroying my daughter’s life.  That’s why.  Of course, Daddy rushes in and becomes Amber’s knight in shining armor.  And they say those only appear in fairy tales.  He promised her that they would have a date day, to which Amber excitedly replied, “Wewillgettogotoamovieanddinnerjustlikeyouandmommy!!”  Yes, all in one breath.  It would later evolve into date day with Sam, as well,  where he would be dragged on the big day of fun with Daddy leaving the evil mother (that would be me, if you have lost track) home all by her lonesome.  YIPPEE!!!

Saturday night, after a long day of dropping off Teen and cramming other errands in, I felt a little sickness afoot.  Sunday, I awoke feeling like the living dead, except that wasn’t enough and someone decided to kick my ass, too.  I think I have traced it back to the half eaten brownie that my daughter had gnawed on before rejecting.  It was the last of the brownies and I just had to have it.  Well, I think my little carrier monkey gave me the crud.  Like always, the crud for kids is pretty much nothing, but for adults it leaves you immobile and very cranky.  Oh lucky day, I get to stay home all day feeling like death warmed over while the kids and Dad get to have buckets of fun.

The agenda:
Church
Brunch with friends
Movie
Dinner at Shogun, which has become Amber’s favorite restaurant because all the Asian ladies called her, Princess on her and Daddy’s last date night.  It helped that she had on her very puffy dress and every piece of toy jewelry she could find.
Home

Somehow, George managed to work in some leftover work he needed to get done and a trip down to Da Parish.  Needless to say, I was not happy about it, but decided not to give him too much grief.  I recieved various status reports and while the children were well behaved, George claimed to be tired.  Oh, poor baby is tired.  Welcome to my world, muthasucka!

Me?  I laid around wishing for death and watching a few movies that are inappropriate for wee ones.  On the showing list:
Old School:  You my BOY, Blue!!  And Will Ferrell, you are the master. 
Love Actually:  The best love story that was ever made.  Those British are funny, with all their weird accents and insulting everyone left and right.  Maybe the Revolutionary War was just a misunderstanding of words between us colonists and those squirrelly Brits.  Nah!
My Cousin Vinny:  More funny speaking humans.  Marisa Tomei really deserved that Oscar for that movie.  Favorite line:  It’s called disclosure, DICKHEAD!!  Well, you know it is better if she said it.

The day would conclude with me greeting the kids home with hugs and kisses, because I missed them, then quickly realizing why I needed a day off.  Only next time, God, when you answer one of my prayers make sure I am as not sick as a lab monkey.  Thanks.

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Today, I woke up worse than yesterday.  I had hoped and prayed that it was a 24 hour thing, but sadly God doesn’t answer prayers of those who don’t go to church come hell, high water and massive mucus build up.  Oddly I did have the energy and will power to clean house.  Needless to say, we missed swim class, because hey who wants to be in cold water in the hot humid summer while your head is as filled as a zit ready to pop.  Then there is the fact that no one wants to be near you, your dripping nose and swim in your snot.  I think I made the right decision.  However, I knew that I needed to get out of the house at some point.

I had a hankering for fish.  Not just any fish, but Zea’s Trout Lafitte.  Oh, the creamy sauce with huge lightly fried shrimp swimming over a perfectly grilled fillet of trout.  One thing I didn’t realize was that it was “Be a Huge Asshole Day” at Target.  First, no parking spot to be found.  No big deal, I am willing to walk, even if I am half-dead and craving fish flesh.  A new kind of zombie.  I do not like finding a parking spot in the vicinity of Timbuktu only to have to push 2 carts out of the way and then to the cart corral.  Oh yeah, I am nice like that.  Of course, you know I cursed the sonabitch that left them there.  I thought of just leaving them in the middle of the parking lot, but then I got a glimpse of Karma having someone hitting said carts right smack into my car. So, I walked my sick ass pushing 2 carts and guiding 2 wayward children away from certain death by car.  Our journey wasn’t quite over as we stood at the edge of the parking lot waiting to cross to get to the restaurant.  Not one rude ass muthafucker stopped to let us pass.  There were old men barely able to see driving at top speed, there was the stupid bitch oblivious to the world around her on the phone and just random assholes not willing to stop for a mere 20 seconds so we could cross.  So, if the kids and I wanted to eat we had to make a run for it.  I held onto Sam’s hand tight and instructed Amber to RUN FOR HER LIFE!  I am proud to announce that we made it safely to the restaurant and enjoyed our meal.

While at Target, I got a neti pot .  (Oh wait, how did I just make it to Target?  Well, the restaurant is in a mall that has a Target, duh.  Keep up will ya.)  I get these sinus problems often and my friend has told me many times to get this little marvel of the times gone by and all will be better.  I think I need more practice.  First, I had to ask the Pharmacist for one, which made me wonder if I really wanted this device.  You know anything behind the Pharmacist counter should be handle with care and by a professional.  I am capable of neither. 

Then, I use it.  Holy mother of God.  One must remember to leave one’s mouth open.   I forgot and paid dearly.  This leads to much choking and disorientation.  I didn’t see any mucus removal, but there was much tearing and tasting of salt water.  The kids, of course, gathered around to watch the spectacle that is their mother.  I mean how many times do you see your mother make a little pot of salt water tea and then proceed to shove it up her nose to only watch it drain out the other side.  If this was back in the olden days, I would be proclaimed a witch and burned at the stakes.  Anything for some relief.  Afterwards, I did feel a little bit better, but suddenly I could hear the ocean in my ears. 

Another helpful reliever of my sinus problems is the Coke Icee.  And you don’t need a prescription, just a freakin place that doesn’t have their machine on defrost.  I stopped at 2 Burger Kings, my regular dealer supplierplace to get an Icee.  What the hell is going over there?  At 2pm in the afternoon, both places were packed.  Did someone get the munchies all at the same time?  Oh, but I remembered, hey, I could use some gas and they sell Icees at my local gas station. What I found when I entered was not Icee, but something called Snoee.  What the fuck?  Well, I was desperate and much like the drug addict who will smoke oregano when faced with no hope, I went straight for it.  Wasn’t bad.

Our gas station has recently be taken over by a large group called, Brothers.  They are forgein.  Don’t ask me where they are from, because I don’t care as long as they have some form of my drug beverage of choice.  I asked the guy at the counter if they were still going to sell Shell gas.  He said, “Chicken?”  ”No,” I say “Shell gas.  Are you still going to sell Shell gas?”  Unintelliable, “we will have a kitchen over there,” he replied  I give him the money and wonder if I have gone deaf, like someone else, or if I am just crazy from the sickness.  I chosen  to believe he doesn’t speak the English too well and go about my business. 

Next stop to drop off my directionally challenged daughter at gymnastic class.  I don’t normally just drop Amber off, but I was way past due on my oil change and thought my hour sitting trying to see her class alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll the way in the back would be better spent getting said oil change.  I told Amber to take off her dress, get out of the car and go into the building.  The first thing my lovely daughter does is go the wrong way.  The gym is in an industrial area and there are many large trucks barreling through the parking lot.  I promptly yelled, as she had already made it about 2 offices down, for her to get her lily white heiney back here .  Then I noticed that her leotard is on backwards.  Good Lord!!  Help this girl make it through her elementary years.

I hopped out of the car giving Amber an earful as I stripped her down in the back of the Sub to right her leotard and get her going in the right direction.  Ah, unseemly, maybe, but sometimes you got to do what’s you got’s to do.  I informed her that she was headed in the wrong direction and maybe she would have more fun, if, you know, she didn’t go into the office furniture store but into the gym.  My completely blonde little girl, without a clue, shrugged her shoulders and, finally, made it to the correct door.

It was a long mucus filled day with many adventures.  One I am happy is over.  Now, onto the next day where I hope we will find ourselves at swim class or have us swimming far into the winter months.  *sigh*  My life, can someone stop it so I can get off?

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Sorry, All Full!

It has been so hard to think, lately.  My brain feels like grey pudding that has been left out. It doesn’t smell bad, yet, but it is coming.  It is so thick in here that I can’t compute simple everyday things, like people’s names, appointments and how to deal with a teenager in a 5 yr old’s body.

There are many thing in the forefront of my mind, these days.  None of which I care to talk about here, because not everything needs to be public.  Also, things written in anger tend to come back and bite you in the ass harder than if you just let them slip out the door without notice.  The problem is that I can’t just push these issues to the side.  I have tried. 

Yesterday, I did what I always do when I need a little mind numbing time.  I went to the mall.  After a few choice words lesson for Sam, I made it there without killing anyone.  {Sidebar: I often wonder what people think of me when they see me sitting there screaming at them and making odd gestures.  I know when people do it to me, I laugh, but I never see anyone laugh at me.  Hmmmm…}  My retail therapy did nothing for me, except bring on the guilt.  Did I really need the same shirt in three colors?  Did I really need those two necklaces, even though it was a sale?  Did I really need to eat that Cane’s, when I promised I was going to ride this Depression diet all the way to it’s fullest?   

The only enjoying time at the mall was making up stupid things about the people around me, while Sam and I munched down.  There was one lady who kept staring at us.  I wondered for awhile if she just thought Sam was the cutest boy in the world and plotted to snatch him when I turned to devour another chicken finger?  Or maybe she was a man recently become woman and was longing to have a mirror image of her/himself to pal around with?  Or she was very disappointed in her lunch choice and was smacking herself thinking she could have had Cane’s instead?  Then I snapped back to reality and remember, oh yeah there is a little girl waiting at school for her momma.  I was sad to leave my table and chair in the middle of the mall  to brave the traffic hell that is Metairie, but I don’t think Amber would have understood.  I mean I did make some silly promise about taking care of her no matter what else is going on in my life.  Really, we must read these contracts fully, people.

Another important tidbit that got me going was tonight was Date Night.  Oh, the fantasy of all parents out there.  It should not be passed up for anything in the world.  I had high hopes for date night.  I was hoping that George and I could see a stupid movie, eat a great meal and forget about our troubles for awhile.  I was mostly right, but our pesky problems kept coming up.  They distracted me so much that I did something I have never done in my life.  I sent food back.  There was nothing wrong with the food at all, but I wanted to try something different. I learned that I should just go with my old stand bys.  It seems that I, too, am not a big fan of shrimp creole, especially when paired with fried eggplant.  After that, I felt that the entire restaurant was out for me.  The waitress seemed to changed her whole attitude and I was sure the chef did something gross to my new dish.  I figured what the hell, snot (I am choosing to believe this is all it could have been) is not so bad and ate my dinner.  We left a big tip.  I wonder if I would see my dinner again later that night.

The movie we saw was not great, thinking about it now, but I was so ready to laugh that anything was fair game.  I laughed so hard at a preview I cried.  There is one line that keeps me smiling even today (Are those sad tissues or happy tissues?), so I will give it a thumbs up.  Because sometimes it is not how great the movie really is, but the things it makes you forget for 2 hours.  But all of this was just a small distraction. 

I am still swimming in my grey pudding and hoping that it doesn’t suffocate me.  I wonder how things will turn out.  I wonder if I will come out smelling like a rose or stinking the whole place up.  Maybe I will settle for something inbetween.  There are so many questions that will only be answered with time.  My biggest complaint is that I can’t just relax and leave this all to a power much greater than me.  I am such a control freak that I need to know NOW.  And only knowing NOW will let me relax.  I am missing so much, because I have let others take up brain space. I just don’t know exactly how to serve the eviction notice.  It is in my hand, I just can’t tack it to the door, yet.  I am hoping and praying (Yes, praying) that very soon I can take that hammer tack my notice to the door and walk away.  Whatever happens is going to happen and I need to be okay with that.

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Overwhelmed or Underwhelmed (because I just don’t care)

For the last few weeks, I have had an internal struggle going on.  I can’t put my finger exactly what is bothering me, but I feel that it has finally caught up with me.  My brain is a mess and I can’t seem to float to the top and figure it all out.  I do know that it is manifesting itself in a surly attitude.  Now, I know that my attitude most times is no Mary Sunshine.  As a matter of fact, I think I shoved her in my Jr. high locker and there she still sits.  However, I don’t have that air of sarcasm or slight humor behind it, right now.  So if you see me and I tell you to go have your way with yourself, you know I mean it. 

I realized that all of this when in a tired stupor I seriously considering telling all the mothers at Amber’s dance class to go to hell and while you are at I hope you slide down a perioxide laden pole with a raging fresh cut on your ass.  I swear I just wanted out of that hell of chaos and screaming girls.  I needed the rain to stop, for Sun to sleep and Sam, for the love of God already, stop doing whatever he was doing RIGHT THIS INSTANCE.

I thought that all this rage was because my husband kept me out all night on Tuesday.  I tend to get angry when I am sleep deprived.  As evidence I present the entire first year of Sam’s life.  We were back to regular date nights, which were put on hiatus for sickness and up the butt scopes (not mine or hubby’s).  We enjoyed a nice dinner and then took in a good movie, but George had some work to do.  I, generally, don’t mind when I have to accompany George on business.  However, when it is after midnight and you have to go to a seedy part of town, that loving wife crap turns into an every man for himself mentally.  I was ready to run the moment the shit went down.  Now, in my mind this is a seedy part of town, in the minds of others it is the 200 block of Royal street, where right next to the fancy antique shops there are the skankiest strip clubs in town.  One is open and brings in the upper crust of society during the day and the other has people walking around that you wouldn’t want to meet in church.  I will let you decide which is which.  Usually if it is dark and lightly populated I do not feel safe at all.  So in my mind things could go very bad, but in George’s mind it is just another day at the office.  Before anyone starts to think that we are in the flesh business, we aren’t but some of our clients are.  Just don’t ask, because I am not willingly to tell you.

But then I woke up today and had the same feeling.  I mean I had enough sleep.  Woke up at a later time than usual, but still was on time, so life should be great.  Oh no it wasn’t, I look around and the same stuff that has been here since I married George, since we moved into our house, since we had our kids were too much for me.  I think this is my seasonal condition.  Spring has flown by, summer is heating up and the humidity is smacking me in the face like a cold wet brick every morning.  (Get ready for all those posts about how hot it is.  Hey, if the northerners get a pass on the snow then us southerners get a pass on the heat.)  While the North would love for a little sign of spring, ours has gone and I am dreading summer.  Summer brings a little girl that complains all the time about being bored, a little boy very upset for having his older sister in his presence constantly  and me not having much of a break from their battles and whines.  It, also, brings tax season.  Your tax season may end on April 15, ours last until October 15.  There are check registers that I have to enter, because as soon as I enter that last entry of Dec 31 I can never seem to remember to do it daily, weekly or monthly again.  So I am left entering an entire year of purchases in the course of a week and wondering what the hell was that entry for and why am I buying so much shit from Target.  Then there is the impending doom that hovers our me of the BIG ARGUMENT.  The one where George is pissed because he doesn’t understand my categories and where I am simply happy to turn over my end of the job.

Don’t even tell me, because I know the pattern here.  I create all this with my mood and am almost asking for an argument.  And yeah, that is what years and years of therapy will do for you.  It, also, helps you to mask it all a little better so that people really don’t see that explosion coming.  Like yesterday, when after the millionth time of Sam asking me to put together a half demolished train track system and me not being able to figure out how to fix it without starting over, took it apart and yell at him that if he can’t listen and play right then he can’t have it.  Of course, he looked at me like I had lost my everlovin’ mind and was wondering when the next train out of crazyville was leaving.  Don’t worry, if he can get over his haircut then it is safe to say that his 2 yr old mind has moved on to bigger and better things like cookies and locking little stuff pets into cages.  So it is all good.  

I just wish I can get everything I need to do done so that I can enjoy my downtime.  At this moment, I, not only have a check register waiting, but laundry, floors, meals and a million other things that need attention.  So I am warning the world please leave me alone.  If I say I am going to fill our your little radio survey and then mail it back to you, I will.  If I take time out of my busy schedule of hiding under the covers, to call you and let you know that I made an error when paying the bills.  Then maybe you can let the rest of the people in your office know that I corrected the situation and please stop calling me before I cut the damn vehicle in half and leave it leaking oil in the middle of your office building.  You would think that you can cut me a little slack since we HAVE NEVER MISSED A PAYMENT BEFORE.  All I am saying is please get off my back, there are plenty of monkeys already occuping the space and no more need to apply. 

Oh yeah, one last thing, I think I am going to take a little blogavaction.  It is just one more thing I don’t need to worry about.  See you in better mental times.

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Cow Racing, Target Practice, Rabbids and that Damn February Baby

We started off the New Year with a date night.  As our date nights are always on Tuesdays, it wasn’t a big stretch.  It was supposed to be like every other date night: dinner and a movie.  However, we met up with friends for dinner and then they dragged us to their house to wait for the movie to start.  I thought what the heck, we had an hour and half to kill why not?  I didn’t realize that I would be opening myself up to a new additiction in my life.  One thing you must know, these so-called friends have opened the door to many things that I didn’t know we needed until they came into our lives, like, TiVo (oh, how I love thee and never, NEVER, want to live without you) and Netflix (keeping blockbuster employees safe from my rantings).

Before all that, we are in the process of planning the big 2 for Sam.  The problem, his birthday is on the 2nd and Mardi Gras is on the 5th.  Some may say, NO big deal, but let me tell you a little story.  This is a story told to me by our friend who, also, has a February birthday.  It seems that babies born in late January, February and early March in New Orleans may fall to the similar fate.  A young CS planned a disco party (hold your laughter it is not polite)where all of his friends agreed to come.  When the day came, which was the same day as the Endymion parade, no one showed up.  He was left alone, while the whole city partied.  He did make it to the movies with a friend, thanks to his dad, but nothing could take the sting away from being stood up for one of the biggest parades in the city.  It appears that this is a scar that runs deep and I wonder how we can avoid this for little Sam. 

Sam’s REAL birthday is on the Saturday before Mardi Gras, which will be the day of Endymion.  We are facing a big dilemma here.  Our solution will be to celebrate Sam’s birthday on the last Saturday in January.  The poor boy will be forever confused as to which day is his actually birthday.  No matter, if I didn’t scar him in one way it would be another, so I shall push that thought aside and get on with a much bigger decision:  Thomas or Mardi Gras party.  Our friend warns that February babies are not fond of the Mardi Gras theme party.  If we are going to do it, we might as well do it while the boy has no say in it.  On the upside, I know I can get him a cheap birthday cake with minimal effort.

Now, on with my newest addiction that leaves me scratching and wondering the halls:  the Wii.  I had shunned the Wii, because I am not one of those video gamers.  GEEK!  I played Atari and the Nintendo as a young girl, but I was never that into it.  It was just a way to pass the time on long hot summer days.  Then we were opened to the wide world of hilarity of watching your friends and siginficant other look funny while trying to hit a tennis ball, shoot a balloon or maneuver a drugged out bunny through it’s world with no clear goal in mind.  We had only planned to stay for an hour, but once that Wii controller was placed in our hands we held on tight.  I enjoyed the pounding I gave my friend, in the virtual world, playing tennis with a litte Asian chick and Mayor Ray Nagin, sitting atop my brown and white cow knocking down scarecrows and blocking the sensor bar while trying to shoot at moving objects on the screen.  Who says you can’t cheat at video games? 

I have visions of justifing a big purchase of a hard to find gaming system as excercise and ignoring my family even more than I do, now.  How could anyone complain that I am not fulfilling my family obligations when I am doing something good for my body by beating the tar out of my loved ones, in the virtual world?  It is in the name of health, people.

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Not Fit for Adult Human Consumption

Last night, George and I got dressed in some of our nicer clothes, got into the little fuel efficient car (thank you very much) and drove to a restaurant that had foods that any self respecting child would turn up their noses.  We were celebrating our friend and lawyer’s birthday.  I won’t tell you how old, because…well she is a Louisiana lawyer and…well, it is just better left at that.  The night was filled with adult conversation, wine flowing, which we didn’t partake, and food that made you just want jump in the bowl and swim around for awhile. 

Throughout the night I would periodically check myself.  I had to make sure I was on my Adult-No-Kids-Behavior, which I don’t get to pull out much.  I was constantly pulling at my shirt, which is too big, because I obvisiously don’t know how to dress myself, to make sure that I wasn’t showing much mommy cleavage.  Sure I have a bra that can get the girls where they use to be, but who wants to look at mom’s boobs.  Then I caught myself picking at the bread crumbs that fell into my cleavage.  I realized that maybe that was not appropriate behavior when I saw the look on one of our accompany adults looked at me in horror.  So, this starts my night, where I wonder if I really belong in a room full of adults or should be stuck at the kids table for the rest of my life. 

I order the one item on every New Orleans menu that can either break or make you in an adult fancy schmacy restaurant, barbecue shrimp.  This dish is usually served with the shrimp fully intact, including shells.  I am sorry, but no matter how much money or etiquette classes you have, you can’t peeled BBQ shrimp with grace.  After the server assured me that I would only have to wrestle with the little sea creatures’ heads and tails, I decided tonight was the night I was going to get me some BBQ shrimp.  I move through the dish with no incident.  Whew!

As romantic as my husband may think feeding me at the table is, I am sure that no one else would like to have a front row seat for the slobbering action.  What made it worst was that we were sitting next to each other and it was that much more awkard.  I am sure I resemble someone who has lost all use of her face, while trying to not dribble filet mignon into her cleavage.  I really need to start buying the right size shirt.  Although, that crab meat alone was worth any spectatcle I might have made out of myself. 

We ended our restaurant visit, after the shocking discovery that they have taken the cheesecake off the menu.  It was decided that some would go get Brocato’s, another would go get more liquior, yet another would go get tools to play some Geek-Nerd-Make-Me-Feel-Cool game called Rockband and then the rest of us would just meet at the house to be handed out marching orders at that time. 

I watched a little bit of this game where you see song titles that you know, but can’t reconginize when played through a game system, have grown men with jobs and children act like teenagers in a garage and have a computer animated figure scream stupid at you for no reason other than you can’t follow the colors.  I watched the very funny and disturbing (my favorite combo) Date Attell, where I laughed a little too hard at the Tsumani was God’s money shot joke.  It brings a smile to my face, even now.  Had a rousing conversation about Katrina, that bitch, and universal healthcare, then realized that HEY!  you got kids at home and a baby sitter making $10 an hour.  So it is time to head home at the late hour of 1030pm.  Hold all your phone calls to make reseverations to party with us. 

We get home, pay the babysitter and I fall into bed feeling like I did the nights when I was 20 years old and stayed out until 630 in the morning.  I didn’t have a drop to drink, didn’t dance in a cage (okay, I did that once at the Dungeon, but it is open to all patrons and all my clothes stay on.) and didn’t step foot into any questionable liquids, but felt like it last night and this morning.  What does this mean?  It means I have entered into the kingdom of adult diapers, child-rearing and yelling at the younguns to turn that crap down and crank up the Nirvana (You know that classic rock.)

I am however on the hook because a man did me a favor.  An Evil Little Man who allowed me to eat one of his huge Italian pastries, that looked like a giant cannoli, when I complained to everyone that they FORGOT THE DAMN CANNOLIS!  I left that evening telling him that I owed him one.  You know you are grown up when a random promise to a random guy for his random kindness means mentioning him on your blog. Or you just have a sad little life where anytime away from the kids is just as good as a night out drinking, dancing and, ahem, meeting random guys.

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Chinese Cajun Fais Do-Do

Every year our Sheriff, for 25 years, puts on a party to raise money for his re-election.   I am not sure why he needs to even campaign, as far as I know (which is not much), there have not been many people to run against him.  Harry Lee seems to know how to play the political game and although I do believe that there are some out there who don’t like him, there are many that believe he has cleaned up the streets of Jefferson Parish.  And we thank him for that. 

The last time we were set to go to this little soriee was August 2005.  It fell smack dab in the middle of an approaching hurricane.  I remember asking George, “Do you think they are going to cancel the party?”.  George replied, “It ain’t going to be that bad.  Of course, they are going to have a party”.  Well, if you have been living under a rock or in the federal government, you know what happened.  It was all well and good for me, because I was pregnant and was informed that I was suppose to dress up in western attire.  The last thing any pregnant woman wants to be told, besides, “Wow, you are big!”, is that she is required to dress in a specific way.  Basically, we try to appear clean and wear clothing that does not restrict movement.  I haven’t thought about the party since.

 My husband opened a law enforcement store this year and being the marketing whiz he is, knew that going to this function could bring in the buisness.  So, he bought the tickets and we passed them out to a lucky few.  Besides, I don’t mind supporting Harry Lee.  I mean everytime our alarm has gone off there were some nice JPs (Jefferson Parish deputies) to search the home of a paranoid housewife.  We won’t talk about the one who decided to search the perimeter of my house while I sat on the living room floor folding laundry while 6 month pregnant and when I screamed, upon seeing a shadow in the darkness of night, told me I scared the shit out of him.  Who should have the shit scared out of them me a wobbling pregnant woman or the man with the gun?

The ballrooms of the Hilton were packed.  They smashed as many tables and chairs as they could in those gigantic rooms.  Everyone there learned the art of making their body as small as possible to pass through the people, chairs and tables all while balancing plates filled with food and drinks.  I have never seen so many people in all my life.  There were deputies galore.  Who was guarding the streets?  There were more politicians than you could hit with a dead cat.  Why a dead cat, I don’t know?  There was even one local celebrity that I reconginized.  I guess Brad and Angelina were out of town or maybe they just couldn’t find a babysitter.  Everybody was there, including little ole me, who couldn’t keep anyone straight.  I asked George about a million times who certain people were and the information just kept sliding right out of my head.   I wasn’t surprised when George sat me down and told me that Gunman (the partner in the store) and he were going to pass out business cards.  Fine with me, I got to sit, talk and people watch with our good friends the Storytellers.

There were many sights to see that night:  There was the huge Mardi Gras type reproduction of the Sheriff’s head surround by a million of fortune cookies.  I was bummed to learn that this was the only dessert present for the night.  There were boobs everywhere, some almost landed on my head when a woman stumbled behind my chair.  I am sure someone would have appreciated that, but I am not that someone.  There were mile long buffet tables garnished with staples of cajun and chinese cuisine.  There was line dancing, apparently a must at any New Orleans function.  And if you entered the main ballroom, where the big wigs were, there were large platters of food and bottles of alcohol on the tables.  You can’t expect the creme of the creme to wait in line, although we would discuss later that many people BYOB.  I guess when you have been to the function before, you learn that liquor is quicker if you don’t have to wait in line for it.

We didn’t stay until the 1am closing time of the party.  We are old and parents and our bodies just don’t do very well after our 10pm bedtimes.  We did stay until 1130pm.  The Storytellers were impressed, even though they are parents, as well, they are those that you see wandering the Wal-mart at 2am.  You wonder who does that, well they do.  They did attempt to take us on a scenic ride of the French Quarter, but apparently it was too early and the streets were clogged.  Making the trip not so exciting.  George would fall asleep in the Oil Sheik’s white Mercedes we had the pleasure of riding in for the night.  He claimed the seats were so comfortable it was like falling asleep on his sofa.  I was keeping my eyes open with toothpicks to avoid the fate of falling asleep among the Storytellers.  I had heard them threatening to drive us to Mississippi if we fell asleep.  I couldn’t let that happen, although George didn’t appear to care since he passed out as soon as we hit the car.

The highlight of the evening was the favors.  Now, I am not sure what Mr. Lee’s people would call them, but I am the mother of 2 small children and we know the party is made or broken on the food and favors.  The food was alright, but the favors are what brought me the greatest joy.  As we entered there was a long buffet table stacked high with little figurines.  As we passed, I picked up one.  I had saw others loading down their bags and arms with many of the trinkets, but I was brought up right and knew that it was usually one per person.  As the night progressed, I began to remember I had 2 kids and that one might be upset if the other one recieved something and they didn’t.  As we passed the table again, I snapped up another figurine.  It was late in the party, everyone had already arrived and no one was manning the table, so I figured I was fine with taking another one.   

When we arrived home, I removed the figurines from their plastic prisons and placed each one in the kids’ rooms.  When Amber awoke very early Sunday morning she asked who the little man was in her room.  Because I was sleeping, I quietly freaked.  What the hell?  A little man in your room?  Then it occured to me that she was speaking of the bobble head of Harry Lee.  I explained this was Harry Lee and he would protect her room at night.  Poor Harry Lee, he is getting up there in age, fighting cancer, protecting Jefferson Parish and now, I have given the biggest job of his life.  Protecting the room from the monsters, shadows and noises of a little girl’s room.  I am sure he is up for the challenge. 

Standing ever so watchful on Amber’s dresser.

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Transformers=Big Headache

Dear Mr. Spielberg,

I realize that you are a big time movie producer and director.  I understand that you know more about making movies that will bring in millions and billions of dollars than a mother of 2.  However, I feel as a regular movie goer that I have some advice for you.  I bring this to you with caution, because let’s face it you have had your hand in some of the greatest movies around. I don’t even have to mention them by name, because I am sure people have already started naming them in their heads.  I have been with you from the beginning and was never disappointed.  But at this point in your life I fear that you maybe slipping a bit or hell maybe you have just decided to crank ‘em out and sit back to count your billions of gold coins.  I hope that your lastest movie was just a little bit of a slip and you will be back to your old self in no time.

I saw Transformers, last night, because it was my husband’s turn to pick the movie for our date night.  I grew up with Transformers as an annoyance.  I had a younger brother and the cartoon would play in the background, as I complained to my mother that she loved my brother more because she let him choose the tv programs all the time (I am sure you understand how irrational young children are.), or I would step on the toys and mutter profanity to myself.  It was my plight as an older sister.  So, to say I wasn’t a fan would be an understatement.  But being the lovely wife I am, who has previously picked the last 3 movies for date night, I conceded to seeing Transformers.  That and I can remind my husband, whenever he annoys me, that yes, I do love him, because I went and saw a movie that had no interest for me.

First complaint:  I am not sure if this is directed at you or if I should direct it toward God, but what is with the volume of the movie.  I understand you are setting a mood, but does that mean I must lose all hearing for the night.  Good Lord, man, have some sympathy for the older person who wants to enjoy an action movie just at a lower volume.  We can hear it.  Hell, I think the people in the neighboring state could hear it.

Second complaint:  Again, it could be the cinemotography or the simple fact that I am too old to be allowed to walk the earth, anymore, but could you pull the camera back when those damn Autobot things were transforming.  My main mission throughout the whole movie was to determine which robot was which.  This became increasingly hard, because the camera was so close on a huge machine that I couldnt make out distinguishing marks.  And really does it matter if there is a good hugomous robot or not, isn’t it just freaky enough to have huge robots roaming the earth and trying to hide from a boy’s parents?

Third complaint:  Please dont force the jokes.  Everyone knows that little girls would never in their life mistake a robot/car/thing for the tooth fairy.  If there is one thing little girls know is fairies.  They, also, know that fairies are delicate little beings that could never in a million years be mistaken for a giant robot that changes into a car that my husband would drool over and ask me time and time again if I would like to have as a third car.  You know for emergencies.

Fourth, and final, complaint: Could we give these alien/robot/car/tank/things easier names?  I know they are suppose to be all menancing and scary sounding, but who can keep up with Megatron or Optimus Prime?  Frankly, I thought they were the same alien/robot/car/thing.  To help me better keep up with the robot/car/alien/huge/giant/thing, I think names like Harry, Bob, Charles (he could even have a British accent) or maybe even a girl one named Mary would help me get more involved with these characters.  At some point, I just gave up and decided all the robots were bad and urged the humans to run for their lives and hoped those huge things would just go away.

All in all the movie wasnt half bad.  You didn’t disappoint with many car chases, cool special effects, good vs evil, secret government agencies, and a story that was easy to follow.  Maybe just a few adjustments to think about when you start filming your huge/montrous/everyone must see before they die/mega blockbuster.  You know from someone who doesnt know how movies are made and doesnt really care, but demands to be entertained for 2 hours.  Two hours, not 2.5 hours, not 3 hours.  Two hours!  A mother likes her night out, but needs some sleep, too.

Good Day Mr. Spielberg. 

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Mothers’ Night Out

After a rough week for me and, what I assume, a rough few weeks for her, NOLA and I decided to go out.  Time away from kids and husbands.  Time to talk freely and not worry about interrupting kids and husbands’ with hurt feelings and their own opinions.  When I mentioned the idea to George earlier in the day, he seemed a little off put.  I mean I would expect him home at a decent time and on time.  He always takes it personally when I say I need time alone.  It is really nothing personal, but with feeling overwhelm with a side of not feeling like anything is getting done (even though I have been busy all week) I really didnt need his helpful hint of make a list.  My reply to this oh so helpful hint is, “Great one more thing for me to do.” 

It was all set.  We would meet at NOLA’s house, have some dinner (at a hopefully child free location) and maybe see a movie.  We were going to be wild and uninhibited tonight.  Okay, that might have been too big of a goal, but there were definitely going to be some FUCKs thrown around and talk that shouldn’t have been within 50 feet of a child.  

The universe tried as hard as it could to keep this meeting from happening.  First, there was the monsoon that hit.  Really, Mother Nature. It is enough with the rain, already.  I know it usually only takes up only part of the day, but it is usually the part that I need.  I think we have reached our limit for the year.  Then my trusty steed decided today was going to be the day he failed me.  My lovely, lovely Suburban wouldn’t start.  What?!  I just ran around all day and nothing.  No sign of discord.  No sign that there was rift in our relationship.  He carried me and the kids to the mall, then to the other side of the mall, and then home.  I know it was unbareably hot that day, but really this is nothing new.  So why or why was there only a click when there should have been the sweet roar of my engine.  George, finally, gets home, only 20 minutes late; a record for him.  He tries as he may but he can’t cajole my steed to purr like a well oiled machine.  However, this will not stop me.  There was adult conversation and alone time to be had and I was going to grab it.  I sucked it up and took George’s Tahoe.  The best way to describe his car is as a moveable ashtray.  There was a fresh almost finished, gnawed cigar butt sitting in the ashtray, mounds of work crap everywhere and that fresh scent mixture of never been cleaned and stale cigar smoke. His vehicle is strictly his, because of it’s state.  Oh it may look all nice and shiny on the outside, but dont dare open the door or you risk being beaten with the heaviness of stale cigar and French Quarter funk.  I sacrificed for the reward and moved on.

We decided to go with Mexican.  Why not?  We, finally, got one of New Orleans finer franchises closer to us and we, much like the rest of the area, just had to try it.  Would it be the same as the one Uptown?  The answer would be no.  The food is the same, but the oldness and rats were not visible to the naked eye.  Sadly, we filled up on mini chimiganas and were only able to take a few bites of our entrees.  We might have been tired from the 45 minutes wait or simply being mothers.  NOLA pointed out to me that she had left her 2nd and nearly full frozen margirita on the table.  I had noticed and noted that it was very unlike her, but didnt want to point it out to her because I am polite like that.  But hey, if you are going to say something you have opened the floor to all kinds of drunken jokes.

There was a short detour to NOLA’s house to pump some baby fuel, then off to the movies.  Now, here is where I am, again, being a nice friend.  I could have done without seeing Ratatouille.  I am a mother to a 5 yr old who watches kids’ movies ALL THE TIME.  When I am alone and go to the movie, I want to see adult situations and the most foulest of language.  I was hoping to talk her into “I Now Pronunce You Chuck and Larry”.  One, because I love Adam Sandler and two, they are playing gay.  I am sure hilarity and stupidity would have ensued.  However, I am dealing with a recently non-pregnant, first time mom to a 6 week old baby.  I thought it was better to protect my life and give my kids the benefit of their mother for years to come and just go ahead with NOLA’s movie suggestion.

We enter the theater and I noticed that NOLA has brought her own bottle of water with her.  I wait to see what happens. Hell, I am all for her going off on some pimple faced kid, because they tried to take her water away.  As we approach the 12 yr old taking ticket stubs, I ask if she is going to be so bold as to just walk in with the water in plain view?  Now, I remember her husband commenting that a movie theater manager told him that they can’t deny you bringing in your own food.  I scoffed at this notion, because I have been to many a movie as a child and had an usher snatch our non-theater food away from us many times.  This just encouraged us to come up with creative ways of sneaking food in.  Since, I am older I just suck it up with paying the absurd prices at the concession stand, because I refused to carry a suitcase sized purse just to save a couple of bucks.  I am trying to be cute and fashionable, people.  I waited to see if the Movie Theater Secret Ushers Union was going to jump NOLA and wrestle the water out of her hand.  I waited to see if once she sat down if the floor would open and slide her to hell where they keep all the patrons who bring in their own food.  I waited and nothing happen.  No one said anything.  This was an a glorious moment.  No longer will I be forced to pay $4 for my small Icee or $4 for a box of candy I can get for a $1.  I will not be subjected to this tyranny any longer.  So, if you see a couple walking in with a doggy bag from Houston’s or a Whopper, it will be the husband and me.  We are going to live it up at the movies from now on.  Next Monday, I am bringing a shopping bag filled to the brim with goodies.  I am going to get my Sno-Caps and no more of the theaters stupid excuses of melting during transportation.  I am reborn. 

 Now, because of my car problems earlier, I was later than I had planned (and yes, I plan for my husband’s lateness) so we were unable to make the movie for a reasonable time.  We were stuck with a later one.  Remember you are dealing with a mother of a newborn and a mother who was up at the butt crack of dawn, because motherhood has trained her that once she is up there is no use in trying to go back to sleep.  You can guess what happened.  We sat plastered with imaginery toothpicks keeping our eyelids open  wondering what the hell everyone was laughing at.  There weren’t many kids in the theater, so these adults were laughing at a talking rat whose only goal is to cook great food.  Whatever!  I am all for cartoon movies, that make me laugh.  I saw Toy Story in the theater and laughed.  There was Shrek the Third with laughter.   However, I am not going to strain myself to understand the forced French accent of a woman cook and even force the belief that a rat is truly concerned with the level of it’s food.  I live in a city where a rat will knock you down to get the nasty, half-eaten beignet laying in the gutter.  Nope, can’t do it and wont.  We left before the end of the movie, after I had taken a rather long nap. 

Despite the movie it was a much needed break.  It was something I needed to forget all the crap that needs to be done, needs to be paid, new businesses, and the daily grind of fighting with a 5 yr old over a bow in her hair.  I can pick my battles, but when you are having your picture taken I refuse to let you take it with a big red bow in the middle of your face.  NOT. GOING. TO. HAPPEN.  I hope it gave my dear friend a much needed break from her daily grind of caring for a newborn, which we all know can leave you rocking back and forth in a public restroom stall telling the voices to just be quiet or just really cranky.   

NOTE:  I dont want to hear from any men (ahem, Dear Husband) I hear your plight and understand it, but the simple fact is you get to leave the house everyday sans kids.  I dont have that luxury and deserve to do it once in a blue moon.

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Tales from the Crypt (So Cruel, but So Much Fun)

I don’t understand reunions. If these people were so important in your life, wouldn’t you have kept in touch on your own? I think they are planned as a way for people to come together and remark on how much hair one has lost, the amount of weight one has gained, to gloat about how far one has come, and for the older single women to hope to find a hook up for the night. You know, because we are coming to the last call of life and if you don’t leave with someone, anyone, you may just have to go into the afterlife alone. How crappy would that be?

Yes, that is right, we went to my husband’s 25th year reunion. You don’t have to worry about tales from my reunion, because I will never go. First, I barely made it out of high school, alive. Let’s remember I went to a New Orleans public school and while it might not be what the kids today are facing, it surely was enough for me to pray everyday for it to be over. Second, I don’t understand why I would want to see people that made my life hell and reminisce.

“Remember, how you tortured me until I was in the fetal position in the girls’ locker room?”
“Yeah, those were good times. Good times.”

I think I will keep my nights free for lounging on the sofa watching Top Chef and the D-List.

However, I am a good wife and when my husband wants to do something, I roll my eyes, complain a little, get all gussied up and endure the night. The worst part is that there was no possible chance that I would know anyone at this reunion. My husband grew up in New Orleans East, which might as well have been Turkey, with me growing up on the Westbank. Then there is a little something with our age difference. When my dear husband was graduating from high school I was in the 5th grade. All together, now, EWWWWWWWWW!! Don’t worry we met and got married all while I was well over the legal age. Yeah, no chance in hell that I knew any of these people and would care where they had been and what they had been doing.

I did have a glimmer of hope, because it was being held at the Hilton Riverside. One of the many nice hotels in New Orleans. I thought there might be good music and good food, requirements of any party in New Orleans. I should say, that if I drank alcohol the night would have been better. I was disappointed. The food had a weird after taste. How do you mess up chicken nuggets? By trying to make them fancy, just give us damn chicken nuggets if that is what you want on the menu. And the only dessert was bread pudding. Good lord, whatever happened to cake? How is one suppose to walk around and eat bread pudding. Besides, I don’t like bread pudding and you know the world is here to serve me.

The music was okay, but LOUD. I don’t understand why you would throw a party where people are suppose to “catch up” and then have music so loud that your ear drums burst while getting off the elevator. Several times during the night, I would ask George what someone said, because you know he just had a conversation with them, and he would say, “I don’t know. I cant hear anything.” Yeah, good call on the music. To give you a better idea, we got a fine white boy rendition of Nelly’s Hot in Here followed by Led Zepplin’s Stairway to Heaven. Two songs that should never be within a 10 state radius of being played back to back.

It was nice to see that many of my husband’s classmates held up, whether it was with some medical help or not. Yeah, you can pretend your breasts were always that high, but I have had children and I know. You lie like a rug. There were many Cougars there. They were newly single and on the prowl. I told George throughout the night that if he wasn’t married he would have gotten lucky. George would then turn and tell me that he didn’t realize he knew so many girls in high school. I know I should boost my husband’s ego, but I call ‘em like I see ‘em. They had more prospects in high school and not so much, now. I have seen pictures of my husband in high school and he wouldn’t have been my cup of tea, although that is coming from a 5th grader.

George had fun, even if my feet and calf muscles were ready to explode from the sexy new shoes I had bought for the evening. Got to make a good impression when you are the youngest thing there. I sat out the last 20 minutes of the Reunion watching hotel employees going by in the hallway. I did try to sit in the ballroom, but every table I picked was too far away from the action for my husband. I was only trying to ease the pain of my eardrums and find a soft spot to rest my barkin dogs.

The best line of the night came from George’s high school girlfriend, who asked, if I knew about them two. I was so concerned and considered jumping her in the parking lot because she had a relationship with my husband that lasted 6 months, 25. Years. Ago. Sorry, but no girl drama from me. I was too busy riding my bike and playing with Barbies to care.

The best conversation was from a woman, who apparently had broke from her shell and hasn’t stop talking since. I cant tell you much about the conversation, but at one point one of the Cougars passed by and this woman stopped mid sentence and said, “SLUT” and pick up right where she left off. Um, I will be sitting next to her in hell getting all the juicy details.

We passed on going to Cat’s Meow to finish off the evening, because as I told George earlier that day, “I don’t want to be around a bunch of old drunk people.” I might have been the youngest in that room, but I had the brain of a 60 year old woman. As I shook my cane at everyone, I screamed:
“Turn down that loud rock music.”
“Don’t you think you have had enough to drink for one night.”
“Stay out late? It is 10pm and it is past my bedtime.”
“Don’t you people have children to go home to?”
Cut to me tapping my foot, looking for my husband and saying, “It is after 11pm, I have a headache and need to go home, NOW!”

I cant imagine how some of those people must feel today. I didn’t drink one drop of alcohol, didn’t dance, didn’t cause any scenes and went home early, but I feel like a Mack truck has run me over several times. Oh, and I know what you are saying to yourselves, “I want to party with her.” Maybe not, but I guarantee you I have enough fun and excitement in my everyday life that I don’t waste it on one drunken night in a hotel ballroom.

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