I hope you readers are up to date on all of your catastrophe-type insurances, I am no longer on house arrest.

I got a new job. Out of the house. Consider yourself warned.

I’ve only been searching for another part-time job for, oh, a year and a half now. I can’t tell you how it strokes my ego to have been snatched up as an employee so quickly. Clearly I am valued by our society.

It’s been a very surreal experience so far, this leaving the house and interacting with people.

Oh my god. PEOPLE. They are still out there.

Did you know that PEOPLE still shake hands? Totally true. I started to think we should do like the Japanese and just bow to each other, that would totally prevent the spread of H1N1, but then I remembered Japan has SARS. So I shook peoples’ hands.

Another drawback to working outside the home is not passing gas whenever you feel like it. You have to squeeze your butt cheeks and everything, god. This really fucks up my “if Heather farts at home and no one hears it, does it really make a sound” philosophical debate.

Should I mention the whole getting dressed aspect of working outside the home? Not that I didn’t get dressed before, I did. No working from home in pajamas for me, mostly because my boob would probably fall out of my spaghetti strap gown, and then what would the Fed-Ex man say to that, he isn’t even cute. But now I have to wear dressy pants with appropriate closed-toed shoes that are comfortable to stand in for 5 hours. This means I’m forced to buy Hush Puppies or SAS. I’ve lost my will to live.

(I tried to type “Hush Pussies” instead of “Hush Puppies.” What in the hell is wrong with my subconscious? Please don’t tell my new employer.)

On the upside of this new out-of-home job, though – money. And a flexible schedule that lets me work around school hours. And all of the PEOPLE have been really nice so far. Except for one assistant manager who was kind of stand-offish when he met me. I’m sure he was just dazed by my sexy shoes. Or possibly from my secret test of the “Silent But Violent” flatulence warfare campaign. Seriously, Tom Hanks, Pacific has nothing on me.

When I informed my two children mommy got a new job out of the house, these were their reactions:

Payton: Yippee! Now we can start saving up for a Walt Disney World vacation!

Parker: Oh fucking hell, you better be kidding! You are abandoning your family, you will no longer be there for us! Stay home, woman! Barefoot! And why aren’t you pregnant again?!

I believe my cat is also upset at the change in lifestyle. She keeps sticking her butt in my face as I type this blog, as if I’ve forgotten who she is and must identify her by her ass smell.

I’m not going to tell you the name of my new employer because of Google searches. Instead, I’m going to give you hints and see if you can guess who it is. But please guess in code or invisible ink because Google picks up the words in your comments too.

So let’s see…

I must leave the house and interact with people, sometimes by shaking hands.

I can’t fart on the job.

It’s a large company. Very large. And I will be working within an even larger company that many people love to hate.

I must dress appropriately, including shoes that would make your grandma green with envy.

I make money, as opposed to being paid in cockleshells.

And I’m abandoning my family.

Ten cockleshells awarded to whomever guesses correctly.

Judging by the number of comments on yesterday’s post, I think I can assume that many of you would rather not read about my sabotaging habits with food. To that I say too fucking bad.

I make that kind of strong statement, but then again I also promised drunk Mardi Gras blogging and haven’t done that either. It’s the strangest thing, now that I’m 36 I feel like I’m official grown up. Gah! We’ve already attended numerous parades, but I had only one drink at each. What in the hell is happening to me?!

I think this feeling also has something to do with the new living furniture. I’m not kidding, my living room looks like actual grown-ups live in it, it’s so pulled together and coordinated. No more mish-mash of furniture reminiscent of our college days.

I don’t even know who I am anymore. I have to check an entirely new age demographic box on surveys. Fuck.

But back to this food thing.

Before he dated me, Wally dated (mostly) chunky women. I’m convinced he did this so he would be the sexier one in the relationship. Then I came along and threw a monkey wrench in his usual plan, but he seemed to like the change because here I am, almost 17 years later.

On Tuesday, though, he took the remaining low-fat chicken soup I spent two hours making and left me with a peanut butter & jelly sandwich for lunch. I think this is a passive aggressive way of telling me he doesn’t want me to drop below 140 because he wants to be the prettier one in the relationship.

These are the things I’m up against, people. I don’t know how to retaliate.

And while we’re talking about husbands, if your husband would rather watch porn than have sex with you (his wife), is it your fault? Tell me over here.

By the way, the Mouthy Housewives are throwing a cocktail party in Manhattan during BlogHer this year. Wouldn’t you love to hear me speak Southernese in New York City? So go join our Facebook party page. The more who join, the more likely I’ll go to NYC this summer, and I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a great way to retaliate against my soup-stealing husband.

Even though I am 1.5 pounds and two days behind on my weight loss goal (139 by the time I turned 36, which was Monday. I was 140.5 instead. Woe is me, I know.), I’m sitting here eating the last piece of my 567 calorie per slice birthday cake.  Because, for whatever reason, baggy sweatshirts say I can eat another piece of cake. Exactly who is going to see my bloated belly at school dismissal?

NO ONE.

Because I’m wearing my husband’s sweatshirt.

I had this food/weight loss theory in my twenties and, man, it totally worked! My theory was eat the cake (or cookies or brownies or chips or nachos) as fast as you can, then you can get on with losing the weight even quicker.

And by “as fast as you can” I don’t mean gobble it down in 3 nanoseconds, though if you don’t eat that fast, you certainly are rejecting your fundamental rights as an American. That’s how we eat in this country and to do otherwise, to chew and enjoy your food in a leisurely fashion, is to peg yourself an outsider, possibly as a Russian spy. Forget that “hiking in Iraq and, oops! we accidentally got lost in IRAN” bullshit. Just chew slowly in this country and we know you are up to no good.

(Please wait while I go lick the stray bits of icing off of the cake platter.)

(Uh oh. The cake platter was made in China and I just licked it. I’ll probably die of lead poisoning now and will be buried in a baggy Lands’ End sweatshirt.)

By eating the food fast, I mean in a matter of days, preferably just one, but two is okay. In genius Heather food theory, the hypothesis is you aren’t drawing the calorie intake out over several days but getting it over with all at once, and so can start burning it off sooner.

Let me break it down to a mathematical equation:

12 cookies + 1 day = less fat in the long run

Granted, some people find New Math confusing and have a hard time comprehending such a radical and complex theoretical equation. But trust me, I am a math whiz.  It worked for me.

Until I turned 33.

Of course, 33 is also the age I started blogging.

Evidently blogging throws a kink in the New Math metabolic force field, so I created New New Math, which I will now explain:

blogging + commenting ÷ twitter + facebook = more fat in the long run

I had more amazing insights into this New New Math to share with you, but when I stopped to dip a tortilla chip in a tub of sour cream (also known as the nectar of the Heather Gods), all my amazing ideas flew out of my head.

This probably sounds counterintuitive to New New Math, but I wonder if I blogged more about my food issues, like in a series, if it would actually help me solve the problems. It could be a type of quantum blogging physics for food – it works opposite of our classic understanding of how things should be.

I’ll have to fully ponder on this later. We’re going to McDonalds for dinner.

(We just got back from dinner, and shit, y’all! I think there is a Russian spy in our midst. Payton leisurely ate his food . Please alert the CIA.)

To further prove there was probably a mix-up in the hospital nursery when I was born, my sister came for a short visit this weekend and she didn’t even attempt to hump my Le Creuset pots. I had them out on display and everything. Not even a glint of lust in her eye as I showed her my entire collection. I offered to let her touch it. Nothing. She didn’t care.

Also, she thinks the F word is unnecessary.

What the fuck?

Could it be any clearer that we aren’t blood relatives? I should demand a DNA test.

When she announced this insane idea about the F word, I spoke up and said, “I don’t know, sometimes an good F bomb is completely necessary to make things better.”

I said this with much authority because my 17-year-old niece was in the room and, remember, I’m a role model. I take that responsibility seriously.

In other news, we purchased new living room furniture and Parker would like you to know this is a national tragedy. The calamity went down like this:

Me: Children, we are purchasing new living furniture. This is good because now we’ll all have somewhere to sit as we bond over Star Wars the Clone Wars and nachos on Friday nights.

Parker: We’re keeping this couch too, right?

Me: No, there is not enough room for that much furniture. We bought all new furniture! Won’t that be great?! You won’t be allowed to eat or jump on it, how fun!

Parker: But I love our old couch. LOVE IT! I want to marry it. For life. It is the only couch for me.

Me: I’m sorry, son, but the new furniture will be here this weekend.

Parker: Horror! Here is my heart, stomp on it, just stomp on it, woman! Our old couch is all things good and bright, like unicorns and rice krispy treats. Now my world will be filled with rock cakes and trolls.

Then Parker runs to his room where he constructs a wailing wall from Legos so that he can mourn our old couch properly. After all, the couch held such lovely memories, like when…

… his brother used the back of the couch as support as he whooped up on Parker and mother took the time to snap a picture before intervening.

Such good memories. Like unicorns!

And let’s not forget the other good times when…

…the same older brother whooped up on the same little brother in the recliner. Oh, such bittersweet memories. Especially when they broke it!

Yes, I can see why he is sad. But he shouldn’t be. We’ll make new memories with our new furniture.

Just as soon as they turn 25 and are allowed to sit on the furniture again.

_______________________________________________________

BlogHer ‘10 is coming to NYC this summer and some of my Mouthy Housewives cohorts (together with Aunt Becky!) have put together a proposal for a room, called Dear Abby 2.0: Giving Advice in the Blogosphere. It’s going to be fantastic, but we need your help. Just click here, log on to BlogHer and then click “I would attend this session” (it’s just above the title: Dear Abby 2.0). After you click it it will miraculously say “I would not attend this session.” This means that your vote for the session has been successfully registered. Thank you!

IT’S NOT ME!

Because I’m not.

It’s the seven-year-old. Parker looks drunk.

But he’s not either. Of course! God, should I even have to make that disclaimer?

We’re just unbelievably cold. In fact, it’s so cold that when Parker tried to pull the “pull my finger” joke on me, his face frozen in that awful half-laugh. That’s what happens when you try to pull a fart joke on your mother when it’s 185 degrees below zero.

Our Arctic weekend journey began at 1:30 pm Saturday when we headed out for the Senior Bowl and stood in line (outside!) for an hour just to get on the shuttle to get to the game. All so I could take this really bad picture of Tim Tebow.

I don’t know about you, but I think this Project 52 is off to an awesome start. I’ll probably end up winning an award. But damn, Tebow isn’t even on the field, y’all. That’s him, the blurry #15 standing on the sidelines. And that’s where he stayed the entire time we were there – the whole quarter.

We *almost* had fun at the game. They started the wave and everything! Except my ass was frozen to the metal bleachers so I couldn’t stand up for it. And I was almost on TV. Except my ass was frozen to the metal bleachers and I couldn’t stand up to be seen by the camera.

It was when Payton started crying from the pain of frozen toes that we knew we had to leave. To cheer ourselves up, we decided to go to Wally’s office and watch the Mardi Gras parade.

Don’t I look cheerful?

No, wait. That’s my “It’s Fucking Cold!” look, not my happy look.

Whoa, this post would have been a lot funnier if I had been drinking. Oh well.

Did you notice anything different in my picture? Let me pull up a Mardi Gras picture from last year to help you compare.

Did you notice that this year I actually have cheek definition? That’s because I’ve lost 8 pounds – THAT NO ONE HAS NOTICED I’VE LOST. Except for Wally. Because he likes to get laid and knows how to sweet talk me.

I guess more people would have noticed I’ve lost 8 pounds if it hadn’t taken me 8 months to do it. But that’s how it goes when you do the 30 Day Shred and still eat like a fucking asshole: You lose one pound a month.

I don’t know how to neatly close up this post. I’m short on time. I have to go up to the school because the question has been raised whether one of my sons has a writing learning disability. Like, my kid may be LD. In Writing. Seriously.

And so I’m going up there to teach my son how to write. As if I know what I’m doing. But hell, I’ve been fooling all you people for three years now! So, maybe.

The End.

You know, bloggers can take those arbitrary web awards and place them on their special shelf of web awards. (I mean, these awarders do actually send an award to the winners and aren’t using virtual “awards” as a guise for link baiting and driving traffic to their own site, right? Certainly there is something tangible to show for it?)

I don’t really think I need those awards to say, hey, I’ve made it! While I’ve not been posting this week, readers have actually checked in on me to make sure I’m okay. That’s a first, and I’m pretty sure that is the definition of blogging success – having readers who care enough to want to know if you are okay if you disappear for several days. At least that’s how me and my unadorned shelf will define it.

Everything has been fine with me, just fine. If suffering from a mutant flu virus is fine.

I have this insane obsession about cleaning my baseboards right now and it’s very time consuming. I don’t exactly what that means except that it must be caused by some mutation of the swine flu that affects the brain. Why isn’t the CDC on that one? Millions of housewives could become infected! Surely there’s a vaccination? Like wine taken intravenously? Surely.

And speaking of housewives, I’m over at the Mouthy Housewives today discussing how to tell your sister she’s both fat and stupid. Solid gold advice, people. So golden, in fact, that the Executive Office of the President of the USA is reading our blog. We suspect the Massachusetts election upset has something to do with Obama turning to us for advice. Who wouldn’t? We’re fucking awesome.

You better get your questions to us now before all of our time is taken up saving our country through economic and health care advice to the President. If we can mediate our way through playgroups and teacher conferences, surely we can get Republicans and Democrats to play nice together? Then again, the children in the playgroups probably have more maturity than Congress, so…

Oh dear, I feel another onset of baseboard fever setting in. If anyone would like to ship the vaccine to me (you know that wine vaccine?), you can mail it to:

Heather Shake-Shake
123 Housewife Hell Road
Winter sucks, MF’ers 12345

Are you the type who needs proof that God does exist? And that God loves him a housewife martyr? Let me offer you this:

Heather's Le Creuset Set

See, I told you. There is a God. And he loves a housewife martyr. This is how I am repaid for the hours and hours of toiling over the ironing. With a 22 piece set of Le Creuset.

OMFG.

I had to fix myself an extra-strength nightcap, I still can’t believe it either.

The best part about this Le Creuset set, other than it brings me yet another step closer to becoming French and makes me look like a certifiable cook, is that I practically STOLE IT.

Someone was selling it on Craigslist for $250. TWO-HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS.  Which, if you don’t know, is about the equivalent of one piece of Le Creuset. Some of the pieces have never been used.

I got her down to $200.

OMFG.

I accept your praise and idolization, thank you.

(Seriously, I had to take another sip of my extra-strength nightcap to fortify myself against the continued shock and disbelief. This drink is so strong I think it’s growing hair on my chest.)

When I got home from the heist, I carefully laid my prize out on my den floor and gazed at it for at least an hour. It was during this time of intense love and caressing that I discovered THIS!

Fraudulent Le Creuset pieces.

OMFG.

I would call the cops if I hadn’t practically stolen it already. Even so, these fake pieces did cast a cloud upon the French sunshine of my day.

But then! I discovered something really awesome.

It’s not a Le Creuset piece. It’s a Descoware piece, which is what Julia Child cooked with. They don’t make it anymore since Le Creuset bought them out and acquired the rights to their signature flame color.

So not only did I acquire a piece of history, but I’m pretty sure this is a sign I’m going to be famous. Forget that Kevin Bacon six degrees of separation bullshit, I have a direct link to Julia Child.

And since I’m going to be famous, I guess I better hone my chops. I have a few questions and would like your assistance.

Is it pronounced Le Crew Say?

Exactly how to pronounce it is driving me insane.

Also, what exactly do you do with two small pots?

I think those are bean pots? But I’m not sure. If they are, what do you do with bean pots?

And what do I do with this?

Such a tiny thing.

And then came this confusion:

I know the one circled is their au gratin dish, but the one to the top right is almost exactly the same, only the handles are different. What is that second one? Just a random serving dish so that I can lord over people the extent of my Le Creuset collection? Oh goody!

I have more questions, but honestly, Photoshop and drawing circles around stuff has exhausted me. And it’s been 30 minutes since I last humped the braiser pan, so I’m going to do that one more time, even though I don’t exactly how to braise anything. Yet.

Do they make Xanax pills for horses? Because I need one after watching the Iron Bowl game, my God. What a stressful event, you have no idea. Unless you are from Alabama, and then you do have an idea.

It’s really great, this football tradition in the state. It’s like the only religion in the world where you’re not only allowed to yell “GODDAMN IT!” or “RUN, MOTHERFUCKER, RUN!” during the service, but no one even blinks when you do. In fact, if you don’t yell and jump up and down, but instead sit quietly in the pew (couch) during this game, you will be excommunicated as a non-believer.

Yes, football is one fine, fun southern religion.

The state of Alabama has a long and strong tradition of intolerance. At the top of the state’s List of Intolerable Things is the inability to pledge your allegiance to one team or the other. Down here in ‘Bama, that’s worse than interracial marriage! You must choose a side in order to get a Social Security Card.

For the most part, the allegiance is passed down from generation to generation, however you do get a few freaks. Like me and Wally.

I, a born and raised Alabama fan, actually graduated from Auburn. And I will cheer for Auburn during the other games, which is a practice exonerated only because when it comes down to The Game, the Auburn/Alabama game, heredity rules out. I still full-heartedly pull for Alabama.

And then there’s Wally, also a born and raised Alabama fan who actually graduate from Auburn and then *gasp* full-heartedly switched his allegiance to Auburn. As far as I’m concerned, Auburn can have a yellow-bellied fan like that. I mean, there’s education and bettering yourself, and then there’s college football. Come on.

I know for any of you Northerners, all of this may seem odd and extreme to you. But believe me, I do not exaggerate.

Here is something else I’m not exaggerating: Alabama won in Beards-Eaves stadium (finally!) because of me and you can thank me via comments.

I’m at least 85% responsible for the win because, when the going got tough for Bama and the other Bama fans in my house were yelling at my husband (the only Auburn fan in the room) to leave, I decide to do just the opposite of the inbreed ingrained redneck beliefs.

I decided to love that Auburn fan, bless his heart.

When it looked its worse, that Auburn would actually pull off an upset, I got down on the floor with him and snuggled and loved that fan, and just let my heart fill with love for him.

John Lennon said it best: All you need is love.

Or maybe the Bible said it better: Love thy enemy.

Whichever, John Lennon, the Bible, it’s all the same to me.

But yes, I loved the only Auburn fan in the room and do you know what happened after I began that process? No sooner than a commercial time-out, Alabama began their game-winning drive and won the game.

So you Alabama fans and Nick Saban, you’re welcome.

Love is all you need.

Seriously.

Now all I have to do is find a Florida fan, bless their heart, and love them next Saturday during the SEC Championship.

Shit, real quick! Everyone email me with Bible and John Lennon quotes! I’m going to need a lot of spiritual help to pull that off. Unless the Florida fan looks something like Stephen Colbert, then it would be pretty easy. (But don’t tell the poor Auburn fan I said that.)

Wally and I have decided to decorate our new house. It’s only been four years since we moved in.

Okay, truthfully, I decided to finally decorate our house. Even though Wally also complains our house looks like we just moved in and wants it to reflect more of who we are too, I’m the only one who has gotten excited and energized over turning our house into a home, finally. Men.

Anyway, I’ve gang pressed Wally into service by making him design some art for the walls. And this MUST BE DONE BEFORE THANKSGIVING! I don’t know why I’ve set this deadline for myself. I guess I imagine my family walking into my home on Thanksgiving oooh’ing and aaah’ing over the new splash of style, the artful way I’ve transformed our home during the Great Recession through awesome Goodwill finds and my own personal slave labor.

What are the chances that will actually happen before they begin their roles of Frank and Estelle Constanza? Let me put it like this: I’ll turn it into a drinking game where for every 15 minutes that goes by without my parents commenting on the new decor, I’ll do a shot of bourbon. I’ll be drunk before 9 am. If I add in a shot for every time they yell at each other like Frank and Estelle, I’ll pass out before 10 am.

I love quotes and plan to incorporate them into some of the artwork Wally is designing. But I don’t want the “Live Laugh Love” or any of the other commercial sayings that are all the rage right now. It must be more original than that, yet thought provoking, yet not schmaltzy, but yet still short enough to fit in the frames I scored at Goodwill.

This is my latent anal-retentiveness coming out. It’s a life-long disease, really, one in which you may manage but never fully recover.

So I decided to make up my own quotes, ones that reflect the times in which we live, the things we currently value, spend energy on – you know, that kind of stuff, etc.

Here’s what I’ve come up with so far.

“I have 1,147 followers on Twitter.”

“My blog is in the top 1% of blogs.”

“I have integrity. Because I have an HTML-embedded badge on my blog saying so.”

“Have you felt my Twitter influence? I just moved up 5 places on the influence chart.”

“I get at least 50 PR pitches a day, my ability to whore products is that respected.”

What do you think?

No?

Okay, how about this one?

“He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.” -Oscar Wilde

That one is probably a better quote for bloggers but still not quite it.

“I don’t want to live. I want to love first, and live incidentally.” -Zelda Fitzgerald

Yes, that’s it. One down, two more to go.

(*I don’t always get 50 PR pitches a day. Sometimes it’s 0. Okay, most days it’s 0.)