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.
I put on my best cleavage-inducing bra this morning for no damn reason. It’s Fat Tuesday and now my children don’t want to go to the parades this morning.
I don’t understand? Why the hell don’t my kids want to have more fun?
No, truth be told, I’m just about paraded out myself. After 40 lbs of beads, five dozen moon pies and enough stuffed animals to give FAO Schwartz a run for their money, I think it’s ok if we call it quits until next year.
But then again, there’s a part of me (called awesome underwire) that wants to go and get even more beads, moon pies, and stuffed animals. I would be un-American if I didn’t have this internal compulsion to over-consume. And as a newly pronounced fake Catholic, Fat Tuesday is my last day to over-consume.
Starting tomorrow, after the ceremonial markings of kitty litter on my forehead, I have to be pious. I’m not even sure what it means to be pious (it sounds like a skin disorder), so I have my work cut out for me.
I’ve often thought this Lent thing was one of the top craziest religious ideas. But, of course, it comes in after the no pork thing (What the hell? Have you ever had bbq baby back ribs?) and those subservient ideas (clearly written by insecure men with little penises).
Ok, so there are tons and tons of other screwed up religious ideas (stoning!) that come way before Lent in terms of craziness, but I’m not going to pick the Bible apart. There are other ways to have fun in life.
(And that would be reason #15 that I’m in contention for the name of Southern Anti-Christ. Something more fun than over-analyzing the Bible? I have got to be out of my fucking mind and sleeping with the devil!)
Growing up, I had a Catholic friend. There was only one Catholic church in my small hometown, so those friends were few and far between (but Baptist friends were a dime a dozen). When my friend had to give up something for Lent, my teenage mind thought she was crazy.
Give up something like chocolate? For forty days? You’re kidding, right? Isn’t it enough of a sacrifice that I’ve never been to a wedding where dancing and booze were allowed?! All this Baptist town does is repent year round! Dear God, why is it wrong I just want to live a little through chocolate? What else do I have in this fart of a town?!
Then I found out that Catholics are allowed to drink and dance (even at weddings!), and it blew my mind such things were allowed. I also learned Catholics can pretty much do whatever as long as they go to confessional and repeat some prayer X number of times and TADA! They’re all straight with Jesus.
In comparison, the whole Lent sacrifice thing didn’t seem quite so crazy after all, and was actually quite understandable when you think of all the fun Catholics can have year round when compared to a Baptist.
For a while (like 30 seconds), I considered becoming Catholic as a teenager.
I can have pre-marital sex without going to hell if I just confess to it and say some prayer over and over!
But still. I couldn’t get over my intuitive feeling that there’s something not quite right about this organized religion stuff.
Until now. Mardi Gras kicked my ass this year.
I’m absolutely sure this had nothing to do with me getting older, but is all about Wally’s office being on the parade route this year. This new venue means I could actually relax instead of being VIGILANT PARADE MOMMY, always on her toes, watching her kids every move lest they get sucked up and lost in the huge Mardi Gras crowds.
And so it’s been four days of things like corn dogs, martinis, homemade chicken salad sandwiches, martinis, cookies, chicken fingers, martinis, brownies, martinis, chips, spinach dip, martinis, and, um, another martini. And within those four days, three involved a visit from my family.
My god, I need to detox in more ways than one.
Right now I don’t give a damn if I don’t see another piece of junk food for the rest of this year, much less the next forty days. At the risk of causing my blog to implode, I’ll even say I’m sick of Mango Martinis.
Wait! Better repent before God strikes down your martini-themed blog, Heather! Hail Mary, full of….umm. I better learn that prayer. Or make up my own.
After all the Mardi Gras revelry, I’m beginning to realize the Catholics have pulled the virgin wool over our eyes.
Lent isn’t really about sacrifice. It’s more of a recovery period.
For me, it’s going to be all broccoli and water for the next forty days and I’M GOING TO LIKE IT!
Quite frankly, even my readers not going to BlissDom should be glad I’ve given up the tuna because, I swear to god, if I ate anymore of it, you’d start to smell fish through my blog.
Why did I give up this 70 calorie/.0.5 grams of fat delicious diet food?
It dawned on me that I read somewhere you should only eat tuna once or twice a week. Something about mercury. Or maybe lead? Hell, I’m not entirely sure anymore. Useless information such as what will or will not kill me has to leave my brain because I have to think up funny shit to say.
Who has room for that kind information and witty humor?
I just know I read something about too much tuna killing you and, let me tell you, between looking skinny at BlissDom for people who aren’t even sexually interested in me (or are you?) or carrying around a few pounds and living another day, I’ll pick the latter.
But I have a Plan B. Zone bars! I love me some Zone bars, especially the chocolate peanut butter ones. It’s like eating a candy bar while losing weight!
Only I can’t find that flavor anywhere. I searched and searched, like, TWO different stores. No one has it. Damn it! Then I realized my favorite flavor has probably been pulled from shelves because of the peanut butter salmonella fiasco.
I thought about going with Plan C, which would be The Special K Diet. But I’m sure there’s e.coli or a flesh-eating virus in those dehydrated strawberries because, surprisingly, those fuckers taste good in milk. And in American, anything that tastes or feels good HAS to be bad for you. It’s in The Constitution.
So it looks as if this whole dieting thing is going to kill me. Fuck high cholesterol or diabetes. Striving for a size 8 is going to do it because of mercury, lead, and salmonella laced dieting products.
To hell with it. I’m just going to be a happy size 10, and accept and love my body for how it is. Besides, a size 10 is NOT fat, especially on a 5’8″ frame.
Even my Wii Fit, evil spawn of Satan that it is with its “eww” sound every god damn time I step on it, had this to say about my weight.
My BMI is 22.32, so I’m right where I’m supposed to be in terms of healthy weight. And yay! I’m rarely ever sick, so it’s right about that too! I should listen to the Wii Fit, for it knows of what it speaks.
So why is it so hard to be happy with my body? I’m not fat. I’m really not. I don’t know why I have such a fucked up body image. I should do some positive affirmations until I’ve transformed my view of my body. Positive affirmations can change everything!
My body is perfect. I love my body. My body is perfect. I love my body. My body is…..wait, what’s this on Fox News?
If Jessica Simpson is fat, maybe I should risk mercury poisoning and death by salmonella, because, duh-am, Fox News ain’t seen nothing if they think she has a muffin top.
Doesn’t that make you want to do something crazy? Like cut the nuts off of every Fox reporter you come across and slow-roast them in a red-wine based sirloin stew with onions, paprika, and parsley, and a side of mashed potatoes?
Since I’ve never attended the BlogHer conference, I’ve been able to read these “What To Wear” blog posts from a place of detachment and superiority.
Look at those women, getting all lathered up over what to wear, and new shoes and shit. Pfft. I’m not one bit jealous of THAT.
I couldn’t give any more thought to the whole “What to wear to BlogHer” drama than above because turning into a green monster and grabbing my boobs takes up A LOT of my time during the month of July. Honestly, you have no idea.
So now that I’m going to BlissDom, I find myself getting caught up in the whole “What To Wear” drama.
I keep hearing about these dresses from some apple orchard. Crabby Apple or Granny Smith Apple. Something like that, I don’t know. I’m not an online boutique shopper because that just isn’t exclusive enough for me.
For Blissdom, I will be shopping at a very exclusive boutique here in my own town. It’s called Heather’s Closet.
Heather’s Closet is a pretty cool boutique where you can find a range of fine designer labels such as, When You Were 10 Pounds Lighter and What the Fuck were You Thinking?
Those two lines are the most popular items in this boutique.
I’m trying desperately to drop 7.2 pounds in less than two weeks so that I can select an outfit from the awesome line of When You Were 10 Pounds Lighter. In order to accomplish this Mission Impossible (because I love to set myself up for failure), I’m eating Starkist Sweet and Spicy tuna exclusively. At only 70 calories and 0.5 grams of fat, that should do the trick, don’t you think?
The only problem is that I’m eating so much tuna that I think it has permeated my skin and I suspect I’m beginning to smell like fish. Instead of impressing people at BlissDom with my slimmer figure, they’re going to think I have a serious vagina problem. I’m pretty sure BlissDom execs will bring in a complimentary gynecologist to the conference just to check my Hoo-Haa.
I also heard a rumor there was going to be a pajama party at Blissdom. I haven’t confirmed it yet, so who really knows. But obviously these people have not heard what kind of pajamas I wear to bed. I don’t know what to do about that if the rumor is true. Do I show up in a lace-cup nightgown? No, I probably should just wear a bedsheet and feign confusion.
Oh, I thought this was a Toga party, not Pajama Party. They sound so much alike!
Then I read that dressy jeans are the way to go for this conference. I admire dressy jeans, I really do. I actually lowered my standards and shopped at less exclusive stores than Heather’s Closet for a pair. But everywhere I looked, these jeans have flat-ass inducing back pockets.
How do you people wear jeans with just a slit in the back for pockets? Let me put it to you like this – I don’t weigh 147.2 lbs because I have a lot of junk in my trunk. I weigh that much because I’m tall and I have a big head, but no butt. Slit back pockets = flat ass. Unless you’re J-Lo, which I’m not. In fact, I’m J-Lo’s ugly cousin with the flat ass.
So what will I be wearing?
Ugh, I don’t know. Daytime, I’m dressing like I do every day. My Levis (with flap back pockets because those make your butt look rounder, yay!) and shirt with ballet flats.
But the cocktail party dress? I am a lost, lost soul when it comes to dressing up for a party. Is it still fashionable to wear knee boots with a skirt? I don’t know these thngs.
The fact that there are TWO parties, meaning I need TWO cocktail outfits, well, that’s enough to make me sign a pact with the Devil just to find a dress I look good in. I’m so confused and misguided that I ask that you pray with and for me…
Our Father, that art in Target.
Missimo be thy name.
Thy sale paper come, shopping will be done
On plastic, as it is in bad economies.
Give us this day our skinny dress
And forgive us our 10 pounds
As we forgive those who lost 10 pounds against us.
Lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from Choxie evil
For Target is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and forever.
Amen.
This post is probably why I don’t get any sponsors for conferences, isn’t it?
Wal-Mart shoppers from Alabama will take over the world if parents don’t take action now. This post is your call to action.
You know those shopping cart seat covers for babies? I have no idea what they’re called because, like fashionable maternity clothes, we didn’t have those seat covers way back in 2000 when I was a new mother. At least not in Alabama.
God help me, I had to buy my maternity clothes at Sears of all places. Of course we didn’t have access to cute blue and green polka dot shopping cart covers if all I had was peter pan collar maternity shirts in HORIZONTAL stripes. (Horror!)
But now those covers are everywhere.
I take that back.
They are everywhere in Target. It must be a yuppie wannabe thing since, curiously, I don’t see them in Wal-Mart. Just Target. Or possibly Whole Foods or Trader Joes, but we don’t have any of those stores so how would I know. They seem like yuppie stores, so I’m going to generalize and say the covers are there too.
Anyway. Whenever I want to pretend I’m a yuppie, I head to Target and while there, I see almost every baby sitting in one. It makes me wonder…
Is this really in baby’s best interest? Germs can be beneficial. Helps build a strong immune system, yet here we are, protecting babies from shopping cart germs.
I didn’t have these overprotective coverings when my boys were babies, yet my children are rarely sick. I believe this is due not only to mine and Wally’s superior genes (because we do have them), but also due to no yuppie baby shopping cart covers.
Licking the shopping cart handle has made my boys strong.
Think about this, dear reader. Think Charles Darwin. If we overprotect our children from germs, they will grow up with inferior immune systems. Do you hear that, Target shopping yuppie wannabes?
If Darwin is correct, this means the type of people you see shopping in Wal-Mart will one day dominate the world.
We will be inundated with ugly flannel pj pants, and color coordinated fitted t-shirts will be replaced with faded XXL football t-shirts. Make-up will become a thing of the past, and the entire hair product industry will go under because who needs product when you don’t wash your hair for a week and wear it in a ponytail all the time.
Do you want to be responsible for that kind of world?
Burn your shopping cart cover now. For all our sakes.
I’m sitting here on my couch with an almost broken foot. It’s swollen, half of it is blue with a dash of black and I can barely move my toes.
So are the casualties of retail warfare.
There I was, thick in the trenches of acquiring new framed art when BAM! A piece of artwork fell through a gap in the shelf and landed point down on the top of my foot.
Um, ouch.
I’m proud of myself, though. I totally wanted to scream HOLY MOTHER FUCKING SHIT! out loud in the store, but I didn’t.
So along with my almost broken foot, I have a tongue injury from biting it.
I hopped around on one foot, saying “fuck! fuck! fuck!” sorta under my breath but not really. No one came to my rescue. At that time, I could have collected my purple heart and hobbled home, but that is not what true retail warriors do. No, not at all.
I had a mission whose completion would prevent a potential catastrophic event. I would not skirt my duty and leave it unfulfilled. I continued on with my orders, pushing that buggy through the store and dragging my left leg behind me, searching for the means to thwart disaster.
What is this looming crisis?
Dear reader, I think it’s time for a color change in my kitchen.
As of now, it looks like this.
I love red.
But I’m also the type person who must have change and variety in my life. To illustrate this, take a look at my kitchen valance. See how one side is tied up higher than the other? I was trying to decide if that kind of change would do me good, drawing my valance up higher. While trying to decide which I liked better, I realized floral anything has got to go and I never fixed the curtains one way or another.
This need for change also is aggravated by the fact that my home is also my office so I’m here all damn day. Plus? My house is small (1500 sf) and I’m beginning to think this red color is making a small room feel heavy.
I love red, but I love open and airy even more. But does my large kitchen window balance that out? Hmmm.
Do you see the dilemma of this terrible problem?
But as I was dragging my leg behind my shopping cart, I believe I found the perfect solution. Look at this fabric.
It has the gold color of my walls, a bit of red, and what a gorgeous blue color! Blue is hot right now, very hot. And you know what else goes with blue? Ocean decor. I’m always drawn to ocean decor in stores, but the red color theme has kept me from buying any.
I think I’m going to replace the red with this blue.
But am I a blue person? Blue says calm, serene, and airy. Not exactly qualities that would be used to describe me.
Red says feisty, loud, and intimidating. That sounds more like me.
Can you really paint your house a color that doesn’t suit your personality? And a color that isn’t flattering against your skin? Will I let my foot be injured in vain?
Red. vs. blue.
These are the terrible problems that plague my life.
I better make this post quick so I can get back to dry-humping this….
My FIRST ever computer! One that is MINE and bought just for ME!
Did you know computers smell like a new car when they come out of the box? I didn’t. Because I’ve never had a new computer. That old G4 we had? That was Wally’s old computer from a previous job.
I just picked up my laptop again (because I can!) and sniffed it. Mmmmmm, new car smell.
When we walked into Best Buy to get it, I had hoped an employee would walk up to me, smile and asked if they could help. That’s when I had planned say, “I’m here to get a MacBook! My very own! My precious!” and then grapple and caress their arm like Gollum while whispering “my precious” over and over. Sadly, no one asked. Foiled again.
I also kinda expected my ass to get kissed a bit too or at least the red carpet rolled out since we were about to drop a large sum of money, but they didn’t. We were actually ignored.
You would think with the constant horror stories of the economy, Best Buy would have been excited that a consumer was not only spending money (because no one in our country is spending money, right?), but on the most expensive line of computers. However, you would be thinking wrong.
I now suspect all of the horror stories in the news about the bad economy are made up by the Democrats and are part of a large conspiracy to get Obama elected.
We were so ignored that we had to hunt an employee down. In fact, I had to act a bit ridiculous to get any attention. As we stood and stood and stood in the Apple section of the store with no help, I acted like an idiot (Wally says, what do you mean acted?), rang a non-existent service bell, and said very loudly, “Ring-a-ding! Ring-a-ding!” That finally got someone’s attention.
On top of the poor customer service, Wally had to correct a salesperson who was giving wrong information to another customer about the Apple mouse.
A Mac snob’s worst nightmare!
This employee of Best Buy decided he would argue with my husband and tell him he was wrong.
Oh. Shit.
Thus a computer geek pissing contest began. Newsflash! My husband won. He’s a Mac master. Wally plugged the mouse in, clicked only twice and proved his expertise on the subject. In just two mouse clicks. (that’s hot)
That’s when I threw my arms up in the air and yelled, “Score!” (I was a cheerleader, remember?) and then demanded the employee give us a discount coupon for winning the computer geek pissing contest. For future reference, know that Best Buy doesn’t give discounts for one-upping the employees.
Despite the bad customer service and contests without rewards for the winners, we bought it. And when I say we, I mean Wally. I couldn’t approach the register and actually hear the final amount. After 11.5 years of running our finances, I’m enjoying my turn at financial ignorance. I’m not ready to give it up yet. Besides, this psychological money game worked on the big TV. Wally has paid it off already, very much ahead of schedule.
There was one thing about the purchasing experience I have yet to figure out.
I wore a cute skirt on Saturday and as soon as we walked into Best Buy, my panties kept wanting to fall off. Every 3 minutes, I had to discreetly hike them back up, though there really isn’t a discreet way to do that. This slippage lasted the entire time we were in the store, which was over 2 hours.
I’m not taking creative license here, that is the truth.
My panties didn’t want to stay on.
What does that mean?
P.S. I wrote this post for all of you who, like me, did not attend BlogHer and if you read one more story or see one more picture of parties and people generally having a fabulous time, you may die from envyitis. It’s a serious blogger disease. Highly contagious too.
P.S.S. I for one am reading and looking at BlogHer pictures. The moment I start to feel envious or left out, I go dry hump my computer again until the feeling passes. I could have paid for the trip to BlogHer with what it took to buy my new computer, but a BlogHer trip won’t last 5 years, only 2 days. Plus, I can’t carry BlogHer with me everywhere I go and say without words that I am a white, privileged yuppie.
P.S.S.S. Um, did this post just turn into one about BlogHer? Shit.
Ignore the previous two paragraphs.
Go back up and read how my panties kept trying to fall to my ankles in Best Buy and tell me what that means. There has to be some kind of symbolism, karmatic activity or subconscious Freudian something or another going on with that. While my husband may think I’m his prostitute, does it mean I’m starting to believe it too?
When I say karma is watching me, I’m not close to kidding.
She watches my every move, knows my every thought.
Funny how I consider karma a she. Probably because I don’t believe in karma in the conventional way. In my special Book of Crazy, karma is defined as my higher self fucking with my lower self. I came up with this definition because I don’t believe in a separation of power, i.e. there is no outside power authority that can punish or reward me. It’s really all about me. I’m sure my higher self isn’t a she or a he, but for language purposes, I’m a she, so she’s a she. See?
Anyway. Back to karma watching and doing things to me. (which is really me fucking around with myself, if you weren’t clear about that before.)
Needless to say I was feeling less than superior that week. And apparently karma wanted me to take some sort of lesson about manipulating my husband to a new level because he didn’t whip out his ripped jeans and power tools.
By the end of the week, the laundry was piling up. I was in the john, where all inspired thoughts originate, and I figured I better go ahead and call a repairman. Wally was awfully busy at work, working late hours and such. And the dryer had to be fixed. I’ll get the phone book and look up a repairman.
As I was sitting there, I suddenly told myself I should go test the dryer one more time to make sure the dryer repair fairies hadn’t come sometime between Monday and Friday and magically repaired my dryer before I called someone out.
Because you never know. It could happen.
I would like to take this moment and thank my karma for bringing in those dryer repair fairies.
My dryer worked.
Electronically dried clothes here we come! Buh-bye crispy line-dried towels!
Then the power slide on the passenger side door of my van stopped working.
I’m not sure what lesson I’m suppose to learn on that one because karma has yet to contact the mini van repair fairies to magically fix that problem. Perhaps karma is trying to tell me to stop coveting the 2008 Honda CRV (in white with gray interior and tinted windows) and appreciate the 1999 mini-van that is paid for and has been a trustworthy vehicle?
We’ll see if that will bring on the magical mini-van repair fairies.
In the meantime, I went shopping in honor of Mother’s Emancipation Day. (my own creation, because I am the powah!,in place of the Hallmark Mother’s Day.)
I tried on a pair of size 8 shorts.
They were too big.
Eek!
Karma lurves me because I had to buy a size 6.
Eek again!
At the next store, I found an oh-so-cute tankini in my favorite color. I grabbed an 8, thinking maybe, just maybe, I’d have to come back for the 6 because, after all, karma lurves me.
Forgive me Target, I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last expenditure.
But I have stopped lusting over Mr. Hottie McHotman, so really I am a good girl and don’t deserve to go to hell.
Ok, I only stopped because he doesn’t work there anymore, which ties in quite nicely with my convenient belief that hell isn’t a real place. It also helps that I have a very secure husband who will read this and not get mad and demand sexual rights over me. Ok, so he might demand the sexual rights after reading about Mr. Hottie, but he won’t get mad.
Not only did Mr. Hottie McHotman leave, but the deli department stopped carrying my favorite fresh mait.
Then I discovered the new Wal-Mart carries my favorite wine and it’s a whole $.85 cheaper than Target.
I’m afraid I have to admit I have become a Wal-Mart shopper again.
The process of my Target detox has been surprisingly painless, though I do sorely miss the Market Pantry brand canned goods all lined up pretty in my pantry. There is something about that red and white can label that makes buying cheaper store brand seem not so cheap.
The GV brand is ugly, just plain ugly. Ugly to the point I almost don’t want to let anyone know I buy Wal Mart green beans.
But Target green beans, well, that’s white-collar class right there. Market Pantry isn’t cheap…that’s white collar people using their money wisely. But that ugly GV brand…that’s blue collar worker cain’t afford no better.
Truth be told, the main reason I have fallen off the Target wagon is that new Super Wal-Mart opened up less than 5 miles from my house. It’s a five minute drive versus a fifteen minute drive to the Super Target.
And have you seen the gas prices? I need a stiff drink before I fill up so I won’t hyperventilate.
Five years ago I could fill the van up for 35.00. Now it’s 70.00 a tank, but that was three weeks ago when gas was cheap. Remember those cheaper days way back last month when it was, oh, around $3.00 a gallon? I’m sure I’ll push 75.00 next fill up.
On top of the gas, I’m also to the point I need to add a heavy dose of Irish Cream to my to-go coffee when I head to the grocery store every Friday morning.
Because damn. I’m always running out of grocery money.
By the way, the Irish Creme is truly for medicinal purposes. Some pick Prozac, I pick liquor. Don’t insinuate I have a drinking problem and I won’t insinuate you have a drug problem.
I swear just six months ago I could take care of the groceries for around 475.00 a month. Now it’s good if I stay under 600.00, which rarely happens. And my shopping/cooking habits haven’t changed. The same goes for our eating habits. No change.
Target may have won the marketing mind game that their store brand products are some how higher class than Wal-Mart, but Wal-Mart won the marketing mind game of saving money.
Screw dropping 10 lbs to look hot. I need to diet for economic reasons. And maybe with that $.85 I save on wine at Wal-Mart I can splurge and buy some Green Giant green beans.
Is anyone else getting double sticker shock at the pump and the grocery store? Or do I have a have a leak in the budget somewhere, say a leak of a wine-ish sort?
Please tell me I’m not alone in this and I won’t have to give up my wine habit? Which is totally not an option anyway. I’ve already sacrificed my shoe fetish. For the love of god, I must have something!
P.S. Before you say I simply will have to give up both my shoe and wine habit, let me tell you this. Magnum PI is coming to our house for dinner tomorrow night. Think how boring of a blog I would have for you on Monday if I didn’t have my wine.
I did not feel good for two solid days. Not in the least.
Alas, I am a mom and there is a limit on the amount of time I can spend on the couch, even when sick.
I still must drop off and pick up the boys from school.
I do the afternoon carpool pick up line with Payton and thank god for it. I only had to drag myself off the couch, put some slippers on my feet, grab the keys and drag myself to the garage.
So there I was, in the van, wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt three sizes too big, no make up, and unwashed it hair in a ponytail.
The PE coach who helps round kids up into the cars during carpool was there as always. He knows me, we chat semi-frequently, he sees me twice a day five days a week. He knows whose mother I am. (Let’s face it, the majority of people in that school know whose mother I am.) He knows me.
On this day though, the day I was so sick, I pull up in line to get Payton. The coach looks through the windshield and usually that is all he has to do before turning and yelling for Payton. This time he approaches the van and says…
“Who are you here to pick up?”
Wha? Why is he asking me that? He knows who I am.
“Uh, Payton.”
“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t recognize you.”
Does this mean I’m officially a Gap Mom because I’m unrecognizable in jeans, a sweatshirt, no make up and my hair not styled?
I'm Heather, and I'm both politically and grammatically incorrect. This blog kicks ass because I write only the truth. And the truth is always funnier than fiction.
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