Cat. Chicken. Fail.

Since I have three children and only two nerves, I gave away all of my animals. I get the yippi-ya-yays every time I think about how I DON’T have to tromp out in the blistering cold or the Niagra Falls to feed rabbits. How I don’t have to chase down random “gifts” that Cat-Cat ran into my house with before KILLING them completely. Ugh… really glad about that one.

Now there is ANOTHER orange cat that just WALKED into my house. I do not know WHO is breeding the orange cats, but they need to A). SPADE the dang thangs or B). Keep them on THEIR property. Because they just show up at my house, and apparently no one in my family knows how to shut a dang door and Wa-La- I’m just minding my own business reading a recipe at the stove trying to decide what in the HECK white pepper is and if I leave it out (along with the other 6 spices I’ve never heard of) will it affect the taste of my chicken when my leg gets wrapped up in a fuzzy tail that is about a foot longer than a normal cat tail. I’m sure I’m being attacked by a mutated rat-snake combo and me stomping the cat is making it go ballistic and then I’m no longer imagining being attacked. And I can’t cook anyway- so giving me a heart attack while I cook is only going to condition me to have MORE anxiety at the thought of making dinner. I learned it in my psychology classes at Southern. Now when I think of cooking chicken I’m going to imagine the chicken coming back to life and pecking me to death. And I get stressed enough looking at chicken’s dead frozen pieces in a bag.

I posted the cat on Craig’s List and someone is coming to get it tomorrow. And then me and my chicken can cook in peace. Kind of. Starling told me there has to be a way for me to cook chicken without smoking up the entire house. I informed HIM that he is more than WELCOME to cook the chicken. I followed the recipe exactly. (Accept for putting half the ingredients). And it tasted like CRAP. Very SPICEY crap.  So I’m trashing that recipe. I am STILL coughing from dinner. I swear the red spice- Paprika or the other red one- whichever spice tastes like FIRE- is wedged into my nasal cavity. Poor Brooklyn. I told her she had to eat 3 pieces of chicken, three bites of rice, and three bites of green beans. She took a bite of the chicken, started coughing, her eyes started watering… I could barely make out- “Choc-lit MILK!” So then I tried it. I had the same reaction. And Starling wasn’t home when dinner was ready to eat. I just left his plate made for him on the stove. I didn’t warn him. Figured it was a nice little surprise for being two hours late for dinner. He told me, “It was pretty good.” I said, “I didn’t care for the chicken.” (UNDERSTATEMENT of the century). THEN he very GENTLY tiptoed around the wording, “It wasn’t my FAVORITE thing you’ve ever cooked…” and winced to see if I slapped him or just started the silent treatment. I was too tired to do either.

I really hate meat. Well. When I’ve cooked it. I could take the easy way out and just go vegetarian. I can put lettuce on a plate like no-body’s business. AND cut a carrot.

 

Everyone thinks I’ve quit blogging. I haven’t. I just don’t always post them on FB when I do. But I’ll do better!

I sort of feel like I’m deji-vooing (I have no clue how to spell that. OBVIOUSLY) last year after I had Brighton. Total euphoria at having Boeing OUT of me. Total impatience on waiting for my uterus to contract from a watermelon back into an English pea. Total mortification at the blobby remnants of the body that actually had a muscle once.

And thank you all you nice people that have told me “You can’t even tell you had a baby!” Now that I’ve said thank you, let me tell add, “You haven’t seen me naked.” If you saw me in clothes, I was probably sucked up into a girdle. In fact, I was still wearing a dang girdle when I got prego with Boeing! (Why does it have to be called a girdle? Such a distasteful name. Why not call it for what it is? Air de-compressor- bc you can’t take a decent breath in one of those things. Or Shrink Wrap. I always feel like I’m plastic wrapping my middle so the fat can spread out evenly and bubble over to form back fat and nice love handles). But I’ll tell you why I wear one. When I was prego with Brooklyn, I gained 50 lbs (like in every pregnancy) and my belly button exploded. It juts out like the nose of a hunting dog sniffing out a squirrel. Repugnant. I tried taping a quarter over it. It looked like I was wearing a quarter taped to my belly bottom. So how is that better? So the girdle smoothes out all that nasty.

And just to gauge the “poke out” of my stomach, one might think- I look pretty normal. But it’s totally an optical allusion. My ab muscles are dissipated. Straight up obliterated. I can stick my fist into my stomach and it sinks clear up to my elbow.

So I joined a gym the day Boeing turned 6 weeks. And unlike last time, I joined a gym with child care so I don’t have to work out at 3 in the morning. My pediatrician told me that joining a gym was probably the best thing I could do for my family. Boy was he right. Now I can throw all of my anxiousness and wrecked nerves at a pile of weights instead of at my family. And even though Starling is a bit stronger than me (He’s pumping 150… to my….10), it’s been really nice to work out together. And spending a couple hours AWAY from my darlings is SO relaxing! And we are all so happy to see each other after working out, that we get along, and stay on schedule rather nicely. We go 6 days a week at 8:00. Going on 2 weeks now. That’s a big deal. Our whole family wakes up at the butt-crack of dawn.

And with good reason. I think in terms of food. So let me build my body out of food for a nice mental picture. My arms and legs are cooked noodles. Scrawny, no muscle, boiled too long noodles. My stomach? Oatmeal. A glob of soggy oatmeal- all lumpy and mushy. My butt? A cabage. But less firm.  My boobs would be grapefruits. They are the only thing I got going for me. But only if you don’t touch them or make any noises resembling a babies cry. Because if that happens, they spring a leak and then everything in a five foot radius is getting doused in milk. So yeah. Gym is good.

Red Panties

I haven’t totally forgotten about my blog. In fact, I want to blog daily but everything I have to say is WAY T.M.I. Well, my entire blog is TOO MUCH INFO, but even I have to draw the line at SOME THINGS.

FOR example- some friends and I had a Lingerie Shower for Valentines  (how I would love to post pictures but that would be social suicide. I’ve already had people tell me they are afraid our conversations will show up on my blog. WHICH I have never done! I have my own internal and probably better left that way crap to share). You know, once you have kids you just GRASP for excuses to get together with other girls, buy things that don’t say “Maternity” or have elastic waist bands. And so we were each given a name and size of a lady and we set off to buy something “pretty.”

I had fun putting my little gift together and it is absolutely KILLING me not to share details- but I wrote a poem to go along with it and everything. AnY-wAy- my take home gift was some hot mama red panties (several pair) and matching brazier.

Okay- I haven’t even gotten to the EXAMPLE of the TMI part and I feel like I’ve already passed the line I’m supposed to be setting. So you should not keep reading if your face is already contorted into a “OH MY HECK- what is WRONG with this girl?!?” (Cause let me tell you now. Three kids up in this house with a husband scarcer than me cooking? A LOT is WRONG with this girl).

Like every NORMAL person does after they get something new, I had to try my things on. Simply for size. (like you can even return panties if they don’t fit. At least I HOPE you can’t)! Ugh. I won’t share the mental image I just had. And, like a NORMAL mom, I can’t get a half ounce of privacy. In barges Brooklyn just as I’m staring at the pile of cottage cheese in the mirror where my butt once sat.

“Um MOM! WHAT are you WEARING?” And what am I supposed to say to my 3 year old?

“P-panties?” I stammer hoping she’ll say, “Okie dokie. “ and find a Barbie to mutilate. But get real. It’s Brooklyn. The most observant, scrutinizing child on the face of the planet.

“Um, MOM,” she starts in her matter-of-fact mother voice, “you are TOO big for those panties. WHY are you wearing them?” Trapped like a mouse with his little squished head still clutching the cheese, I said the first thing that came to my mind. Which is NEVER a good thing in MY experience. “These are Mommy’s work-out panties.”  She then proceeded to grab at them. “WHAT are you DOING?” I half shrieked. “You have a really big wedgie.” I took them off, stuffed them in my drawer and hoped she forgot about them.

Fast forward two weeks. Brooklyn FLEW into the kitchen holding a red pair of panties. “MOMMAY! Look! I just found your work panties! They were on your bed!” (okay- that sounds bad- but they were in the pile of CLEAN laundry on my bed). “Work-OUT panties,” I corrected under my breath. I’m sure she’ll be telling her Sunday school class that her mom has red work panties and everyone will know I’m a stripper/prostitute on the weekends.   AWESOME.