Diatribe of a Disgruntled Wal-Mart Shopper

I imagine in most cities the Wal-Mart greeter is a kind old soul who is friendly and actually greets you with a smile and cheery “Hello, welcome to Wal-mart!” In my town, this is not the case. Our greeter is a grouchy, old woman who moves slower than molasses and acts like I am the greatest burden in her four hour shift. Am I wrong to think the Wal-Mart greeter should greet me and make me feel good about coming to Wal-mart? She doesn’t. She makes me wonder why in the hell I go to Wal-Mart.

I don’t really require any special treatment from the places I frequent but I do prefer I not be made to feel like a criminal upon leaving a place where I just dropped $350. Trust me, after spending two hours at Wal-Mart at the beginning of the month the last thing I want to do is anything that will require me to stay longer. This includes being stopped and having the contents of my cart compared with my receipt to make sure I really paid for the $4 pack of Diet Coke on the bottom of my cart while my popsicles melt.

This got me to thinking about the whole Wal-Mart greeter thing. I mean if I really wanted to steal a 12-pack of Diet Coke, I’m pretty sure I could outrun the 80 year old Wal-Mart greeter. Hell, I could probably out walk her. No wonder people are walking out of there with big screen TV’s and computers – they are too busy harassing those of us who pay for shit before leaving. Maybe if they opened more registers, less people would leave without paying for stuff.

And let’s face it; is it really necessary to get that little pink sticker on your returns before getting through the door? I mean is Wal-Mart having a problem with people bringing stuff they didn’t pay for INTO the store?

Personally, I would be far happier if nobody “greeted” me as opposed to being made to feel like a criminal. But, if these are big problems for Wal-Mart, then I suggest some changes to the greeter position. Instead of hiring retirees who are most likely lacking in sight and mobility, they should hire bouncers. Big, burly dudes who can scare the bejeebus out of you with just a look would be far more deterring to potential Diet Coke and TV thieves. And you can just think twice about bringing back something you didn’t pay for, because instead of a little pink sticker, the bouncer would grab you by the back of the shirt and throw you into the parking lot right on your thieving ass. And maybe punch you in the throat for good measure.

Yeah, that would make me feel a lot better about shopping at Wal-Mart.

Not Tonight Honey, My Feet Hurt

Courtesy of TMZ

Lately, I’ve been getting all kinds of mail targeted towards older folks. The first time I got a letter from The Scooter Store, I just laughed and tossed it in the trash. Then the AARP letters started coming, Miracle Ear, and the ones trying to sell me supplements for Medicare. Naturally my first thought was WTF?! How in the hell did I get on the old geezer mailing list? I mean I still have nine whole months before I even turn forty.

Then last week my bestie called and wanted me to go walking with her. She’s trying to be all healthy and stuff and I had been snowed in for a week with four kids and was in dire need of adult conversation, so I agreed to go. If I had known that she was taking me on a power walking session that would leave me crippled for a week, I would have just talked to one of the eleventy telemarketers that call me every day.

But it wasn’t until three days after this session that I found out I was crippled. It started out with me realizing on a Saturday night that my feet kinda hurt. I tossed and turned all night, cussing and beating on my pillow because it simply hurt to put any pressure on my feet. So I rummaged in the medicine cabinet for leftover prescription pain aids and went back to bed with my feet hanging over the edge of the bed.

The next morning when I got out of bed, I realized it hurt to walk. So I popped more prescription strength ibuprofen followed by a coffee chaser and hoped I would at least be able to remain upright for a few hours since it was my turn to work the concession stand at basketball in a few hours. And then it dawned on me – a scooter would come in pretty handy right now!

So, I headed to the kitchen counter, where I keep all of my important papers, and searched for the scooter letter. And of course, I couldn’t find it, so I sat down (yay, my ass didn’t hurt!) and took the free mobility assessment online. Here are my results:

1. Do you sometimes feel left out by not being able to get together with friends and family? YES! Duh, that’s why I agreed to exercise in the first place and thus can’t walk without intense pain!

2. Do you have health-related issues that limit your mobility? Um, YES! See question 1, idiot.

3. Are you having trouble getting to your kitchen or dining facility by yourself for a meal? YES again, I’m saying OUCH! with every step, whether it be to the kitchen, bathroom, laundry room…

4. Is it difficult for you to get to the bathroom on your own? What?! There are people that go to the bathroom by themselves? Hell yes, this is a HUGE problem for me.

5. Do you have difficulty accessing your clothes and getting dressed everyday? I find this so difficult that some days I just stay in my pajamas.

6. Have you lost the ability to use a manual wheelchair inside your home? Isn’t it bad enough that I can’t walk; you want me to hurt my hands too?  This is an ability I don’t wish to have, thanks for asking though.

7. Are you feeling like a bother to others due to your limited mobility? I don’t give a shit who I’m bothering; I’m in pain damn it! Everyone else is bothering me by continually asking me to do stuff for them when I’m in pain. Besides, I thought this test was about ME?!

8. Have you fallen in the past 12 months? Dude, we really can’t go here. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, even if it didn’t happen in Vegas. In other words, YES!

Then I hit “submit” and The Scooter Store told me I should call them immediately because mobility problems are seriously affecting my quality of life. Well no shit, Sherlock! I could have told you that without taking your dumb, free mobility assessment.

Seeing as how I’m not eligible for Medicare for another twenty some years and the Jazzy Select Power Chair retails at $5496, I guess I’m left with the options of taking copious amounts of ibuprofen, buying a new pair of walking shoes, or being unfit and pain free. I think I’ll pick the latter.

Besides, I think a motorized bar stool* is more my style anyway.

 

*http://www.tmz.com/2009/03/31/creative-drunk-gets-dui-on-a-motorized-bar-stool/

Your Lawsuit is Making My Meal Sad

The other night I was settling into my bedtime routine, getting all comfy and relaxed, half assed watching the news (just to be informed about impending snow) and blissfully awaiting my pre-lights out routine of catching an episode of Seinfeld. But the only thing I saw on my TV was Nightline. Nightline! I quickly clicked on the guide to see that Seinfeld had been bumped to midnight. WTF! Doesn’t my local ABC station know that I fall asleep to the witty antics of Jerry, Elaine, Kramer, and George every night? And that it’s not possible for me to stay up later than 12:05 A.M. to get my nightly fix?

Even though I’m not your usual Nightline viewer, the headliner did grab my attention. A mother is suing McDonald’s over the Happy Meal toys. Since I was already in a pissy mood about missing out on my Seinfeld fix and my whole bedtime routine was messed up anyhow, I decided to watch. This mother, who we’ll call “Monet” because that is her name and I only protect the names of the guilty in this blog, is SUING McDonald’s because her claim is that even though she says “no” to her kids when they want Happy Meals, the advertising of the fast food joint trumps her and entices her kids to want the unhealthy meal no matter what she does, even telling them no. So, her solution, naturally, is to sue McDonald’s, force them to make the Happy Meal “healthier” so her kids can partake in the rotation of the weekly toy.

Normally, I would never call another mother out like this. Too many times, I’ve been on the receiving end of the Mother Call Out. I’m a “live and let live” kinda gal, but my panties do get in a bunch over a frivolous lawsuit. I hate to be the one to point out to Monet that you can actually buy the Happy Meal toy without buying the Happy Meal, or let alone ANYTHING at Mickey D’s. But you can. You can fill your kids up on soy milk, organically grown veggies washed with a special produce cleaning solution, and free range chicken that you can cut into nuggets yourself and cover with homemade wheat bread and then drive your happy and healthy ass to McDonald’s and buy the G-damned toy.

I have four kids. I am by no means unfamiliar with child harassment. As a matter of fact, all four of my kids are master harassers. But I’m still the adult and I have veto power and I’m not afraid to use it. I could give two shits if my kids are upset with me if they can’t have the weekly Happy Meal toy. Of all the things I’ve done, I find that to be the least of my concerns for future therapy session topics. Far be it for me to suggest that other mothers simply say no (and stand firm!) to the Happy Meal if it’s against their beliefs. As Nightline guy said (sorry not a regular viewer so I don’t know his name) in reference to the lawsuit, “Some feel this is un-American or all too American.”

And ironically, it IS both. We want our freedoms, but at the same time we ask our government to intervene to take away someone else’s freedoms. Instead of suing McDonald’s over their stupidly annoying toys, why don’t we, as parents, take the opportunity to teach our children some discipline and how to delay immediate self-gratification instead of relying on the government to do our jobs as parents? I mean that would serve them better in the long run than suing McDonald’s to take away something that is perfectly legal, and well an American icon. Monet states that she doesn’t want any money for this lawsuit, just options for the children. Well Monet, you do have options – STOP GOING TO McDONALD’s.

So I guess I said all of that to say this: Monet, you don’t speak for me. And I would guess there are many other mothers who would say the same. Please stop asking our courts to take away time to hear your stupid, frivolous lawsuit because you find it hard to say no to your kids. There are far more important issues in front of these courts that DO impact our children’s lives.

Let them do their job. And in the meantime, Monet, do yours.

 

Happy F#$%ing Holidays!

Today one of my friends shared a quote that really hit home with me. It was from the show Family Guy, which I admit I don’t watch but several of my kids do. The mom, Lois, apparently was feeling somewhat like I do this holiday season, when she uttered “You all think Christmas just HAPPENS! You think all this goodwill just FALLS from the freakin’ sky!!! Well it doesn’t!!!! It falls from my holly jolly butt! So you can cook your own damn turkey; wrap your own damn presents and while you’re at it you can all ride a one horse open sleigh to HELL!!! Auuuugghhhh!!!”

I’m totally feeling Lois. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking about contacting my attorney because I’m quite sure that the Family Guy writers may have been eavesdropping on my life the last few weeks and I want some fucking royalties. Maybe it could even be a class action lawsuit for all moms everywhere. I mean maybe we can at least get enough to buy a fifth a piece.

Now mind you, this rant comes after a snow day that cut into my actual Christmas shopping time because between basketball and LIFE I haven’t had time to start the shopping. And after looking at the calendar today, I realized I’m really in crunch time for Christmas shopping. Luckily for me, I’ve cut gift recipient list down drastically from previous years.

But, I’m left wondering about this whole holiday prep thing. I spend all my time making sure Juniors 1 through 4 are happy on Christmas morning. I clean the house so we can gather here; I cook the dinner we all eat. Oh, I also wrap the presents and make sure that those that require batteries have them and those that need assembly are complete before Christmas morning. Everyone else just shows up.

I’m not trying to buck tradition or anything, but after considering all of this, shouldn’t Santa be depicted as a chick in a skirt and heels carrying a purse looking all harried as she runs around between the Walmarts and Best Buy making sure everyone’s wish list is covered? And shouldn’t our poor Santa Chick at least get an evening at a fine dining establishment with several martinis and some amuse-bouche, at the very least?  

If you are over the age of 12, you should realize that Christmas just doesn’t happen. It takes work from a very dedicated person, most likely a WOMAN, who is your mother. The same woman who gets no recognition for all she does for your family at Christmas time because some fat, imaginary fucker named Santa takes all the credit. Most likely, she is also the one who doesn’t get a gift on this momentous occasion. And if she does, it’s probably not one that she really wants, but she will accept it graciously because that’s what Moms do.

So at the very least, tell your Mom thanks this holiday season. If you really love her, show her, whether it is with a gift she really wants or cleaning up the house after all the eleventy hundred guests have left. Whatever you decide to do, just make sure she knows you appreciate her. You’ll be in like flint until her birthday and she won’t be in a pissy mood for yours.

 

My Doll is More Depressed Than Your Doll!

Julie from the American Girl collection

Somehow last year, we ended up on the American Girl mailing list. Since that first catalog made its appearance in our mailbox, my daughter has been salivating over the pages, much like I might over a handbag catalog. She’s making her list, since Christmas is near and after looking at the price tag on these dolls, she’s very fortunate her birthday is just a mere 5 days after Christmas.

After checking out the catalog, I’m beginning to think the American Girl doll designers are a little depressed and in need of some Prozac laced cappuccinos. Whatever happened to fun loving toys that are supposed to make children happy? These plastic dolls are not only overpriced, but come with stories that would bring a young girl to tears.

First there’s Julie, a cute 70’s blonde hippie girl hailing from San Francisco. Her favorite dessert is chocolate fondue and her best friend is Ivy Ling. All sounds happy enough, until you get to the “what changes her life” part – her parent’s divorce and she’s forced to move to a new school! Yet she’s posed with a gap-tooth smile. Shouldn’t she be crying? Maybe her optional $28 tape recorder and record player accessories that actually plays music or the optional $20 pet bunny makes her feel better. They just make me want to cry more.

Next we have Molly, who’s living during World War II. And it’s not fun enough that poor Molly has to endure the hardships associated with world war, her dad is sent off to fight in that war. She grows Victory Gardens and helps out with Red Cross fundraisers. She doesn’t have any happy-go-lucky accessories to make her feel better unless you count the locket, beret, purse, and hankie for an additional $24. She does have a friend for an additional $95, Emily, who escaped war-torn London to come stay with Molly’s family. If Molly were around today, at least she’d have a fun military kid summer camp and possibly get to Skype with her dad.

If those two little dolls’ stories didn’t tug at your heartstrings, then there’s Kit. She’s described as “a bright light in the dark days of the Great Depression.” That’s a nice little burden to put on a child. The catalog goes on to tell us that many people in Kit’s day couldn’t even afford to buy food or pay their rent and that her dad’s loss of employment is a life changer for her. The bright side is she wakes up each day with a “sunny outlook” in a bed that you can purchase for an additional $80. But then she gets a slap in the face when the dad of her best friend, Ruthie, has to come play bill collector to Kit’s family. Supposedly Ruthie helps protect her friend’s pride somehow, but you have to pay an additional $6.95 for the book that lays that story out.

I don’t know about you but if I’m laying out a hundred bucks on a plastic doll, and an additional $100 on accessories then I want a happy story, damn it! I want my doll to be the popular girl in school who makes the cheer squad and dates the big man on campus and who is so intelligent she gets a full ride scholarship to an Ivy League college. And I’m not alone, after reading about the public backlash American Girl faced last year when they released homeless doll, Gwen, and her story of how her dad left her and she had to live in a car with him mom. Needless to say, they don’t sell that “2009 Limited Edition” beauty anymore.

All in all, American Girl has left me feeling like I need a Prozac cappuccino or five, myself. My daughter just gave me her list the other night. She’s picked broken family Julie with an additional Calico dress, heart dress, cozy plaid outfit, honey puppy PJ’s, and the trundle bed complete with bedding (wonder what the thread count on those sheets are) for a whopping grand total of $288. And just try reasoning with a 9 year old girl about how many other things she could have for that amount of money or how sad she’ll be when she leaves it laying on the floor and Julie becomes our dog’s new $300 chew toy.

One of us will be crying at the end of December…and it won’t be the dog.

 

Please Squeeze the Charmin!

Apparently, I’m the only one in my household that can do a few certain things. After the last week I’ve discovered I am the only one who can turn off a light, turn off a faucet, empty a full trash can, and change the empty roll of toilet paper.

I’m not quite sure why these things escape everyone else who lives around me. It’s not like they aren’t apparent. Our house sits on a quiet country road, yet it’s lit up like the Griswold’s house at Christmas time year round. I’m surprised that AEP doesn’t have to do a brown out because of all of the electrical things plugged into our many outlets.

Last month I had a heart attack when I opened our water bill. Normally it hovers around the $30 mark. But last month it was nearly $50. So I investigated and found that my children have no idea how to turn a faucet off. They are well versed in turning them on and you would think that turning off would be just the opposite. I guess I have “special” kids. This week alone I have walked into the bathroom at least eleventy times to find the faucet leaking a tiny, but steady, flow.

You know, I’m not a hard person to please. I have very few things that I need done. Matter of fact, I could even limit it to ten things. So in homage to my friend Bruce Cameron, creator of 10 Simple Rules for Dating my Daughter, I have come up with 10 simple rules for living with Helle. Please take note of them, because I am currently accepting applications for potential living partners.

The first couple of rules for living with Helle are twofold – both occur in the bathroom. One, if you use the last of the Charmin, for fuck’s sake, put on a new roll. They are in the closet conveniently located next to the toilet, and luckily for you, I am a Sam’s Club member so there are eleventy rolls you can pick from. I don’t even care if you open a new pack, just put a new roll on for the love of Pete. Secondly, if you are of the male persuasion and for some reason decided it’s in your best interest to stand during the deed, if you put the seat down when you’re done, I’ll be forever in your debt. Furthermore, if you put the lid down so that I don’t have to sit on a wet seat after my 100 pound lap dog uses the toilet as an evening cocktail, then I’ll promote you to my new BFF.

After the bathroom business, it’s all cake. If you use a faucet, turn it off. Sounds simple enough, but apparently this is a skill that eludes my children. Should you find yourself trying to stuff something in the trash can, and can’t because it’s too full, change the bag. Again, simple enough, but unless I put a post-it note on the trash can with those instructions, it doesn’t happen. Trash will be piling on the floor around the trash can and everyone is oblivious to it but me. The same follows for clothing and or dishes. It doesn’t belong on the floor immediately surrounding you. It goes in the hamper or the sink, respectively.

Last but not least, if you’re living the only other rule you need to know is Helle is always right. This is probably the most important rule. If you follow this rule, you won’t have to worry about the toilet seat, toilet paper, trash, dishes, clothing, etc. If you do exactly what I say, we will all be happy.

The end.

 

One Venti Craptastic Oinkalicious, Please

In addition to being addicted to really bad TV, I’m also addicted to sugar and coffee. So, when I found myself with some time to kill, I decided to go to the Dairy Queen for a sugary, coffee flavored frozen beverage. It wasn’t until I pulled up to the drive thru that I remembered how stupid their name was for such a beverage. So I quickly uttered that I wanted a small Moo-Latte, and started to pull forward.

But, no, the DQ girl said, “Huh, can you repeat that?” So I did. But alas, she still didn’t hear me. So on try number three, I yelled loudly, “ONE SMALL CHOCOLATEY CRUNCH MOOOOO-LATTE PLEASE!” I think it was that precise moment that I decided I would never again grace the DQ drive thru with my presence. It’s bad enough that this small drink is nearly $4, but to make me feel like an idiot when ordering it is just crossing a line.

This got me to thinking about other products I’ve decided I’m no longer ordering out loud. Take for example, the Double Down sandwich at Kentucky Friend Chicken. It sounds more like a porn movie involving twins engaging in acts that are illegal in 18 states instead of a sandwich. And the damn sandwich has no freaking bread! I don’t know about you, but where I come from, bread is an essential part of the sandwich. I’m even more convinced that this breadless wonder was named after a porn movie after seeing an article on KFC’s search for “AmbASSadors” to promote this sandwich by using young chicks with hot asses wearing sweats with “Double Down” emblazoned on the backside.*

I also refuse to order the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n Fruity breakfast at IHOP. I don’t think I can eat something that sounds like a scent you’d find on the shelves of Bath and Body Works. I also hear that Denny’s is a corny product name offender with their Moons over My Hammy dish. Maybe these popular breakfast-all-day joints are relying on most of their customers being stoned and therefore more appreciative of the wacky breakfast names.

Then there’s the sheer pretentiousness of the Starbucks lineup. If the Starbucks people wanted to mess with their customers, all they would have to do is switch around the order of their sizes. Admit it, you’d have no clue the Venti is a large if it wasn’t at the end of the lineup. Try guessing which is the large when your choices are Tall, Grande, and Venti. If you live in Appalachia, like me, my bet is you’d go with the Tall.

And speaking of sizes, since when did McDonalds decide to change all of the rules in that department? The other day I ordered a medium and ended up with what used to be the large. So now, their small is medium, the medium is a large, and the large is a hog trough. I’d really hate to see what the super size is now and what kind of vehicle you’d need to haul it away.

I’m left to wonder what in the hell are the marketing peeps at some of these places thinking? Are they all sitting around getting buzzed on venti Espresso Macchiatos and eating sandwiches without bread and exclaiming things like “Hey let’s really screw with our customers and make them feel like dorks while they order our overpriced crappy food!”

So, tell me what are some of the ridiculously named things you’ve ordered?

 

* http://www.desertlivingtoday.com/2010/09/21/the-colonels-looking-for-a-few-good-butts/

Once, Twice, Three Times a Wife

Last night, as I was flipping through the eleventy hundred channels I have trying to find something to watch, a show promo caught my eye. Now, I’m eagerly awaiting September 26^th for what I predict to become the Queen Mother of Train Wreck TV.  Yes, this new show is going to dethrone the current Grand Supreme crown holder, Toddlers and Tiaras. I just know it.

The new show, titled Sister Wives, is focused on a man named Kody and his 3 wives. He also happens to be engaged to another woman, who will become the 4^th wife. The show description, according to People Magazine states, “Kody struggles with keeping his unorthodox family life a secret from the outside world.” So right off the bat, it appears that Kody is not the sharpest tool in the woodshed. I hate to break it to you, Kody, but we’ve seen this scenario played out before on TV and the end results are usually less than stellar.

Now, I’m not as naïve to be shocked about a show revolving around polygamy, hell I used to watch Big Love until it petered out and I lost interest. But that was fiction; this is reality, albeit possible pseudo-reality.  That, coupled with my penchant for trashy TV, puts this show on the top of my DVR To Record list. Honestly, I could really care less what consenting adults do in the privacy of their own homes, but I have to admit my curiosity is peaked to get a glimpse of this family’s life. But, I truly hope that Kody is making enough money to pay for all of his 13 children, because I don’t think he’ll be too popular with his viewing audience if we’re supporting his “unorthodox” lifestyle.

My first thought after seeing the promo was “what the hell is he drugging these women with to make them happily go along with such nonsense?” But after I contemplated it more, I can see some situations in which this might work out. For example, if one of the wives is solely in charge of cleaning, then I could get on board with that. And if there was a dedicated cooking wife, then yes sign me up! I can also see the bennie of having a wife with a teaching background, to help out with the all the homework that leaves me feeling like I should be contacting my institution of higher learning to request a refund for my BS degree. And while that does mean Bachelor of Science, I affectionately refer to it as my Bull Shit degree.

Additional perks to the multi-wife lifestyle could also include those times when you have a “headache”. No need to feel guilty about not wanting to do the deed ever again – just send him on to the next wife! It also solves the problem of finding a shoulder to cry on (or bitch on). I mean sometimes you just feel like your BFF can’t fathom the depth of your hubby’s ineptitude at *fill in the blank*, but your Sister Wife will completely understand and be able to fully commiserate with you. Plus, I would think having more than one wife would guarantee baby-sitting and taxi duties for those times when you need to have kids on different ends of town at the same time.

Matter of fact, the more I think about it, it seems like a pretty good deal. Now, I’m just wondering where to start the search – the Walmarts or Craigslist?

 

#@$%!

(It’s Flashback Friday!  This is one of my favs from about 5-ish years ago.)

I like using swear words.  I like to use them a lot.  They are just words after all.

I married a man who shares my affinity for swear words.  We both graduated with honors from the Swearing for Sailors School.  We also have four children, all under the age of nine.  Motherhood has taught me that swear words are necessary evils.  It’s either drop a few four letter words here and there or consume mass quantities of pharmaceuticals.

I would be lying if I told you that our children have never uttered a swear word.  I try not to get too worked up about it, as long as they are used in the proper context and reserved for special occasions.  I like to think of it as teaching my children diversified language skills.   It’s just plain silly to even entertain the thought that your child will never say a swear word.  Even if you don’t use such words yourself, they will learn them at school.

Let’s face it.  There are some instances in life when you need a word that fully embodies your emotional state and “shoot!” and “durn it!” just don’t cut it.  These situations call for swear words.  Why shouldn’t we afford this gift to children, who lack the advanced communication skills that adults possess?  Hell, when you look at it that way, children should be the only human beings even using swear words.

One Sunday afternoon, on the way to Grandma’s house, my oldest son was faced with one of those situations.  He was minding his own business, contently playing with his brand new Game Boy when his younger brother grabbed the contraption out of his hands and flung it across the van.  As plastic and computer chips sailed through the air, my oldest son dropped the dreaded F Bomb.  And that was that.  I was so damned proud that he handled the situation in such an adult manner and used the F Bomb in the proper context.  Most parents would probably have a conniption fit in this situation.  I was actually relieved that I didn’t have to pull over and threaten them both with nine kinds of torture.  Better yet, because my son used his words and not his hands, I didn’t even have to make a trip to the hospital. I did, however, gently reprimand him, “Honey, please don’t say f*ck on the Lord’s Day.”

It doesn’t happen very often, but on occasion my husband and I have been known to utter a previously unheard swear word.  Our family was enjoying a peaceful Saturday afternoon at home.  The children were playing quietly, I was lounging on the couch, and my husband was finishing up some long overdue chores.  All of a sudden my husband let out a stream of obscenities a mile long.  Most of these words our children had heard before.  But there was one new word my oldest son was hearing for the first time ever…c*ck sucker.  He walks over to the bottom of the stairs, and with a very intent look on his face he calls out, “What kind of sucker did you want Dad?”

I’m still trying to come up with a sucker flavor that rhymes with c*ck.

 

The Slack Ass Diet

So, I was watching TV the other day and I saw this commercial for the Special K diet. Normally, I’m not much into diets. I can’t, for the life of me, limit myself to ridiculous things like no carbs or dairy. It’s just not right, no wait, it’s blasphemous for an Appalachian girl to not eat macaroni and cheese or ice cream. And let’s just face it; low carb beer is a total rip-off when you consider the cost versus the alcohol content. You might as well drink water and pretend like you’re buzzed, because buzzed is not happening with low carb beer. On the other hand, it does come in handy for a beer-like experience while doing things where you have to maintain sobriety (i.e., shooting guns or a night at the ballpark).

Anyways, I thought this is finally a diet that maybe I can stick with. All you have to do is eat Special K cereal twice a day, and then eat whatever you want for dinner. Oh, I think you are supposed to maybe eat some Special K snacks or beverages, too, but since my normal breakfast is a pot of coffee, I figured I can just go with the 2 bowls of cereal and my snack could be some cocktails in the evening.

Well, this was all well and good for the first few days. Then I decided I don’t really like Special K cereal. Even with strawberries, it’s kind of bland.  It’s like eating cardboard with construction paper shaped fruit. No offense to the peeps at Kellogg’s, but every day I hear how short life is and how you should enjoy every minute of it, and as I approach 40 I really take this to heart.  And this week, I was not enjoying my cardboard breakfast or lunch; as a matter of fact, the whole time I pretty much thought about how I’d rather be eating the kids’ Cocoa Puffs.

This led me to wonder if it really mattered what cereal I ate twice a day, as long as it was cereal. I figured maybe I can eat two bowls of Cocoa Puffs a day, because after all, I have heard that chocolate is good for your heart. Then I got to thinking that you pour milk on the cereal, so maybe I should just eat two bowls of low-fat chocolate frozen yogurt a day, then opt for a healthy dinner.

Then, I was reminded of last Saturday when my BFF brought me liquor so I wouldn’t have to drag the kids clear down to the east end of town to buy booze. She also brought this lovely concoction of chocolate infused vodka. So, then I reasoned that breakfast and lunch cocktails with chocolate flavored vodka would practically be just like eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, as long as I mixed it with low-fat milk, instead of Sunkist pop.

Yeah, it was silly of me to think I could actually stick to a diet. I’m beginning to think it was a fiber induced hallucination, and my mind will clear up once I wash all that out with my regular morning pot of coffee and vanilla flavored Coffee-Mate.

But all was not lost during this little experiment; I learned I’m REALLY good at rationalizing.