After going through the stack of mail that our next-door neighbors retrieved for us while we were gone, I was relieved that none of my fat-lady-supplies catalogs came during that time. Because there’s no way they can tell I’m obese just by looking at me.
I just got a catalog that includes extra-wide, 350-pound-capacity chairs and barstools. One chair even has a 500-pound capacity. Most awesome of all, there is an “extra-large folding snack table” (TV tray). Because who are we kidding — there’s no way a regular TV tray can support the smorgasbord of snacks a gal my size requires.
I hear that today Oprah will interview a transgender supermodel, which means there is at least one dude that is a way hotter lady than I am. As if I needed another reason to give up.
My healthy eating habits have deteriorated to the point that I just included a Little Debbie Strawberry Shortcake Roll in my lunch as a fruit. Dr. Oz would have me shot. But I think Oprah would understand, and that is why I love her.
I like snow days in the morning, when I do not have to get dressed to transport anyone anywhere, but about the time the kids start asking for lunch, which today began at 9:53 a.m., I am ready to haul them to school by sled like a dog.
Today I decided to pretend I was a cool mom and let them have friends over to play in the snow. This resulted in my being summoned from the kitchen (where I was trying to bake everyone — but mostly me — some cookies) by doorbell approximately every three minutes to put gloves back on, fix zippers, refill water bottles and at one point just to look at them lying in the snow. (Oh let me get the camera — we’ve only done this for 11 years.)
As always, they tracked big chunks of snow throughout the house and left them lying on the rug to melt. (After all, that’s what you do outside.) And in addition to having to launder six layers of snow clothes, I had to reshovel the walk, which Chris had completely cleared, because they covered it with snow while digging through a drift.
Now that I think about it, “cool moms” seem to have a real thing for wine. I don’t drink at all. Sorry, kids.
Today at church for once we decided to sit up in front with my grandma. Just before the service started, I went to the bathroom and, while washing my hands, leaned too close to the sink and spattered a couple of highly visible water spots right at the crotch area of my light-purple dress. The only solution I could devise was to rewet my hands and flick water at my torso to add more spots that would appear to be the fault of a spraying sink rather than the result of stress incontinence caused by my failure to do the Kegel exercises my doctor prescribed. (Look at me — I obviously cannot discipline myself to do exercises that would produce visible results; do you really think I am going to work out my never-to-be-seen lady parts?)
It was a good thing I did that ingenious camouflaging, since I had to parade myself all around the church to fetch the bulletin that I had neglected to pick up on the way in. Also, I never realized how distracting my children were until we sat in front of half the congregation, who I am pretty sure would rather focus on the Lord than watch Ella and Kate wowing each other with various eraser creations.
Needless to say, next week Grandma is on her own and we will be in the back row where we belong. (You’re welcome, Jesus.)
This may come as a surprise, but the Fourth of July is not my favorite holiday, what with the sweat and the outdoors and the noise and the kids being up past 9:00. And this year’s festivities managed to be notably unpleasant despite the fact that I did not venture outside.
We had invited guests to come over for dinner at 6:00 and they showed up at 5:45, about four minutes after I returned from Walmart to a filthy kitchen, a full dishwasher and a sleeping baby in need of a bath. (I cannot even begin to relate why I was returning from the store so close to the time our guests were supposed to arrive, and no, everything would not have been perfectly in order had they been on time rather than 15 minutes early, but at least it would have been a bit more pulled together. Not that anyone’s judging or anything.)
At least I got to stay home with the baby while Chris took the older girls to the fireworks display, where they sat in the hot, cramped van for an eternity (to hear the girls tell it, anyway) only to learn that the big show was rained out. But the downpour did not deter our neighbors from celebrating explosively on 4th as well as on the 3rd, 5th and YES, 6th. I was tempted to call the cops when they were still blowing stuff up on Monday night, but when they lit a bunch of firecrackers at 11 p.m. Tuesday, sending Ella scampering up to our room for the, oh I don’t know, 15th night in a row, I was ready to move to Canada.
Ella saw her becoming-a-woman film at school on Friday and came home with a red rose. I asked if it was because getting your period was like finding a beautiful red flower in your underpants, but evidently the school nurse didn’t use that symbolism. What a wasted opportunity.
Ella said the film was funny (because it said: “Don’t be afraid — this is exciting!!!”) but was annoyed because the boys’ film only lasted 15 minutes, whereas the girls had a 45-minute Q-and-A session afterward so they missed recess. I thought, Get used to it, honey — that’s the rest of your life right there.
Here’s how big my comfy new underwear are: When I pulled them out of the dryer I started to hang them up because I thought they were a shirt. (A child’s shirt, but still…)
The barking dog keychains with the crazy light-up eyes that you used to bribe our schoolchildren to sell magazines are a godsend. After three weeks of Christmas-break togetherness, my girls had exhausted virtually every topic of disagreement and were in danger of peaceful coexistence. Thank you for providing something new to fight about: who’s copying whose dog name.
Oh, it matters. It matters A LOT.