Foiled Again

Where we left off, I, your poor, fat housewife, was sniffly, bitchy and without a Kitchen Aid mixer.

I am still sniffly, bitchy, and without a Kitchen Aid mixer, but there's more now. It seems someone, somewhere, some powers that be, some higher power, perhaps, is preventing me from stimulating the economy. Like some cosmic financial cock blocker is fending off my attempted stimulation.

What, you may ask, am I blathering on about? Well, I'll tell ya Ms. Impatience Pants.

I got an email from my dear friend Cristie, telling me that she read my blog post about the Kitchen Aid mixer and that Amazon had them on sale for 179.99 which was still a damn good price. My heart leapt! I began to sing. Sure, it was $30 more than the sale yesterday, but still well under $200. I began whipping up egg whites effortlessly and unattended, in my mind. I skipped on over to Amazon, with joy in my heart and my credit card on file. I was there as quickly as I could have been, stopping for nothing and... no. No, by the time I got there, they were up 20 more dollars, putting them just one penny under my 200 limit. I just couldn't do it. Not now, anyway. Times are tight and all that jazz.

So then later, I find myself at Target, rummaging through the clearanced Easter items. We had to toss out a lot of our Easter decorations due to a mouse infestation. Long story on that one that I'll take with me to my grave. Although, if bribed with love and praise, the story could be coaxed out of me. Anyway, I'm in the Easter clearance aisle and there's nothing left. Just a bunch of crap candy and a few baskets.

Clearly saddened and dejected by my failure to spend, a salesman at the electronics counter calls out to me.

"We've got a lot of items deeply reduced," he called out in a fiscally seductive tone. "Lots of floor models which give you an extra 40% off." He was killing me softly with his song.

And there, at the electronics counter I fell in love with a camcorder. It was lovely. It was tiny enough for my pocket. It had a good picture quality and didn't require any disks or memory cards or anything. Best was that it was $130 marked down to $90 and then an additional 40% for the floor model.

With joy in my heart and American Express in my hand, I told the hunka hunka burnin' sales that I'd take the darn thing. He began to ring me up and while doing so, started to take the camera off its stand to box it up. In so doing, he tested it. But it would not turn on. Then he looks to try to get it off the stand and it won't come off. I see him grab the scanner gun and scan the UPC code.

Like watching a loved one flat line, I didn't need an expert to tell me my transaction was dead. I just needed to know why.

"I'm sorry," said the man who played me, "I did everything I could. But this... this... this just isn't a camera. It is merely a display model with no working parts."

I dropped my head down to my chest and heaved a great sigh of sorrow and savings.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes, there's one thing," I said. "Can you point me in the direction of the Kitchen Aid mixers."

Flabby Keister!

Or Happy Easter, if you prefer. But I know mine is much more Flabby Keister.

Ya know, Easter is my favorite religious holiday. I love Christmas (and really, who doesn't?) and Halloween is always fun, too. But I really dig the whole Lenten season and the culmination of it all on Easter. I always have. Even as a young child. But today kind of a 7 on a 10 scale.

First of all, I'm sick. Yes, you read that right. The woman who openly mocks the poorly conditioned, immuno challenged weaklings that whine incessantly about their allergies and their sinus conditions that breed asmatic children with ear tubes and grossly enlarged adnoids has been sick since Christmas. Seriously.

Second, mass this morning sucked. I have had several conversations with different people over the last week about C&E Catholics and the irritation others feel at their presence at mass on Christmas and Easter. I had even thought about writing up a post about how I rather enjoy seeing them pack the house on the holidays. How I feel this is time to reach out to them, bring them back into the church. There were a few years that I too was a C&E and I could have used to have someone reach out to me.

HA! My high horse bucked me off so hard I think I cracked my fucking tailbone.

We arrived at church a full fifteen minutes before mass. Now, I know that isn't enough time. I had planned on getting there a half hour earlier, but I had three children to get dressed and a terribly grumpy husband who acts like a 15 year old every Sunday morning. "Do we have to go to mass today?" "I don't have anything to wear." "I think I'm coming down with something." Anyway, we got there later than I wished.

The parking lot was filled. The streets were filled. We wound up parking about a 1/3 of a mile away and walking back. By the time we walked in, the bells were ringing and there was only one small spot left for standers within the santuary, which we snagged. All those walking in after us were stuck out in the vestibule.

Have you ever had to stand the entirety of Easter Sunday mass with three small children? It was hell. Pure hell. Roman whined and laid in the aisle. Reilly Kate shoved gumballs in her mouth and blew bubbles. Iryna dumped a whole bag of crushed Veggie Booty and then screamed while trying to pull up my shirt in a demand to nurse. Add to it, my 15 year old husband kept bugging me with, "Can we go now?" "You wanna go now?" "When do you want to leave?"

We did survive, but not before I put a curse on every single face I didn't recognize. As the parish is enormous, I'm sure I cursed people who attend mass daily. But I don't care. Someone obviously cursed me and I'm just passing it on. Like the bad cold I've been fighting for weeks now. I'm just passing it on.

Lunch was nice. We went to this Brazilian BBQ joint. If you haven't gone to one yet, go! It was fabulous! We topped it off with sugar free cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory. Also, fabo!

Then we came home. Mike and the kids were out playing in the yard and I stayed in, farting around on the computer for hours. Rather than do anything constructive with my time, I learned all about how to create a home altar (um, yeah, like I'm going to do that anyway!). In my quest to decorate my home altar in my mind, I went to Amazon to find electric flickering candles. As I always do on Amazon, I first head to Today's Deals. There I find... WHAT??? WHAT MANNA FROM THE GOOD LORD ABOVE IS THIS?

A 5 qt Kitchen Aid mixer for $150!!

The Doubting Thomas in me says, "There's a catch." So ignoring the fact that Amazon is warning me there is only one more in stock, I went off to google the specs on the mixer. Huh. And I find that normally $250 is a good price.

By the time I raced back to Amazon to get it, they were all sold out. Nothing. No mixer for me.

Ya know, I've been wanting one of those for about 5 years. I price them all the time. But alas it is not to be.

There you have it. I am sick, evil, and lacking a mixer. Thank God I still have Kleenex, holy water, and a whisk. How's that for upbeat?

There's no place like... Mom's Closet?

As you may or may not know, I'm now the proud member of a homeschool group. Yes, those of us so independent minded that we refuse to send our children to institutionalized learning facilities cling to one another like little monkeys in a hurricane. And we have a book club, too. We're reading The Wizard of Oz.

I'm hosting the club which is pretty interesting as I have never even been to a book club before. I'm a good bluffer. After all, I did teach English in Korea for a couple of years. That qualifies me as bluffer extraordinaire.

I've invited all the children to dress up as their favorite character from the book. Reilly Kate is trying to decide between the Tin Woodman and Toto. I'm pulling for Toto as he will be a much easier costume.

Roman wants to be...

Dorothy.

"Dorothy is my favorite character," he insists.

"But what about the Lion? He's cool. And he roars and everything." I push, just slightly.

"Yeah, he's cool. But Dorothy is my favorite," he maintains.

"But the Lion talks like this," I tell him in my best Southern drawl. I do accents when I read to the kids to help them distinguish each character. The Lion is a hick in my world.

"Yeah, but Mom [which sounds like Mah-ah-ahm with a whine], you said pick my favorite character and Dorothy is my favorite character."

"I'll have to put your hair up in pig tails," I inform him rather snappily.

"Alright," he sighs.

"And you'll have to wear a dress," was my final blow to his budding manliness.

He looked down at his feet and took a deep breath. Then he looked up at me and said, "Okay. I'll wear a dress."

And so it is, that my son, his father's only son, his father's father's only grandson, his father's father's father's only great grandson (need I go on?) is dressing as Dorothy this Thursday.

I'll keep ya posted.

Vegevore or Meatatarian

Vegetarianism has spread through our homeschool group, like ukus (Hawaiian for head lice) spread through Roman's preschool. Fortunately, both have skipped our house, although, I'm not holding my breath on the ukus (pronounced oo-koos).

My kids are both confirmed carnivores. They love meat. Love it. We've never kept the source of meat a secret. In fact, we have focused many a dinner conversation on the fact that an animal had to die in order for us to eat it and we therefore will not waste food, but will eat it -- respectfully, thankfully.

Reilly Kate must have been about two when she first talked about going hunting. I don't remember specifically what brought it up, but we were talking about cute, little, fluffy bunny rabbits.

"Do people eat bunnies?" she asked.

"Ummm, yeah. They are farmed and hunted. And they're kept as pets, too. They make great pets," I offered.

Nodding, she said with confidence, "When I get big, I'm gonna go kill a bunny rabbit so I can eat it."

She then proceeded to describe, in great detail, how she would go into a forest and kill a cute, fluffy bunny and throw it over her shoulder to bring it back to her house to cook and eat.

That's when I knew vegetables would always be a side dish on her plate.

Since moving here, to what we affectionately call "rural DC," we have been buying beef and pork from a natural, sustainable farm in Delaplane, Virginia. We've made several trips out to the farm, and have even been invited to meet our "beef" prior to slaughter. Much to the kids disappointment, I turned that offer down. Looking face to face with my dinner would turn me into a vegetarian faster than you can say PETA.

Mike took the kids out to the slaughterhouse to pick up our processed pork. When they walked in, there hung a freshly killed, skinned deer, sans head. Now, had either Mike or I, being the city kids we were, seen something like that at our kids' ages, we'd have been so scarred that Thanksgiving would have been all about Tofurkey and eggplant. But our kids took it all in stride.

"Look," said Roman, pointing. "Blood."

"Where's the head?" asked Reilly Kate.

"Why'd they cut the head off?" echoed Roman.

"Well, nobody eats the head," answered Mike.

"How come?" they inquired.

Yeah, a little freaky for former vegans like Mike and I -- oh, I haven't yet mentioned our vegan years when Thanksgiving actually was all about Tofurkey and eggplant? But I think both Reilly Kate and Roman have a healthy understanding of the food chain and accept their place in it.

So imagine my surprise when Reilly Kate says to me that her homeschooled and recently turned veggie friend, Zack, told her a secret -- a secret that she wasn't to tell anyone, even me. Of course, she doesn't keep secrets from me, YET. Out pours the big secret:

"Cows have to be killed for us to get burgers," she whispers.

"Right. Yeah. You know that already," I said.

"Yes, I know," she continued to whisper. "But I didn't know it was a secret."

From now on we'll pretend to pick our burgers off the burger bush. Hopefully, no one will hear the carrots scream or the berries whimper. And hopefully, we get the ukus and not the veggies. It's easier to cure the ukus.

Scene & Herd

A couple of weeks ago, while readying ourselves for swimming lessons, Reilly Kate asked me, "Can I please wear my zucchini today?"

Annoyed, irritated, and overburdened all the while running 20 minutes late, I snipped, "Your what? You're wearing your bathing suit."

"But can I wear my new one? The zucchini you bought me for Disney World. Please?"

"Whatever. Just put your suit on and get ready," replied Mama Dearest.

A few minutes later I looked up to see my gorgeous daughter in an adorable Tinkerbelle tankini.

Proudly, she said, "Don't I look good in zucchinis?"

Yes, my sweet. And I'll bet you'd look good in portabellas, too!

Later that day, though, after misbehaving while she was supposed to be doing some math problems, I took away a few toys.

With tears streaming down her face, she begged, "No, Mama! NO! Not my aerobics cube!!"

Ah, if only solving an aerobics cube would help me look better in a zucchini.

Never to be outdone by his sister... or more aptly, normally outdone by his sister, but not this time...

Roman. My sweet, sweet boy.

Today he got very angry with me for refusing his request to bring toys with us to a homeschool playdate. While I was bent over changing Iryna's diaper, he punched me several times in the buttocks. Despite the extraordinary padding I have back there, it still hurt. I turned on him and paddled his rear, then sending him off to his room (for those of you nonspankers, Good for you and keep your comments to yourself -- I too was a nonspanker once... And if you want to stay that way, just shut it or I'll send you my kids for a month and you too will no longer be a nonspanker).

A few minutes later, a teary eyed Roman emerged from his room.

"Ca-ca-can I come do-do-down now?" he whimpered.

"No. No you cannot," I yelled from high upon my Mommy throne at the bottom of the staircase. "Just who do you think you are that you hit your mother like that? Huh? Who do you think you are?!?!" I demanded.

"An asshole?" was his guess.

I had to walk away to avoid him seeing me laugh. I walked away while yelling, "Get back to your room and think about that some more."

(Okay, now you nonspankers may go ahead and think exactly what it is that I always said, "Violence begets violence." Go ahead. Think it. Think it loudly. Think it condescendingly. But don't you dare post it on here. I'll come and spank your ass if you do.)

And lastly.

A birthday picture of the sweetest baby that ever passed through these hips. She is now sleeping well, and happily in her crib. All by herself. All night long. Wish I could say that about my first two demon spawn... er... I mean, angels from heaven who still at the ages of 4 and 6 do not sleep through the night, do not sleep in their own beds, and do not sleep happily. Ever. Not that I'm crabby and sleep deprived or anything.

Anyway. Here she is in her birthday hanbok.