Remember When?

          My darling girl and I are riding in the car after I pick her up from school. After reviewing her progress through the many twists and turns of high school life, she asks me how my day was.

          “Okay,” I reply with an abundance of self pity, “I had to go to the doctor for my yearly, which would be more accurately called a three-yearly because that’s how long it takes me to force myself to go.”

          After she sits for a minute trying to decide if she should drag that small piece of wisdom into her adulthood, she asks, “What’s a yearly?”

          “Once a year, you should go to the doctor, lie in an uncomfortable paper robe, let the doc examine your “girls” (that’s our slang for boobies) for any lumps that could be cancerous, and then he/she takes a peek at your “whoha” (that’s our slang for va-j-ja [that’s Oprah’s slang for vagina]. We also have: treasure box, the no-no spot, your unmentionables, your hoochie, and occasionally your beaver).”

          “Mom, do you remember when I was little and you would say, ‘I will tell you when you’re older?’” she asks me.

          “Yup,” I reply nodding.

          “Can we please go back to that?”

You Have a Phone Call

           Nooooo…… I mentally groan after I receive the first phone call of the day. ‘It’s going to be a long day’ bounces around my brain.

            I grab the phone and answer before the first ring is even complete. “Hello?” I ask, hopeful that it is not the other kid calling to establish his side of the event.

            “But Mom…” is all I hear before I hiss into the phone, “Stop this nonsense right now. I can’t have you calling me at work for this crap.”

            Do your lively little puffalumps do this to you? Do they call you constantly at work to referee their disagreements? Do they trap you on the phone to debate the things they know you don’t allow just because you can’t really get into a long drawn out discussion? It is so aggravating and yet what can you do?  You can’t threaten to drown them in the vicinity of your co-workers and employers. You can’t pledge to starve them unless peace follows this phone call. You can’t tie them up and leave them in the trunk while pretending they are at Grandmas.

            “Listen closely.” I whisper, “If you two don’t stop fighting and I have to leave work, I am going to kill you and say that you ran away. And I mean it this time.“

            “But Mom,” says my determined puffalump, “I just wanted to say I love you and have a good day, geez.”

            I think tomorrow’s blog should be about guilt.

The Pleasures of Oatmeal

             I decided to begin the New Year with a healthier attitude towards diet and exercise. See, I hate exercise. I am basically a very lazy girl who was cheated genetically with the metabolism of a sloth. Other people seem to be able to down large amounts of wonderful, decadent, calorie laden food while still staying lean. I, however, am engaged in a constant battle with the zipper on my jeans.  

                My idea of a perfect meal begins with a cupcake as an appetizer. Previously, when I have committed to the “battle of the bulge” I would simply stop eating food along with the large amount of sugar I consume. I don’t care about food. I don’t overindulge on food. A pork chop does not excite me. I could go endless years without a potato.  Seriously, aren’t vegetables something you drown in ranch dressing? Food just isn’t an issue for me.  Unless… it is covered in sugar. Then I could easily overdose on a sugar high. I love cake for breakfast. I need to satisfy my sweet tooth with confections covered in chocolate. I adore skipping the lunch segment of lunch and jumping right into the hot fudge sundae portion. I think that cookies prove that there are many different kinds of heaven.

                But I really do want to live to a ripe old age with multitudes of grandbabies bouncing on my knee. I also want to be active well into my golden years and experience life without the aid of insulin and scooter chairs. I have decided, like many of you, that I will embrace a healthier lifestyle. I have committed to a regime of healthy living with nutritious food and daily exercise. I can’t say it has been easy, but I was diligent these last few weeks and have successfully stuck with the program. I had mostly convinced myself that I wasn’t even missing the sinfully pagan ways of my sugar loving old self,  until my husband woke me from a deliriously happy dream last night. He said I was moaning a sexy little moan and was wondering if maybe I was dreaming of him. I smiled a sleepy smile, trying to slip back into my delectable dream, and replied much to his disappointment, that I wasn’t dreaming of him; I was dreaming of oatmeal. Yup, oatmeal. 

                It wasn’t any old oatmeal though. The oatmeal of my dreams was covered in mounds and mounds of brown sugar. I guess I really can't fault my sinful, pagan, sugar loving old self, at least it added oatmeal to the wonderful gooeyness of warm, melted, gobs of golden brown sugar!

The Days of the Week

          My sister is smarter than she looks.

            I was talking to her on the phone one recent afternoon, when her daughter started screaming in the background.

           “Just one sec, sis,” she says.

           “Hey, silly girl,” she whispers to her beloved oldest child, “you forgot - it’s No Yell Sunday”.

           “What is No Yell Sunday?” I solicit curiously.

           Well, it seems my sis got a little frustrated one afternoon. After a day of endless fighting, infinite clutter, regular back talking, and continuous lying she called a family meeting.

           At some point during this attempt to reduce some of the craziness in her life, a remarkable idea was born; Days of the Week. Oh, this is not a average days of the week transformation. We’re not singing cute little songs around here. This is a serious and momentous thing.  Life altering!

           Are you ready?  Here it is:

                       No Yelling Sunday

                       No Fighting Monday

                       Pick Up After Yourself Tuesday

                       No Lying Wednesday

                       No Back Talking Thursday

                       No Name Calling Friday         

                       No Whining Saturday

           I praise her cleverness, “You are one smart cookie!”.

           At that very moment, in the background, I hear my dearest niece quietly calling her brother a jerk.

           “Well, it isn’t No Name Calling Friday,” My very witty Sister declares laughing.