And The Mother Of The Year Award Goes To....

I grew up poor. The kind of poor where you go to the Salvation Army to pick up free food, free clothes- free anything.  The kind with government cheese and free lunches. The kind where describing it as "dirt poor" would be doing it a favor.  We lived on the very edge of the good school district, a shabby little five room rental with a bare front yard.  The kids that I went to school with- all from well to do, normal families- were not my friends.  Today they'd call what they said and did to me in elementary school "bullying".  Back then, it was just the poor little misfit getting what she deserved. No matter what I did, there was no way to fit in- I looked different than everyone else. I wore whatever shabby rags my mom could find at the clothes closet for me.  I got one pair of shoes at the beginning of the school year- white canvas shoes, not even name brand Keds, but some generic Dollar General version.  By November they'd have holes in the toes, but I'd have to wear them anyway.  There wasn't money for more than that pair.

I tell you this not to make you feel sorry for the poor little greasy haired child that I was.  I tell you so that you can understand why it pisses me off that my children are such ungrateful little crap monkeys. Being poor for my kids means having to get water at the country club instead of soda. It means possibly choosing between the New Balance and the Adidas because we aren't buying both. Under no circumstance would they ever be caught dead in shoes from Target, much less Dollar General. They aren't growing up rich by any means, but their proverbial cup runneth over.

That's why yesterday afternoon when my daughter screamed- for the zillionth time this week- about how she "never gets anything" I freaking lost it. Like head spinning, pea soup shooting out of my mouth freaking lost it. The child gets every single last thing that she asks for.  I seriously cannot remember the last time that she needed, or even wanted, something that someone didn't rush right out and obtain it for her.

Now, clearly I have to take some responsibility in the spoiling of my own child.  I suppose I have a slight complex- the "I had nothing so I want you to have everything" mentality.  I don't mind giving her things, making sure that she fits in- I just want her to be appreciative of it.  A nice "Thank you, mother dear, for everything that you and my wonderful father do for me."  Would that be so difficult?

Apparently so.  So yesterday when she brought yet another book order form in and had circled fifty different books that totaled a gagillion dollars, she fully expected me to whip out the checkbook and place the order.  Never mind that pesky grocery budget or that her brother needs new cleats for football- she wanted every single book, and I was the Wicked Witch of the Midwest for not getting them for her.  I'm all about some compromise (especially when it works in my favor) so I told her to get it down to under $20, and that was all I was paying.  If she wanted to spend more than that, she was using her own money.

Oh. My. God.  You would have thought that I told the child that she wasn't eating this week so that I could afford a spa getaway.  She screamed. She cried. She wishes I would just die.  I never do anything for her.  Blah blah blah. If this is what we get at 10 years old, then I wish I would just die so that I don't have to deal with the teenage years!

So no books, I said.  You don't deserve anything.  Go to your room.

Then the guilt settled in.  I mean, it's books. It's not like she was asking for video games or some other useless brain drain.  She wanted literature.  Could I really punish the child by taking away the gift of the written word?

Damn English major. 

So of course this morning, I pulled out the cash and took the book order to the school.  Drove it there myself, taking time out of my morning to make sure that it arrived on time. I justified it by only buying two books from her list. 

That'll teach her.

You're Mama's So Fat....

For years now my weight has fluctuated, going up and down like a yo-yo (though apparently it knows nothing about gravity and therefore insists on staying up more often than not).  I have many fully legitimate excuses for my heftier than average derriere- kids, thyroid, biology.... In the end though, it boils down to one thing.

I. Love. Food.

All food, from carnival corn dogs and funnel cakes to pepper crusted fillet and lobster at the club. I have the appetite of a 13 year old boy, but the metabolism of a retired sumo wrestler.  The fact that I've also never met a desert that I don't like doesn't help.  I can finish off an entire birthday cake before the candles are blown out, given the opportunity. 

I know this isn't healthy, and so I try my damnedest to curb the obsession.  Unfortunately, I also have zero will power.  Zilch.  So it's the same every time, without fail- I do great for a couple of days, and then suddenly I find myself hiding in the pantry eating three dozen Twinkies and a bag of chips. I know what you're thinking- just don't buy it and then you won't eat it.  Nope, doesn't work.  I'll eat stale animal cracker crumbs if that's all I've got. 

So in the time honored tradition of women everywhere who can't buckle their jeans any longer, I am starting a diet.  Again.  And I'm inviting you guys along for the ride.  Maybe if all three of you (God, there's at least three of you, right?!) are watching it will force me to stick with it. So diet attempt #7,953,441 is officially underway!

After I finish that lost box of Twinkies.

Yup, sounds like a damn good plan to me. 

So It Begins....

For many, many moons I have thought about this- this online diary of sorts, putting my thoughts out there for the world to see.  This may or may not prove to be a good thing.  For one, my thoughts are not always that interesting, but when they are- boy oh boy, you do not want to miss that! Secondly, I am the most computer illiterate person that I know.  You'd think that I was a 75 year old Social Security recipient who had never even heard of one of them fancy contraptions- the computer- until I was well out of my child bearing years and past the prime of my life.  Nope.  I am the computer generation.  Yet somehow, by some streak of un-luck, I have made it into my thirties and still don't know the first damn thing about the computer. Of course this means that I also have the most temperamental, useless machine on the planet at my disposal. When it works, angels sing and I radiate happiness.  Sometimes though, she's a nasty little bitch just out of spite, and I spend the entire day shutting down and restarting, my only known response to her antics. Someday I will trash her, beat the hell out of her with a baseball bat, just like in Office Space, while "Damn It Feels Good to Be A Gangsta" plays in the background.... Until then, though, she is my link to the outside world, to all that has been left behind and all that is yet to be discovered.

So come join me if you'd like.  This will prove to be a hodge-podge of all things me: some crafty things, some weight loss things (not that I'd recommend following any of my advice. Just take a look at the title of this blog!), some random thoughts on random things, and a diary of my past.  Raw and real, nothing held back.  Kinda like looking through the glass at the zoo (or more accurately some days, the mental wing).  So kick of your shoes, grab a bowl of popcorn, and enjoy the show :)