Butter is my favorite food group. OK, maybe that’s not true- maybe it’s really cheese, but I’m in the Paula Deen school of butter philosophy. Everything is better with butter. Lots of butter.
It’s like, midnight thirty, and I can’t sleep. Why? Because I took a NAP today, and my dumb husband let me. What was he thinking? Not only did he let me take a nap, but he FED the kids dinner and put Abby to bed. While I napped. What kind of husband do I have, man. The downside is, I can’t sleep- even a bennedryl isn’t helping, and the monkeys will up bright and early chomping at the bit for me to feed them. See, if I was a good mom, I would use one of the Ree’s recipes and have breakfast casserole all ready. But I’m not. Nor does my husband wear hot chaps to work every day. Sigh…
Serious emotional eating going on here. I have no idea why. Stress? Do I have any stress in my life? Ha! My knee jerk reaction is “no”- seriously, how dumb am I? Pot, meet kettle. So maybe I have some stress. But why oh why do I deal by eating everything carb-y I can lay my glommy little mits on? Oh, look, a vat of sugar! Goody! What can I make? Oh, another pie? Don’t mind if I do, thank you! Oh, look! Some pasta! Mmmmm! Let’s just pick out this ucky green stuff and eat the rest. Mmmmm. It’s the middle of the freakin’ night, and I’m weighing out if I would see anyone I know if I just ran to the grocery store to pick up some frozen TURNOVERS. Crap. What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?
Stupid drive-thrus being open all night. You’re not helping me!!
I chew ice. I’ve heard that’s bad, but I really, really enjoy it- and have since I was a girl. Crushed ice, thank you very much. When I was a kid, we had this old table-top ice crusher, where you filled a hopper with cubes, turned a crank, and the teeth inside chipped and chopped your ice into shrapnel. I loved it. That was before freezer door ice-dispensers; of which, I consider those second only behind hot running water.
If I ever travel back in time, I want to take a tube of mascara. I have the odd, lash-less look of a rabbit, to quote Scarlett O’Hara, without mascara. A prize for anyone who can name who she was talking about when she said that- and goodness knows, if I’m going to time-travel to the antebellum south, I want Scarlett to like me. Or at least not scoff in derision. Although maybe that’s inevitable, since there is no stay on the planet that could cinch my waist to 16 inches. Mercy.
My daydreams are taken up lately with chopping my hair all off. And getting the new Brazilian keratin hair-straightening treatment Jen wrote about. I’m too lazy tonight to make a link, but trust me, it looks good. Three months of silk hair. I haven’t had my hair short since ninth grade. That was a bad year. It was a bad decision to cut all my hair off. Of course, there were not silicon hair smoothers or other goodies for girls with steel wool instead of hair. My hair grew OUT from my head for a good two years before there was enough weight to pull it down again. There are a great deal of pictures where I resemble nothing so much as the Sphinx in silhouette. Maybe I should re-think the cutting, eh?
Who said “Nothing good happens after midnight.”? Was the GBH? Cause maybe they have a point.
Yard sales have been poopy this month. I don’t think there’s been anything good for a few weeks. Today, out with all three kids (cause THAT is a good idea…), I turned down a deadend street. “Crap!” I hollered at the car. Jeffrey pipes up from the back- “MOM! You’re our role model- you can’t say that!” Me, sweating and wresting the giant gas hog that hauls my family, into a seventeen point turn, considers this quite astute an observation and offer “OK, you’re right Jeff, so you and Bean can scream ‘crap’ one time.” “CRAP!” they both immediately bellow, then break into fits of giggles. Mom of the Year, right here.
I wonder what it would cost me to get a giant rubber band put around my stomach on the black market? It’s like, I’m too fat for comfort, but not fat enough to be eligible for any medical help. Sometimes, like Cathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes, “I wish I could just say ‘what the hell’, and get really fat.” But not really.
For three days, all I have been craving is Eggs Benedict. I don’t have any lemon. Again, wondering who I might run into at the grocery, and if it’s worth the gamble. There is no way I’m changing from my jammies, and it’s too warm to use a cloak. I’m fresh out of cloaks anyway. Much like riding horses and men wearing hats, I wish we still used cloaks. I don’t want to give up my ice or my mascara, though.
Recurring theme tonight? Time travel. Food. One o’clock now… The drive-thrus are calling me… Forth meal. What kind of marketing BS is that? Cause that’s what we Americans need, another meal. Three squares a day isn’t enough, no sireee. Gimme more. On that note, the drive-thru idea is giving some sympathetic indigestion. Whew. Save from a horrible caloric misstep by my own gurgling stomach acid! Woooo-hoo!
I paid Jeffrey a box of Lemonheads for him to let me pluck a wild hair he had growing from his cheek yesterday. I did. Like I said, Mom of the Year. Bringing it to ya.