This is how I roll. All the kids are in one form of school or another this fine mornin’… So what’s a mom to do? I know! Find a local coffee shop with free internet access, buy a caramel macchiato, plant me and my laptop at a table, and take a picture to commemorate such indulgence.
I need to go, really… I have to “do books” for our business and our home, but how can I NOT post on my blog whilst in such a wonderful spot? If you look at the top of my grande, nonfat caramel macchiato - you will see a caramel. Yum. Usually they give a chocolate covered coffee bean. Which I hate - ’cause those make me gag. My mind thinks my mouth is chewing on a cockroach. Texture… texture… eeew.
Anywho… I like carmel - ‘cept I can’t eat it ’cause-a-my braces. But I’m not complainin’, I’m as happy as a… as a… clam. No, what does that even mean? I am as happy as a mom at a coffee shop - with her laptop - with caffeine - with no kids to manage, persuade, tackle or pleade with. Amen.
Since my last “Confession” post seemed to be so popular, I’ve decided to do another. There’s just something about someone else’s “dirty little secret”. Now, I am not going to “do a “Confession Wednesday, Thursday or Friday”, ’cause I prefer alliteration and frankly “Confession Caturday” Just. Doesn’t. Work. Plus, guilt can’t be planned. It is organic, and rises from within. Only one’s gut can put the “Call Out”. Just sayin’…
If I were to overdose on any substance - it would be Oreos.
I’m not even kidding.
I don’t know what it is about those hard chocolate-cookie disks that protect the soft artery-clogging whiteness. Many-a-belly ache I have endured because the emotional pleasure of consumption totally covers up any warning signs my physical body give. Like a drug.
So, if I buy a bag - I buy it for large groups or buy it knowing I will be consuming most of it (*ahem, in hours*). Henceforth, I buy Oreos infrequently, and cannot buy them well in advance of a large-group gathering. I have even put a bag of them girls in a ziploc and then used packing tape to keep me out.
One’s undergarment of choice doesn’t matter… either one’s granny panties are peeking out atop them jeans or possibly one’s buttock cleavage is masquerading as a plumber. Nowadays - the latter is far more common. Either way. Eeeww!
Welp. Necessity is the mother of invention, and wouldn’t cha know - a couple of mothers came up with a great solution - the Hip T! I can’t find an online assessment from a customer, but I went ahead a bought 2 for myself anyway. However, I did find a news story over there on the You Tube though:
Thanks to Candi for passing on this nugget of valuable information. And because I love my peeps, and want to protect my public from the travesty of ill-placed cleavage… I am also passing this on… Consider it my own little Public Service Announcement.
I’m so flippin’ tzough, I had to get me summa them weight liftin’ gloves… so as to prevent man-hands. I got me some callouses and I guess those folks who wear those gloves actually wear them for a reason. How ’bout that. I thought it was a “Tough Guy” thing.
I prefer to call myself a “realist”, though my husband would call it “pessimism”. And that’s because he is so optimistic. (How optimistic is he???) He is so maniacally optimistic that if he were on the edge of eternal dehydration in the desert - he would actually believe that a cloud would see his suffering, come down to him and wring it’s very own moisture straight into his parched mouth. Cloud to him. Serious. Oh yeah. I married an artistic-dreamer-optimist. Some in the medical community call it ADHD.
Hey, this was supposed to be about ME.
With that said, I am struggling with my attitude and perspective on mothering. Whether it’s realism or pessimism, this whole “mom thing” is one tough gig. Especially with a nearly 3 year old… for a third time. I haven’t had a teen yet, so please forgive my naiv-e-tay. I don’t want to know. Continue reading ‘More complaining.’
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