Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Bananas Are a Green Light Food

Dear Food Diary,

I started you in the hopes that I could finally make sense of why I cannot shed these 5  60 pounds that seemed to have just snuck up on me overnight during the last four years.  With hope in my heart and fat cells on my ass, I embarked on my journey, staying diligent and honest as I wrote down each morsel that made it's way into my mouth.  I have to admit.  Seeing my horrendous habits in print made me feel ashamed and suicidal, and also, I have gone through an entire 10 pack of blue ball point pens and it has only been two days.  But I carried on, knowing that only the purest of humiliation could help me get back into my beloved I.N.C. single-digit pants.  I emptied water bottles, gave up Coke Zero, snacked on sugar snap peas and began to use Blue Agave Nectar instead of refined sugar.  In short, I was putting my taste buds through the kind of torture that our National Homeland Security Division would be proud of.  (Seriously guys, call me.  I can have these terrorists giving you all sorts of information by the time they are done with my personalized food plan).

But I have to be honest here, food diary.  You have done nothing to curtail my appetite and in fact, I am  obsessed with food now more than ever (if that is even remotely possible).  You sit there, judging me, waiting for me to eat a family-sized bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos so that I have to hang my head in shame and write it down. 

Well no more food diary.

I will find another way. 

It may or may not include eating less and possibly working out, but until scientific research proves that that is really and truly and for sure, without the slightest bit of doubt or trace of uncertainty, where the margin of error is zero, absolutely positively the ONLY way to do it, I am leaving my options wide open (no pun intended).

And by the way. 
The other night, I baked a dozen banana muffins, ate more than half, and didn't write it down.

Because you are fired.
And because, according to my kindergarten curriculum, bananas are a green light food and


Saturday, September 26, 2009

So What That You Didn't Ask

A bit paranoid.
A little unorganized
The kind of mom that overfills her sons' lunch bags

Heating pads and hot tea are not just for old people
Makeup smudged directly after application
The kind of wife that listens when her husband says "less white granny panties please."

Not phased by the little stuff
because the big stuff takes up too much room
and anyway
there's only 24 hours in a day
I love carbs just a little too much

Sometimes jokes are just jokes
and sometimes I really am trying to fool you
into thinking
that i have all the answers and that
eating peanut butter from the can at midnight doesn't make me feel ashamed

I haven't found a streamlined 12 step that
caters to the
um, variety of issues I have been blessed with
and so peanut butter at midnight, straight from the can
seems an inexpensive and immediately self-gratifying way
to not deal with much of anything actually.

I have to step over the thresholds of doorways
just so
but I have perfected public self-control
so don't blink
you might miss it

Grateful that YouTube was not yet invented
when I made those wise choices
in my other life
and that no one
ever dumped me
via text
because I don't think
I would have taken that

Hip surgery in sixth grade
they said i was chubby lucky they caught it in time
and I still can't sit
Indian Style, or Criss Cross Applesauce, or whatever the hell we're supposed to call it
because it hurts like hell

I finally have
some color in my wardrobe
and a hairstyle that I probably won't change for a really long time
more self-esteem than I thought possible
friends who can depend on me
and a man who thinks I'm sexy
(he tells me so via text)

Now I just need
to fit into those jeans I bought
before I began to self-medicate with Peter Pan Peanut Butter,
and less doorways
between where I am
and where I'm going to go.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Bits and Pieces

Snippets of conversations I've had with others this week.  Some funny.  Some sad.  All a part of this journey I'm on called Life.

Me:  "He thinks my eyes look like sunflowers."
My Mom:  "He must be blind."
(During a conversation where I told her that my husband stared into my eyes lovingly and gave me a compliment.  She's super supportive.  Can you tell?)
Husband:  "Do we have any cold water in the fridge?"
Me:  "Nope."
Husband:  "Fine.  I don't want to, but I guess I have to drink a cold beer now.  Sheesh."
(Sunday night, post dinner, complaining that he has to drink his Black Toad beer because I didn't fill the fridge with water bottles.  Bad Wife.)
Me:  "How do I look?"
Superman:  "Mom, you never look weird.  Ever."
Trying to get an opinion on my outfit prior to going out with the family on Friday night.  Gotta love the honesty.  And.  The only reason he thinks this is because he's never seen a picture from my high school glory days, where experimenting with polyester and colored bands on braces was routine.  And he never will.
Jillian Michaels:  "If you're looking for an easier way to do this, you won't find it here.  I have 400 pound people doing jumping jacks.  If they can do it, so can you."
Me:  "Shut Up."
Heidi (Monchichi's Therapist):  "I heard that!"
Doing the SHRED workout on DVD with the trainer from the fiery pits ofhell The Biggest Loser.
Grandma:  "Which house am I in?  Where is my room?  Why are you all lying to me?
Me:  You are home, grandma, and we are here with you.  No one is lying.  I love you.
My grandmother, whose dementia continues to increase in severity as she faces the final chapter in her life.  A constant reminder to count my blessings.
Me:  "I know I should be happy, and I am.  But I want the decision to be on my terms, not based on genetics or fear.  I feel selfish feeling it, but I do."
My Sister:  "It's okay.  I think that's normal."
Sitting next to the fountain in Old Town Orange, next to a woman and her newborn baby girl, which prompted me to cry about not being able to have another baby because of the risk of autism.
Me:  "Boris, are you okay?  How do you like school so far?"
Boris: *sniffling*  "It's taking me so long to calm down.  Now I have to tell my dad that I had a bad mood.  Going to school each weekday from 9-3 is hard work."
After approaching a new student of mine who was having difficulty adjusting to life as a full-time student.
Husband:  Honey, wanna watch a movie?
Me:  Sure!
Husband:  Which one?
Me:  *hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr*
Passing out on Friday night after my first week back at work.  I think it was 8:30 p.m.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009


I reside
in the center of a fierce storm
brewing all around me, destroying those I love,
crushing egos and creating new scars

I open my mouth to
utter words of encouragment or support
but they sound superficial and stupid in light of all that is happening

There is little I can do
though my nature is to rush towards the mess and try to untangle it
so my heart and hands are restless
as I watch pain overcome loved ones

I make noise as I speak but make little sense
because mere words cannot undo
the solid damage of heartache
and death
and disappoinment

I am stuck here
in the eye of this brutal and unfair storm
watching the human spirit crumble
while I stand on a shaky foundation
amidst a false calm

Today I wish I could control what is not mine
I am helpless

*This post is not meant to be mysterious. There are people in my life going through some tough times.  Sometimes, in order to process and accept what is happening around me, I turn to the one thing I know, which is writing.  In order to be true to myself in something I am fiercly passionate about, I choose to share with you most everything, even though it may not make sense and you may walk away going, What the Hell Was That.

Monday, September 14, 2009


They came.
They colored.
They conquered.

Today was the first day of school.
More importantly,
The first day of Kindergarten.

I love teaching this age group
but each First Day of School
I sort of forget why.

New faces.
New names.
New Playground Drama.

I am too tired to type.
Too exhausted to think of a title for this post.

Please take a moment to feel sorry for me.
I think I need faster shoes, a taser, and at least a standard Costco-sized palatte of Airborne.

Must. Eat. Chocolate.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

A Necessary Evil

I dread our daily meeting
tip-toeing down the hallway
holding my breath
regretting yesterday's choices

You are a fearsome foe
illiciting feelings of self-hatred
my self-worth diminishing
the closer I get to your presence

I have tried to make amends
and accept your existance
telling myself that you mean nothing
in the grand scheme of things
i make empty promises
about restraint
and starting over
but the resolve lasts only hours
and the familiar pang of
disappointment and despair
slowly creeps back into the crevices of
an obsessive mind

I know I cannot avoid you forever
and so
I make my way towards your perfection
standing still as I wait for your reaction
my eyes half shut while I dare myself to look
as you take your sweet-ass time in making your judgment
having no idea the anguish you are causing

I let out a stifled sigh

Your silence
and nonchalance
are obnoxious
making you
no friend of mine


*You didn't actually think I would post a picture with my weight on there, did you?*

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Sell 17 Items. Or Else.

So Monchichi comes home today with a giant envelope from school.  Inside is a four-inch-thick catalog of things they are forcing my child to peddle in order to earn his school some more money. 

Believe me.  I am not blind to the fact that when his teacher wants to make copies she has to count out the exact number of pages she is going to use and then mark them down on some ominous-looking recording sheet that gets sent to the Governor who makes sure that she is not on some Xerox high and adding to the billions of dollars that California already owes to.....everyone.  So far the lights are still on at his school and the toilets flush, but it could all be taken away at any second.

I get it.

But I also think that back in the early 1900's some child labor laws were passed and I'm pretty sure that First Grade Salesmen fall into that category.  I could be way off base here folks but all of a sudden it smells like a white collar sweatshop around here. 

So I am flipping through this very GIANT and very HEAVY catalog and notice the page with the prize list.    For every $50 dollars in sales, your child qualifies for a flourecent eraser.  If he meets the $150 mark, he  can join the "Hamster Rumble Party"where he'll have fun racing a hamster in the rumble." 

What. The. Hell.

And the top two sellers will have lunch with the Principal.
When did having lunch with the lady that makes up all the stupid school rules become a prize? 


Now the pressure is on.  Because if Monchichi doesn't sell anything, he won't get that coveted eraser or, more importantly, be able to race rodents in the rumble.  And I don't want him to miss out on something that....bizarre.  So of course, guess who's going to be marching up and down her neighborhood and accosting co-workers and standing on the corner of East Chapman and Prospect and soliciting churches and soup kitchens (hey...the homeless could definatley use the Glow in the Dark Set of 15 Bracelets for $7.00. Better than that beer you know they were gonna buy ). 

Plus it brings up traumatic memories of never meeting the Roller Skating Party quota that I aimed for each year during my own wrapping paper fundraising career.  I was always several hundred short and came home with some lame keychain that boasted our mascot in what now seems to be a precarious position while my friends giggled as they got on the yellow bus that took them to pre-adolescent paradise. 


I thought I was over that.

Which just goes to shows you how dangerous and life-altering these fundraisers can be if your child is a loser and doesn't make enough money for his school.  Don't you remember the assemblies filled with loud thumping music designed to get your adrenaline pumping so that you would go home and scare the old ladies in your neighborhood into buying that millionth roll of gold embossed poinsetta wrapping paper? Where the Fundraising People, dressed in matching red polo shirts screamed chants into the microphone in typical suicide-cult fashion?  Don't you recall the heart-thumping, panic-attack inducing, door-to-door ales pitches that left you feeling winded and vulnerable and desperate for a snickers bar or two?  Have you forgotten the ego bruising and demoralization that comes with not being able to close a sale? 


Do you want to put Monchichi through that?  Do you want that on your shoulders? Because I sure don't.
Which is why I am passing the responsibility onto you and unabashadly using my blog to advertise items such as:

The Smiley Flower Hat $12.00
"You don't get any happier than this great new hat!  Not only is the hat itself cool, it's got a bendable smile flower on top that you can pose into any position!"


The Guy's Tag Necklace $10.00
"Masculine style at its best!  The rectangle shaped pendant is embossed and strung on a brown cord."

Email me right away and have your credit card number ready.  You'll be giving my oldest son a chance to abuse a hamster for a day. 

 And that would almost make up for missing the Roller Skating Party of '89.


Saturday, September 5, 2009



*clearing throat*




*clearing throat loudly*

Oh for the love of God.
You are just like a man.


Nope. Didn't cut my hair.  I should.  But I didn't.
Nope. Didn't lose any weight.  Again.  The need is there, but no follow through.

I'll give you a few minutes to think about it.

When you've figured it out, give me a holler, and let me know what you think.

In the meantime you ought to work on your observation skills a bit.


Friday, September 4, 2009

Be Careful Who You Complain To

I was rockin a pretty decent headache yesterday. It might have had something to do with shopping for back to school crap with Superman and being overwhelmed by the ability to spend money at Target again.

In any case, I drove home with one eye shut, popped some tylenol, drank half a pot of coffee and

Told. My. Mom.

Which resulted in THIS:

Not the zit dummy.

The cabbage hat on my head.

Obviously you know very little in the ways of back alley headache treatments.

By the end of the night
my head was still pounding.
But I had a blog topic for today!
And really, that's the most important thing here, isn't it?

My father would like me to mention that my mother's cabbage cure does not represent the views of all Polish people.

Because we are a country divided between cabbage and peppermint, mashed potatoes and vinegar.

So you can have your Tylenol and Vicks.

I like treatments that you can nibble on in case you get hungry in the middle of the night.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

They Don't Serve Earl Grey @ The Improv: A Review

When the waitress came by our table last night at the comedy club and I asked for hot tea, she stared at me like I was suffering from a very debilitating mental disorder.

Which I am, but that's for another time and place.

I know they want you good and loaded so that you laugh harder and spend all of your unemployment money on overpriced drinks with names like "Come with Friends, Leave with A Stranger," and "You'll End Up In a Dark Alley In Mexico After Drinking This," but what about those of us who prefer not to go to jail and stay sober?

To be fair they had Lemon Snapple, but what I really wanted was some Earl Grey Tea.
No. Not with Crumpets.
But a blueberry scone would have been nice.

My disappointment was quickly eradicated when these guys got up on stage and I spent the next two hours trying not to pee my pants (and not because I had too much "You'll Be Licking the Backside of Our Toilet on the Rocks.")

There was a spelling bee and a pink tutu, a ping pong match and marital counseling, an R rated children's show and some underwear that redefined the term "Too Much Information."

In other words, a comedy show not everyone should see.

And by not everyone I mean those of you who prefer to walk through life with a gigantic pole stuck up your keister.

But perfect for those of you like my sister and I, who cook Sunday dinner impersonating Paula Deen, complete with Southern accents and imaginary cameras in the kitchen.

What. That's not weird, is it?

A Pair of Nuts.

Two Nutty Cubans making the world a better place one pink tutu at a time.