A Granddaughter's Love

You know those people that do things out of the goodness of their hearts?  The ones that do for others, just because, and never complain about it?

Yeah..
sooooooo not me.

With my parents galavanting halfway across the world in Singapore on some alleged "business" trip, I've been caring for my elderly grandmother (do I even have to put the word "elderly" in that sentence?  Isn't it implied that she's older than dirt since I'm in my thirties and she's my grandmother? I mean, she's not my hot co-ed grandmother, right?) whom I love so much.  Lately though, I've been fighting a strong urge to drop her off curbside at a local Denny's just long enough so that I can hang out with people who don't keep their teeth next to their bed in a yellow plastic container.*

I don't mind bathing her (though she has a reputation for getting frisky with the showerhead).
I don't mind cooking and cleaning and laundering for her.
I don't mind the hugging and conversing with her.
I don't even mind cleaning her commode (though in all honesty, I really freaking mind)

What I do mind is that I have to do it all for free.

As if the fact that she helped raise me, loved me unconditionally, and despite the odds, managed to survive my homicidal teen agnst "childish antics" automatically gives her a five-finger discount on round the clock care.

Honestly.  What's the going rate for SUCKER nowadays?

In other news, I have a hole in one of my molars and just as I've gotten used to the throbbing sensation, a sort of blinding, searing pain has appeared, just to shake things up I imagine.

Which brings me to the photo below.  Because if she's not going to pay me in cold hard cash, the least she can do is loan me her dentures when she's not using them.  The only other alternative is that I'll have to go to the dentist and there's not a chance in hell that's gonna happen.

Yep.  I prefer THIS to the dentist.

*My denture box will be green.

Blame it on the Rain

It's been uncharacteristically rainy this past week here in Orange County and I'm loving every second of it.

Unfortunately for you this means that I'm too busy drinking chai lattes and watching the Law and Order: Special Victims Unit marathon on USA to blog.

In fact, I'm so lazy right now I've only been flushing the toilet every other time, which is fine if I'm home alone, but can get dicey if anyone else is around. 

If you still need your fix, come on over and visit me here and here. 

And I'll be back soon.
I promise.

Just as soon as lounging around in my jammies until noon without a care in the world while Mother Nature gives the OC a much needed scrub down gets old.

This Post is Brought to You by Jesus. Sort of.

Okay.  So you know how most kids play dead when you mention the words "it's time for church" on Sundays? 

Not Andrew.

He's the world's Happiest Little Catholic.

So much so, that we've been politely escorted to the "back room" on more than one occassion.

Here's a sneak peak at his enthusiasm for all things God. (I couldn't get it to load on blogger, so click on this link.)

By contrast, Ian looks like he's experiencing gastrointestinal discomfort. 

Or he just thinks mass is boring.

Nah.  That couldn't be right.

You Say Tomato, I Say It’s Cuter If You Call it a Termator…..Or Something Like That

Believe it or not, my husband and I have our share of disagreements.  Sure, we look like a hot, steamy, ultra photogenic couple in love, but underneath all of the amorous gestures is a relationship fraught with tension; mostly because he has yet to come to terms with the fact that I’m always right.

Our latest “spat,” if you will, revolves around our youngest son Ian and his occasional mispronunciation of certain vocabulary words.  I think it’s darling, and make it a point not to correct him; it’s a fleeting phase and I want to preserve it for as long as I possibly can.

My husband however, is on some holier than thou “it’s our job to teach our kids about the world, including, but not limited to, proper vowel-consonant-vowel pronunciation" rant.

So I’ve decided to compromise; I let my him correct Ian, and when he’s off at work I undo it by acting like I don’t know what the hell Ian is saying until he goes back to saying it the wrong way.

“Mommy, could I please have some noodles?

“What sweetheart?  I can’t understand you when you talk in that silly voice!”

“Mommy, could I pweeze have some nerdles, goo-goo-gaa-gaa?”

“Of course sweetheart!  Thank you for asking me properly this time!”

 Works every time.

So far, my husband hasn’t caught on; he thinks Ian just needs a tutor. Or two.

Plus, if for some reason my plan backfires and we take Ian to the Olive Garden for his 25th birthday* and he orders the Pasghetti with Maryana sauce, I’ll just blame it on the public school system.

Or those crappy tutors I “hired.”

*because we’re fancy like that

 

South Beach Can Suck It

Well, I'm back on the low carb wagon folks, and that means one of two things:

1.  I'm going to kill someone.
2.  I'm going to kill someone slowly, using the kind of torture that would make Homeland Security cower in the corner.

Here's the deal.

I'm fat.

I'm not self-depricating here people, nor am I fishing for compliments (of course, if you'd like to toss one my way, I won't try to stop you); I'm just merely stating the facts.  And the fact is, I need to lose, like 60 pounds.  I joke about it often, mostly because humor is self-soothing and goes really great with a double fudge brownie.  Also, it's my way of dealing with an uncomfortable truth in a way that is relatable to others, for the sole purpose of deflecting rather than dealing with the pain and anguish that continues to plague my life.

********************awkward silence******************

So, back to the low carb thing. 

I was reminded today that there aren't enough part-skim, low moisture mozzarella cheese sticks in the world to curb my cravings for enriched unbleached flour products.

Also, I may or may not have stolen a pack of sugar-free gum from Ian and chewed the entire thing at once, sucking out the sweet, potentially harmful fake sugar in a frenzy not unlike something you would see on Animal Planet.

I can't wait to be skinny!

PS. If I seem snarky today, just wait until next week. I'll be throwing F-bombs in posts about baby seals and the whimsical nature of shetland ponies, guaranteed.

PPS.  I just licked the cupcake on my website header.  It tasted better than what I had for dinner.

PPPS.  Low carb diets suck.

That's What Friends Are For

My best friend is looking really good lately and I can honestly say that I'm not at all happy about this; in fact, I'm pretty pissed.  You know how it is with women; for every ding dong we consume, we want our girlfriends to eat two.  It's an endless, silent, seething competition, even among the greatest of friends, and the wider your bestie's thighs are, the better off the friendship is. 

So imagine my annoyance when the bitch  she went completely insane and joined a gym.  She's traded in the ding dongs for crap like fruits, veggies, and whole grains.  She's also lost some weight due to 2 an abundance of surgical procedures "supposedly" designed to alleviate various medical conditions, though I'm beginning to suspect that her tonsils were just scapegoats in an alarmingly dedicated plan to out-Milf me.  This is mostly due to the subtle comments she made while we indulged in the green tea and jicama she so generously served for lunch:

"How much do you think a kidney weighs?"
and

"I want to surgically remove unnecessary organs for the sole purpose of weight loss."

She, of course, insists that she was kidding, but yesterday, as her doctor was marking her left side for what she described as an important and potentially life-saving procedure, she looked over his shoulder and winked at me! 

So, like any good best friend, I'm going to go and visit her today, in order to cheer her up and make sure she's recuperating.  I've cooked a delicious broccoli soup using enough butter to panfry Texas only the freshest vegetables and herbs in the hopes that she blows up like a balloon gets her strength back.  I'll also be helping administer her pain medication, so she'll be nice and loaded while I shove a box of ding dongs down her throat comfortable.

After all,
that's what friends are for.

What the Frack? Fridays.

For my first installment of "What. The. Frack? Fridays:

I took Andrew to get some bloodwork done at a local Orange County hospital-affiliated lab.  Since his Cystyc Fibrosis diagnosis, we've been frequenting the joint somewhat often, and people are beginning to recognize us now.  Andrew is fast becoming a new favorite and the nurses and lab technicians swoon when they see him.

Which is why I'll never understand why I felt the need to have the following conversation with the nurse that came out into the LARGE and CROWDED waiting room this afternoon:

"Andrew Ashline"

"Yep, right here!"

"Awww.  What a handsome little guy.  How does he usually do with the needles?"

"He's awesome.  I'm a much bigger pussy than he is."

"..........................................(awkward and judmental smile)..................................."

Not only do I HATE that word, but I also NEVER use it.

In any case, I'm fairly certain I've solidified my White Trash Mom status.  Of course my stained drawstring pants and leftover El Pollo Loco in my hair may or may not have helped with that some.



What. The. Frack.