Tip for Tuesday – I wouldn’t try this at home…or anywhere really.

October 9, 2012 Written by One Classy Motha

I was developing a Tip for Tuesday that didn’t go quite as planned. Wait- that was an understatement, it went horribly wrong. But because I believe one can learn from both success and failure equally, I will share my embarrassment with you.

Consider this a “Don’t try this” Tip for Tuesday.

I was making a delicious chicken dish that I have made several times before. The recipe requires me to pound my chicken breast to 1/8 of an inch thick. If you’ve done this before you know what a bitch this can be.  Ten minutes and one numb hand later,  I managed to get only 1 flattened. I still had 6 more to go. I thought surely there must be an easier way. And as a think-outside-the-box kinda girl, I thought I had the most brilliant idea ever! (spoiler alert- I was wrong)

Here are the steps I took:

1. Place chicken breasts between two large pieces of wax paper.

2. Carefully slide the breasts into a garbage bag, then double bag with another garbage bag.

“Why can’t you be like other mothers?”

3. Keeping the trash bag o’ chicken horizontal, slide it onto a cookie sheet and transport outside.

4. Place the garbage bag on the ground in front of your car wheel, removing the cookie sheet.

5. Gently roll over the bag with your car while asking your kids if you’re “on it yet’. forward, reverse, forward, reverse, etc.

6. Sadly hear the bag pop  and watch chicken breasts fly onto the driveway.

7. Place chicken breasts in the trash with the dog’s poop bag (because he crapped when he heard the pop).

8. Order pizza

I would have never mentioned this to Brian but I accidentally left the cookie sheet in the driveway and he demanded an explanation. Plus, Collin taped the whole thing on his iTouch to show his friends. He called it a “FAIL”.

I hope my experience prevents you from making the same mistake (because you know you would have tried it eventually).

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My Saturday – Lost (in corn hell)

October 8, 2012 Written by One Classy Motha

Day 1– A corn maze sounded innocent enough. “Good, wholesome family fun” they said. “Should take you 15 minutes” they said. Lies, bullshit, and lies. So far we’ve been trudging in here for hours.

Day 2– We lost Brian about 5 miles back. The kids and I suspect he was just hanging back to scare us because he said something about a horror film then disappeared. But we’ve made so many turns I don’t see how he could have kept up with us. Now the kids are pissing their pants every time the wind blows. Thanks Brian. Thanks.

Day 3– It’s important that we keep moving. Collin had a mini break down today, crying because he misses his father. I begged him to keep it together by yelling, “He’s gone, gone, I tell you! And we can’t afford to waste time crying about it. I’m the head of this household now, and I will get us out of here, damn it!”

Pull it together, man!

Besides, doesn’t he realize his father was just bringing morale down with his “I told you we shouldn’t have done this” and “there’s probably an ax murderer in here” attitude. Good riddance Mr. Dead Weight.

Day 4– If I hear “This looks familiar” one more time I swear to god I’m going to go bat shit crazy! Of course it looks familiar, it’s all corn corn corn!!!!

Day 5– Up until now I’ve been leading our little troop by using my gut instincts, and it’s apparent to everyone that my instincts suck. Most of my time today will be spent questioning all my life decisions that have led me to this moment.

It took me 5 days to admit that Cornfield angels weren’t guiding me out of here, I now know we need a system. It was my idea that we start marking our trail by spelling out ‘Screw you Schmidt’s Farm’ with corn ears every 30 feet, but the kids thought it would take too long so we switched it up. Now we’re making corn silk hands giving the middle finger. The finger points the way.

FYI- turns out the kids were right about it looking familiar, we just stumbled on some middle fingers. We’ve been going in circles. They made me apologize.

Day 6– I don’t know how much longer we can survive, we’ve eaten all the crackers and mints found at the bottom of my purse and we’re down to the last water bottle. I’ve been reflecting on every wilderness movie I’ve ever seen, hoping to remember some survival techniques. Unfortunately, the only movie I can recall in any detail is “Alive”.

Two things are for sure: 1. I refuse to eat my kids no matter how hungry I get…they’re full of preservatives and red dye #4, and 2. We’ll all be forced to drink our own urine soon. I plan on paying Collin $5 to go first so I can see if I’d rather die of dehydration.

Day 7– I tripped over a skeleton today. My guess is, because she’s alone, she ate her children but drew the line at drinking her own urine. What a horrible decision, everyone knows you can go longer without food than water. …or maybe her kids ate her…crap.

Note: I’m assuming it’s a “she” because I’m starting to buy into the whole stereotype that woman are bad with directions.

Day 8– Mr. Johnny Come Lately found us. He claims he’s been out of the maze 3 times looking for us. I can’t help but to think he’s telling the truth because his red solo cup is full of fresh Chardonnay*. Bastard!

*Did I mention it’s at a vineyard? Why the hell else would I go???

Day 9– Is it wrong to hope that our new leader gets us lost too- at least for a little while? I don’t want the kids to have a story that starts with “Remember the time mom led us into the cornfields to die, but dad saved us?”

Day 10– Well, Mr.Perfect did it. La.Dee.Friggin.Da.

“Our Hero!” the kids cheered. I should have eaten them all with a side of fermented corn.

Time Key: 1 Day = 5 minutes.

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Free Advice Friday – Death of a Beloved Pet

October 5, 2012 Written by One Classy Motha

Dear Kim,

I we have a cat that is very old and we know she won’t live much longer. We’re starting to think about how we’ll break the news to our kids when she dies. How would you do it?

Thanks,

Kat in Hairballia, MD

 

Dear Kat,

How do you tell your children that their beloved cat died? You don’t.  The way I see it, there is no good way to break the news, and even the best explanations leave the children with heartache and questions about life and death that I’d rather not answer.

If you’re going to follow my advice you have two options: pretend your cat is still alive or convince your children that the cat never existed in the first place.

Keeping her alive…furever.

Take a look at this…

This is our hermit crab Lily, she’s been dead for two months and our kids have no clue.  To keep up pretenses, I periodically move her around the cage and eat a little bit of her food everyday.  And sometimes, when the kids come home from school, I tell them stories of the funny things Lily did while they were gone. To hear me tell it, she’s a real hoot! I recently moved her cage next to the litter box, it helps to explain the fishy smell and it deters them from playing with her as often.

When, our dog, Mr. Bojangles dies I plan on having the local taxidermist stuff him with an electric blanket. We’ll run an electrical cord out of his ass and plug him in so he’ll feel warm and lifelike when the kids kiss him goodnight.

 

Purr-tend she never existed.

If you ask Collin about his dog Skittles, he’ll say “who?”.

Collin believes Mr. Bojangles is the first dog he has ever owned, and that’s by complete design. For the first two years after Skittles’ death we took great pains to remove any reminders of his existence.

The day he died I donated his food bowls, toys, and bed to a nearby animal shelter.  And when Collin got off the school bus and asked “Where’s Skittles?”, we simply said “Who?”. From there on, there was no turning back.

Skittles was cut out of all family photos and Christmas cards, home movies were burned.  I very meticulously replaced the voids with pictures of our current cat.

The back of this photo says “Collin and Skittles. Mittens at Xmas”

All Skittles’ stories and memories were revised.

 “Remember going to the cat park every Saturday with Mittens, that was fun!”

We even made certain to remove Skittle candies from Halloween bags, Easter baskets, and movie concession stands, least they be a reminder.

Right now, our family and close friends are reading this and saying to themselves “I don’t remember them ever having a dog named Skittles.”    Exactly.

Kat, *making your children feel crazy is way better than making them heartbroken. *Therapists may disagree.

Good luck in whatever path you take. But if you use my taxidermist (I included his card) please use my name as a referral; he offers a “one small animal with each referral” incentive program, and our hamster is about to expire.

Kim

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An excerpt from my unwritten and unpublished book “Thanks But No Thanks – Things I should be grateful for but, damn it, I’m not”

October 4, 2012 Written by One Classy Motha

I do want to go, I just don’t want to go with him…with them.

He parks the car next to the entrance, and for a moment my thoughts are lost in the familiar, soothing rhythm of the automatic doors- open, close, open, close, open, close. I want to say “take me home”, but it’s the promise of what I might find behind those doors that keeps me quiet. My hands begin to shake and my heart starts racing. And just like that, I am powerless to leave.

I look at my husband and nod. It’s a nod that says “yes, I want this and we will enjoy it together”. And with that, he smiles and we all get out of the car in slow unison. Hand in hand and void of ceremony, the whole family enters my private sanctuary, a sanctuary that has now been horribly violated by their presence. And somewhere in my soul a voice is screaming,

“This is my heaven! You should not be here…this is MY MARSHALLS!”

I now realize this trip was a mistake. There’s no joy in lazily shopping for fabulous bargains with your husband and children. None at all. I must find a way to shop undercover to avoid hearing Collin and Brian bitch about how long I’m taking, or schlepping Ana to the bathroom 5 times.

As soon as we cross the threshold I thankfully realize my subconscious has a plan B. Damn right subconscious! You rock!

As if directed by angels, I quickly point to the left and shout “Look! Cowboy Cheerleaders are giving away Barbie dolls and Xbox games!” And I go right.

I devise Operation Labia, called so because the term is both feminine and covers a place equally valuable to me.

Without a doubt, the first area I must visit is the Home Goods section. There are very few hiding places here because the aisle are streamlined and all the furniture lies in the center. And not unlike the Cornucopia in The Hunger Games, once they realize I lied to them, this is where they will go to seek out and then kill my joy.

As I’m looking at mirrors for our dining room, I suddenly see 50 reflections of Brian sitting in armchair that’s on clearance. It’s a startling sight, and thankfully he doesn’t see me. He’s too busy acting like The Godfather, barking orders and sending the children out on short missions to search for me.

I duck and watch the scene unfold from the safety of the bath towels. While Brian is a brilliant strategist, I believe he’s foolishly putting too much faith in Ana’s ability to stay on task, as witnessed by her unsupervised handling of China plates and licking of coffee mugs. This is his problem, I remind myself.

I quickly move on, knowing I must stay one step ahead of them. And so I make a mad dash for the shoes. Suddenly I hear Collin’s voice yelling,” I see her! I see her!”

I switch gears and loop around down the toy aisle. I begin knocking Dora dolls and Star Wars Legos off the shelves in my wake. Ha ha ha! You’ll loose your little minions here, Brian!

Once back at the shoes, I take my time knowing the children will not and can not be persuaded to leave the toy section. It is here, among the discounted Uggs, BOC, Bandolino, and Michael Kors shoes that I feel most at peace.

I’m meditating among the seasonal boots when I hear them coming. As I peek up from zipping a Bare Trap faux fur suede boot (with cool buckles on the side), I see them heading my way in a reverse triangular formation. Brian is in the back sending the kids (who are clutching toys. A bribe tactic no doubt) down various aisles. I hear shouts of “nope” “all clear” and “no, Pooperbutt”. I start to wonder if Brian has military training.

They are getting closer.

With one boot on and the other tucked under my arm, I begin a modified army crawl towards the Ladie’s Knits.

Arriving at my destination, I insert myself into the clothes rack and begin shopping from inside. I can’t help but to feel safe and happy as I am nestled by soft sweaters, and my cheeks tickled by their discounted sale tags. I know it’s time to leave when I hear myself humming “I’m a Little Tea Pot”. I fear I’m cracking.

I grab 3 sweaters and drape them over my head to use as camouflage on the way to the dressing room.

Tucked in the back dressing room, I begin to try on sweater #1. It’s not really my color but the shape looks like it will be super flattering. I have it poised over my head when, in an eerie sing song voice, I hear “mommmeyyy, oh mommmeyyy”. Shit!

I quickly jump onto that tiny stool that all dressing rooms have. Yes, I’m convinced that this is the stool’s real purpose and I send the designer a telepathic “thank you”.

I hear her coming down the dressing room corridor and I can feel her looking under the doors for the familiar cracked heels and deformed baby toes of her mother. But I remain perched on the stool, grateful for all of the squat exercises I’ve been doing lately. My quads are burning but they are strong.

I hold very still as I hear her approaching. In the mirror’s reflection I can see her hair dragging on the floor as she peers underneath my door. I don’t move.

“Oooh, Pooper Stinkybutt”

When I don’t respond to the crude nickname she has given me, she gets up and moves on to the next door. I have escaped detection! I am dizzy from the adrenaline and my own cleverness. And then…a lone Lego piece tumbles from my purse, as if in slow motion it bounces, once…twice…three times, then settles at her feet. I hold my breath…

Sorry, you’ll have to buy the book to see how it ends.

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