Just Call Me "House Mom"

Just overheard from the living room:

"Hey, Gage--sit on my face and fart!"

I live in a fucking frat house.

Because Lemonade Makes Me Have to Hawk and Spit Too Much

Life gave me these:

So I made these:

 

This is why housewives are fat.

Like my potholder? I made it this morning. It was so cute I felt compelled to bake something just to see if it was as functional as it was delightful (it is). Then I spied the almost-rotten bananas my wholly-rotten children promised me they'd eat if I bought them TWO WEEKS AGO. If they think I'm giving them any of these muffins, they're even dumber than I thought.

Promises, Promises

I, Mitzi Green, do hereby solemnly swear that, tomorrow morning, when my alarm clock goes off at 7:15 6:30 a.m., I will promptly hit the snooze bar get my fat ass out of bed, get dressed, and spend an hour on the treadmill.

Yeah...I don't buy it, either.

Share the Road, Assholes

Dear Douchewad in the Blue Pickup Who Yelled "Sidewalk!" Out Your Window as Your Friend Barreled Past Me on My Bike This Afternoon:

If you were to actually read the Missouri Bicycle and Pedestrian Laws, as I have, you would know:

Missouri law prohibits cyclists from riding on the sidewalk in a business district
AND 
(cyclists)  have the same rights and responsibilities as a motor vehicle operator.


Ergo, there was absolutely no reason for me to be riding on the sidewalk; in fact, it is discouraged by state law. Besides, the sidewalks in that area suck, and I've flattened more than one tire in the past because of riding on shitty sidewalks. 


So you, sir, can kiss my bicycle-riding ass.


Hugs and Kisses,


Mitzi Green

Out of the Dark

For the second time in two days, I got myself on the treadmill and pushed the button. It was, by my own account, a success--I ran (jogged) the first 20 minutes non-stop, and after a brief walk, cranked the speed up higher than I've been able to so far on this treadmill. I ended up (by the machine's calculations) completing 3 miles in 40 minutes, my best effort on this treadmill yet. (I keep clarifying "this treadmill" because honestly, I don't know how accurate it is. It's a lot tougher than the machines at the gym--even my husband has said so. And after he ran outside yesterday for the first time since running on our treadmill, he is even more convinced it's not wholly accurate. My inner statistician would like to know how far I'm running and how fast, but really, I guess the important thing for me is to be able to carry a consistent pace for a longer period of time. That's my goal. I'd like to be able to run a 5k in less than a day.)

Which has led me to consider, again, purchasing a heart rate monitor. The thing is, a HRM won't tell me my distance or my speed, unless I shell out some real bank. So I'll probably just put it on the "when I win the lottery" list and forget about it for now.

Started working on the super secret sewing project this week, and I should have a good portion of it completed by this evening. Of course I got in a hurry and screwed something up already--not a big deal, just a minor fix, but I hate getting the seam ripper out, especially because of a careless mistake. Lesson learned. Maybe.

My goal is to run 4 mornings out of 5 this week. I think the reason for my lack of motivation has been the realization of how out-of-shape I got in just six months, and the self-disgust for allowing it to happen. Depression sucks and it makes you fat to add insult to injury. "Take it from Dr. Dre--depression can be a real motherfucker." Word.

Guess Who's Back...Back Again...

Well, not that I ever really left.

I don't have time to blog. But I need to blog. I don't have time to complete posts to my blog I get paid for, much less this one. But I have too much crap in my head that I can't post on that blog, because paying gigs limit your content and creative license. And I need a lot of creative license.

I'm sure posting will be just as erratic and unpredictable as ever. But you never know...

-------------------------------

I'm meeting with another headhunter today. This will be three now that I have trying to find me a job--you'd think at least one of them will be able to pull something out of their ass within the next six months. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to stand living here in limbo. I certainly can't spend much more time juggling 75 open files on my own.

I'm beginning to feel overwhelmed. Entirely, completely, absolutely overwhelmed. It's not like I have a lot to do--"do" as in physical labor, I have a husband and children for that. The problem is that I have to be the brains of the entire operation--it's up to me to remember everything, up to me to schedule everything, up to me to pay everything. I manage the finances. I manage the house. I manage the bills. I manage the kids. I manage meal planning. I'm like the goddamn CO ordering my grunts around and supervising them while praying I haven't overlooked anything. And it's too much for one person. But no one else is willing to take on the responsibility. And even if they were, they do such a half-ass job of it, it causes more problems than it's worth.

I appreciate that Ben gets the kids up and dressed and fed and ready and out the door every morning. I do. Really. But really, when I've already got Bob's drugs dispensed out and his clothes laid out and his bag packed, how damned hard can it be? It's not like he's keeping track of homework or permission slips or anything else. Okay, he does give Bob his lunch money every day, but he doesn't even do that right--just gives him a set amount, which is actually incorrect, and calls it a day. What the hell?

The unfortunate reality is, I could do it all on my own. The only thing I can't do is earn a substantial paycheck.

I'm sure he feels the same way about me--that I do nothing while he holds down the fort all by his lonesome. I wonder if all couples with small children feel that way.

Truthfully, we've almost painted ourselves into a corner where it's no longer feasible to raise children when both parents are employed full-time, unless they work opposite shifts. The schools complain there isn't enough parent involvement but the kind of involvement they want is ridiculous, unnecessary, and overburdensome. No, I don't have time to take my child to the library even once a week, because I have to spend at least an hour working with him on his homework. And we're only all home together for about two hours between dinner and bedtime. So I can either find a way to incorporate more hours into a day, or I can give up sleep and force my kids to follow suit. Neither seems like much of an option.

I did tell the husband today I can see the time coming when I will have to forego my job for something less time-consuming and demanding, like substitute teaching, so I can be available for the family. The older Bob gets, the more problems I can see him having, and it's going to make it hard for me to be available for him if I'm tied to a full-time job. Ditto for Boozy. Not to mention all the other shit I micromanage on a daily basis.

Forget living "green"--we all should learn how to live "lean."

Is This Thing On?

I don't know if this blog even has any actual followers anymore. I wouldn't follow me because I suck at regular posting. Fuck it, it's summer--I have better things to do with my "spare time" than stare at a computer screen and wax poetic about my fucked-up life. There are tans to attain, bikes to ride, children to embarrass...the list goes on and on...

I have actually been doing shit. All the aforementioned activities, of course. Lots of biking. Lots of running at the gym (I'm still not brave enough to try actually running on the mean streets of the Happy Rock). Lots of hanging with the boyz. Sewing, too. I've made myself a couple of skirts and think I may finally be ready to take on...a zipper.  Duh-duh-DUH...

And then there's all the not-so-happy stuff that I won't bore everyone by detailing. Suffice to say I'm doing a really great job if I make it through a day at work without hiding in a bathroom and ruining my mascara. (Damn non-waterproof shit.) Hate my job, hate db, hate db, hate db. Hate db so much that I spent a few minutes beating on my steering wheel tonight while pretending it was his face. I thought I broke my thumb for a while, but I think it's only bruised. I wonder if I can sue him for that...