I've fallen victim to one of the greatest marketing ploys in recent years. I've watched countless commercials about fiber. Fiber additives. Fiber enriched products. Fiber pills and powders. What an exceedingly brilliant idea! I have in my hand two cereals. Both equally tasty looking. Both similar in calories per portion size. One has a poop-ton more fiber. I bet you can guess which one went in my cart.
And that was how this fateful tragedy started. I ate a handful of this cereal one afternoon when my sandwich had somehow gotten soggy (there is nothing I hate more than soggy bread - GROSS!). Four hours later on my ride home from work, the 150 grams per serving of fiber took its toll. I thought I was going to die. I wasn't sure I was going to make the ride home. I'm lucky there were no cops, as explaining, "I'm only speeding because I really have to crap, or fart - I'm not sure which just yet" wouldn't end well, I don't think...
By the time dinner rolls around, I might as well just spend my evening in the bathroom. Having to excuse myself every time I have to fluff (you remember that I'm still saving up to buy that 13th goat to marry off the oldest with flatulence issues...) is proving to be the most extensive exercise I've logged in some time. I'm at the table. I'm in the bathroom. I'm at the table. I'm in the bathroom. I'm walking back to the table...Oh, hell. I give up!
The kids laugh, and I'm reminded of every time one of my older family members has had a pooting problem. Grandmas who toot as they walk. Uncles who bust ass because they can no longer hear it and think no one else can either. Small babies that break wind loud enough to put grown men to shame. I'm sorry I ever made fun of any of them. I can barely stand to be in the same room as my own butt by this point.
Three days later, I still see no end in sight. I wonder if I should sue the "Delicious, Yes!" folks for not putting a disclaimer on their box for people with IBS. At this point, I've eaten so many bananas, cups of applesauce and cheese sticks I'm sure I'll never need a toilet again. My husband hugs me, trying to offer support - only to run from the room screaming. I'm afraid to go out in public. My children are no longer giggling.
My only consolation is in my evil thought that I will use my remaining cereal to make some sort of tasty treat. There are so many people I would love to pass along uncontrollable wind to! Just imagine: you hold in your hand something guaranteed to give someone massive gas in approximately two to four hours...Now, imagine a plate of cereal bars placed in a lovely array on a conference room table. Sure! Help yourself, they're delicious, yes?
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Thursday, June 14, 2012
I'm Going To Pave It, Paint It Green And Call It a Lawn...
I hate yard work. Yeah, I said it. I'd rather have dental work done. Seriously. If I could merely go to the dentist for an entire afternoon - get scraped, poked, flossed, polished, drilled, sucked, x-rayed and Novocained (and not necessarily in any particular order); come home and discover that my lawn had been mowed, my beds mulched and some minor weeding had been done - I'd think it the most wonderful trade-off on earth. To all you nay-sayers who prefer to spend hours on your knees, sweating profusely in the hot sun, digging in the earth only to have a giant creature from some sort of horrible 80's B-flick skitter across your shoe or hand, I gag and roll my eyes at you...
You see, that is precisely it. It was a gorgeous sunny day. The kids were playing. The husband was mowing. And I got the brilliant idea to start weeding the giant eye-sore known as "the retaining wall". Manual labor suits me just fine. Pissily, I yanked. I grabbed, pulled and chucked over my shoulder. "Wanna sass me kid? HAHA! Take that!" I imagined the what-the-hell-ever-it-was that I just ripped out of the ground actually taught my child some manners. Oh yes, I could get into this. Then. It. Happened.
The hairy barking tree spider that I am terrified inhabit all the dark crevices of any place I have to stick a hand into - appeared. This bitch would have been the size of my fist had I of taken the time to draw a circle around it. This monstrosity ran over my foot, carrying its egg sac, the size of a large gumball - looked up at me; hissed, spit and then gave me the finger. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!
Natural instinct told me to run into my house, get the keys to my Jeep and drive away, never coming back. At the very least I wanted to scream like the giant baby that I am. In my head, ear piercing girly screams echo'd throughout my neighborhood. In reality I jumped. Said a four letter word that would get my mouth soaped out by my mother and noticed my three small children watching me. "Don't panic, Cathy. Play it cool. Don't terrify them, because if you do...no one will ever be raised brave enough to kill these goddamned things for you," I whispered to myself as fortification. I sauntered up to my husband.
"Hoooooooney? [I eyeballed the kids for good measure and to take stock of their interest level. SHIT! They're staring. I have to speak in code...] Do we have appropriate pestilent riddance?" In true man form, he cocked his head, took his sweet-assed time and finally answered, "Nothing that you want." Ugh.
"The spade. Can you get me the spade?" I think I may have shouted this at him, I'm not quite sure as panic was starting to take over. At this inquiry, he actually looked frightened at what I might have come across, but complied. He went into the garage, got the spade and handed it to me. I walked back to the horror in my yard. I swung for all I was worth. Not once, not twice, but three times. Tears threatened to spill. I think I nearly passed out. I gagged more than once. I made an oath right then and there to never do yard work again...
And, I can tell you this: I killed the M F'ing thing. Or did I?
You see, that is precisely it. It was a gorgeous sunny day. The kids were playing. The husband was mowing. And I got the brilliant idea to start weeding the giant eye-sore known as "the retaining wall". Manual labor suits me just fine. Pissily, I yanked. I grabbed, pulled and chucked over my shoulder. "Wanna sass me kid? HAHA! Take that!" I imagined the what-the-hell-ever-it-was that I just ripped out of the ground actually taught my child some manners. Oh yes, I could get into this. Then. It. Happened.
The hairy barking tree spider that I am terrified inhabit all the dark crevices of any place I have to stick a hand into - appeared. This bitch would have been the size of my fist had I of taken the time to draw a circle around it. This monstrosity ran over my foot, carrying its egg sac, the size of a large gumball - looked up at me; hissed, spit and then gave me the finger. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!
Natural instinct told me to run into my house, get the keys to my Jeep and drive away, never coming back. At the very least I wanted to scream like the giant baby that I am. In my head, ear piercing girly screams echo'd throughout my neighborhood. In reality I jumped. Said a four letter word that would get my mouth soaped out by my mother and noticed my three small children watching me. "Don't panic, Cathy. Play it cool. Don't terrify them, because if you do...no one will ever be raised brave enough to kill these goddamned things for you," I whispered to myself as fortification. I sauntered up to my husband.
"Hoooooooney? [I eyeballed the kids for good measure and to take stock of their interest level. SHIT! They're staring. I have to speak in code...] Do we have appropriate pestilent riddance?" In true man form, he cocked his head, took his sweet-assed time and finally answered, "Nothing that you want." Ugh.
"The spade. Can you get me the spade?" I think I may have shouted this at him, I'm not quite sure as panic was starting to take over. At this inquiry, he actually looked frightened at what I might have come across, but complied. He went into the garage, got the spade and handed it to me. I walked back to the horror in my yard. I swung for all I was worth. Not once, not twice, but three times. Tears threatened to spill. I think I nearly passed out. I gagged more than once. I made an oath right then and there to never do yard work again...
And, I can tell you this: I killed the M F'ing thing. Or did I?
 |
| This photo is courtesy of my nanny. Taken next day in my garage with a cell phone. Outside of some *minor* work done in red to illustrate, this photo has not been edited in any way. |
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Honey-do...
What is it about men and grocery stores? This is one of the world's greatest mysteries for me. For the sake of plausability, I'm going to use my husband as an example - but in general I find these stories to hold true for my brothers, my friends' husbands and for countless single men across the land.
Typically, when we are in need of some sort of food item, I run by Wegman's. There is one up the street from us in fact; less than two miles away. I can go, get a gallon of milk and be back home in the span of about 15 minutes. Grocery shopping for our family of five is done primarily on a bi-weekly basis (outside of sporadic trips back to get additional milk and produce). I can plan our grocery list, get to the store, purchase about $300 in food and will be back home in about an hour and 30 minutes, give or take five.
This time is my serenity. I leave my lovely children at home. I relish the moments by myself with nothing but an aisle full of shampoo and my grocery cart. I dawdle. I look. I read labels. And I do it all in less than an hour (remember, I still have to be checked out, loaded and drive home with my remaining 30 minutes).
My husband however, has reason for concern. His trip to the store for a gallon of milk takes about an hour. He comes back with his hair mussed, his shirt slightly askew, dirt smudges on his face, sweating and slightly panic stricken. In his hands are a dozen eggs, some orange tic-tacs and silly putty. In a terrified voice, he beseeches me to never send him back to that hell on earth.
I'm left to stare bewildered and very confused. How on earth could he have been gone so long? What in God's name was he actually doing? Should I make sure he gets his vision tested - you DO realize the cartons of milk are right inside the door, practically accosting you before you can peruse the rest of their seemingly hazardous confines??? I think I must have mumbled countless things about him cheating on me and covering it up with eggs and candy of all things...Upset, with hands covered in remnants of tonight's meat loaf mixture, I grab my keys and storm out the door to pick up the initially requested milk.
Driving to the store, I take stock of myself and have to laugh. My hands still have raw meat particles on them. I'm sure I look pissed off enough to kill a water buffalo and I have to wonder - Is it really that stupefying, or is he merely an evil genius?
Typically, when we are in need of some sort of food item, I run by Wegman's. There is one up the street from us in fact; less than two miles away. I can go, get a gallon of milk and be back home in the span of about 15 minutes. Grocery shopping for our family of five is done primarily on a bi-weekly basis (outside of sporadic trips back to get additional milk and produce). I can plan our grocery list, get to the store, purchase about $300 in food and will be back home in about an hour and 30 minutes, give or take five.
This time is my serenity. I leave my lovely children at home. I relish the moments by myself with nothing but an aisle full of shampoo and my grocery cart. I dawdle. I look. I read labels. And I do it all in less than an hour (remember, I still have to be checked out, loaded and drive home with my remaining 30 minutes).
My husband however, has reason for concern. His trip to the store for a gallon of milk takes about an hour. He comes back with his hair mussed, his shirt slightly askew, dirt smudges on his face, sweating and slightly panic stricken. In his hands are a dozen eggs, some orange tic-tacs and silly putty. In a terrified voice, he beseeches me to never send him back to that hell on earth.
I'm left to stare bewildered and very confused. How on earth could he have been gone so long? What in God's name was he actually doing? Should I make sure he gets his vision tested - you DO realize the cartons of milk are right inside the door, practically accosting you before you can peruse the rest of their seemingly hazardous confines??? I think I must have mumbled countless things about him cheating on me and covering it up with eggs and candy of all things...Upset, with hands covered in remnants of tonight's meat loaf mixture, I grab my keys and storm out the door to pick up the initially requested milk.
Driving to the store, I take stock of myself and have to laugh. My hands still have raw meat particles on them. I'm sure I look pissed off enough to kill a water buffalo and I have to wonder - Is it really that stupefying, or is he merely an evil genius?
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