Windows

*choirs of angels sing*

I was made aware, earlier this week, of a BLACK FRIDAY SPECIAL... on Saturday. There was a bunch of stuff... X-box... blueray... big ol' white trash televisions... and, oooooh--laptops! "At least 10 per store."

My family goes through laptops like most families go through, oh, I dunno. Shampoo. There is a veritable graveyard of laptops clustered around my feet. Most of them recently refurbished, and totally useless. Their causes of death range from "Stepped on the day that it was opened" to "Possessed by demons."

So I got up this morning at quarter to six and took my super-awesome Kate Gosselin haircut to the local Valmart. The parking lot was alarmingly full, and not everyone could be stocking up on emergency supplies of Baby Motrin or Gingerale and saltines. (My only other reasons, before today, to show up at, pre-dawn, at Valmart.) So I Senior Olympics speed-walked (cutting through the Intimates and Pubescent Boys section) to Electronics. There was a single worker there, who looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"Laptops. On sale." I gasped, out of breath.
"Ya'll realize that's you gots to wait, right?" he said kindly.
"Yup. 8:00." I chirped, waving my tattered copy of Harry Potter.
"Oh wow. You's prepahred. Well. Go head. Wait on them benches in Site to Store."

I walked back to Site to Store and plunked down on a black iron bench, and felt really foolish. Wishing for my bed, I opened up Harry Potter to the first page.

And then, I heard them coming. A herd. Soon--all the benches were full and the line twisted down the toy aisle and out of sight. I didn't feel so foolish anymore.

The girl next to me, a state trooper, happily opened the latest celebrity magazine and gave her thoughtful opinions of celebrity romances, children, and boob jobs. ("That's never gonna work." seemed to be the general consensus, for all three.) A worker got off of work and plunked herself down in her blue vest, asking us each in turn was WE were there for. A guy on a cell phone was taking off-sight orders and planning how to sell things on craigslist.

The time ticked by. Word leaked from the jumpy manager's walkie-talkie that there was only one laptop available. The rest would be rain checks. People shuffled nervously.

Then 8:00 came.

And I left the store, with the people in line staring daggers at my back, with the single, brand spankin' new laptop.

And there was rejoicing throughout all the land. Or at least in my house.

But please, let this laptop last more than one Christmas....

I'm just sayin'

Two letters for you: W.T.

My Unedited Life: Cake.

Photo from thepioneerwoman.com

Pioneer Woman's "Grandma Iny's Prune Cake" is in my fridge. Taunting me. Glistening in all it's spice cakey, gooey carmel covered goodness. "You mayn't have some." it taunts, sounding self righteous. The flour in the batter sticks it tongue out at me. The 1 cup of oil beckons with a "Come hither" glance and a reminder that there is buttermilk, nutmeg, and cinnamon in here. Tantalizing cinnamon..... mmmmm....

Considering that my baby will turn 1 in a month and I'm wearing a maternity shirt today, the oil should be a deterent. It isn't. But that darn flour. If it wasn't for that darn flour, I'd be diving in FACE FIRST into this cake. It's been that kind of day.

So I'm eating iceberg lettuce by the handful. Just plain old iceberg lettuce. Sometimes I glare over at the fridge, "See??? I don't need you, Cake. This lettuce is awesome. I love this lettuce, and it loves me back."

Cake rolls it's eyes. Cake knows I am lying.

Because Cake knows a universal truth: iceberg lettuce is NOT cake.

I hate Cake.

If you like Cake, and you really should, and you aren't Celiac or something, then please--follow Pioneer Woman's admonition and make this cake now.

Unedited Life: Thursday

Sometimes I just wish, so much, that all ya'll could take a peek into my house when you read this. I know, when I read other people's blogs, I would expect to see a lovely, clutter-free home. There would be cookies cooling on the table, and children playing quietly and independently with very fine educational toys. The blog writer would be typing with one hand, working out on the elipse trainer, and painting a masterpiece with the other hand.

Somehow, I don't think you guys would expect that from me. But maybe I'm wrong.

If you could peek into my house now, you would see a kitchen floor absolutely plastered with googly eyes. I told my kids that they had the clean up their latest art project extravaganza, so now we're in a standoff. I know--they're going to win. Because they absolutely don't care if our kitchen floor is a mosaic of googly eyes, and I do. But my pride is holding out, for the time being.

Wee One is in her crib, wearing a boy outfit. It is green, with beavers. She looks really cute in it. I took her out, months ago, in a sleeper that was blue and green. It was sweet and cuddly looking, and warmer than any of the pink things we had on hand from her sister, who was a summer baby. A woman I hardly know peeked at her and started coo-ing, "Ah, tell my mama to put me in pink! Dress me in pink, mama!" I just shrugged. It probably wouldn't do any good to mention that my big, burly two year old boy wears pink footed pajamas to bed and that we call him Pinky when he does. I don't think that would've made her feel better. (Point: we put our kids in whatever happens to be convenient and doesn't cost us more money. So, yes, I let my son wear a pink raincoat sometimes, and my baby girl wears green beaver outfits.)

Thing 1 and Thing 2 are watching Curious George. They are in love with Curious George. They would marry him, if they could. I'm pretty sure. I love Curious George, too. It brings utter peace into my home. I know--I wrote about how we got rid of PBS. We did. Did you know that they have Curious George episodes on DVD??? And did I mention that ALL of my children are dressed? No one is in their pajamas. Everyone is wearing underpants. Mission accomplished.

And me? My hair most closely resembles a fragglerock character. I have my boot on my foot, which is throbbing. I am not taking more Lortab because then I would pass out and my kids would decide, at that exact moment, to go feed the ducks. This would have unpleasant consequences, and lots of guilt, I'm pretty sure, so no Lortab for me.

And I really need a shower.

See? Don't you feel better about your life, oh ellipse training, clutter-free house keeping, perfect children raising you????

Unedited Life: Pad Rash is not a Thai food.

I have a standing joke with a bunch of my good friends about a thing called "Pad Rash."

You don't want to know. You really don't. But let's just say that I discovered it after a rather embarrassing post-baby visit after I had my second baby. (Nothing like an OB/GYN saying "Oh wow, you've got some pad rash going on down here" to make you want to crawl under the nearest rock in your tissue-thin exam gown.) But you really should know that there IS a difference between synthetic absorbers found in Stayfree or Always and those super-expensive organic cotton "feminine protection" products at Earth Fare.

I'll give you a second so you can file that bit of information away for future reference in your Gee Whiz Fact File. You're welcome.

Chafing. One of the bains of a chubby girl's existence.

*It is at this point that I excuse all of my slender(skinny) friends and relatives from reading and invite you to go find something to eat in your fridge. Hopefully you have some chocolate or cheese handy. Please. Do it for me.

Now that it's only us pudgy girls, we can be frank. I went to the beach a couple days ago and had a lovely time building sand castles and playing in the surf, but in that mere 1 block walk back to the beach house, I had to encounter that evil monster: chafing. Chafing is why fat girls shalt not venture to run. Or bare their thighs at all. Because, I think we can all agree, that it is NO FUN to go buy Gold Bond Medicated Powder or walk around like a Texan just off a cattle drive for several days.

Which brings me to my real point: why do women get all the trials in this life? Seriously?! Let us compare:

WOMEN

• Middle School Girl's Bathrooms.
• Periods.
• Bosoms. (Or appropriate euphemism.)
• Pregnancy. (The hurling! The crying! The exhaustion! The weight gain!)
• Birth.
• Postpartum. (Two words: stool. softener.)
• Pap smears (What is a pap? Why do they smear it?)
• Mammograms. (I'll take cancer for 100, Bob.)
• Menopause. (Will the injustice never end???)
• Female Fat Cells.
• Placenta Brain.
• Chafing.
• Skirts.

MEN

• Ummmm....
• Seriously?
• Can anyone think of anything??

Monday: My Unedited Life

Truth. Absolute truth. There is such a thing, you know. And on this Monday morning, part of my absolute truth includes the following:

I gave my son cake for breakfast. Have you discovered Pioneer Woman and her food? She makes bazillions of dollars from her blog, and one of the things she does on said blog (there are several things) is share recipes. And these recipes... oh my. Let's just say that Lane Bryant is happy I discovered these recipes. They induce labor, increase libido, cure cancer, rid your face of fine lines and wrinkles, potty train your children, and pay for their college. I'm pretty sure. My favorite one, so far, is her Grandma Iny's Prune Cake. (Don't knock it til you've tried it.) I made it every weekend for awhile. And this morning, my son got a huge, carmelly slice on his plate. Happy kid, happy mama.

I rearranged our furniture on Friday and, as part of that, we disconnected the antenna. I decided not to reconnect it. No more PBS Kids. Auf wiedersehen, Curious George. Adieu, Sid the Science Kid. Ciao, Super Readers. How I will miss thee. I don't know how I'm going to survive the summer without you. But I always swore that I wouldn't be "that mom"... the one who had the TV on all day. Guess what? I am that mom.

I've decided to give up shampoo. As an experiment. Apparently, you can do a baking soda rinse followed by a honey rinse, and your hair turns into shimmery, shiny loveliness. In other words: not my hair. (Do you think it could make it curly? ) Anyway. It's supposed to take a couple weeks for the oil producers in your head to get the message that you've stopped pouring detergent on them and quit cranking out barrels of oil every day. I can tell I'm about to look like I haven't showered in weeks. Which brings me to my new best friend: hats. I'll let you know how it goes.

My scale doesn't lie. It isn't "off." The battery isn't running out. And my pants didn't shrink in the dryer. Darn the luck. And this despite my steady diet of aspartame.

Wish me luck! *grin*