Ham On

I spilled soda on my computer minutes after taking this pic

We've been eating ham since Sunday. It might not seem that long, four days, but breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the same salty meat is grossing me out. I ended up with a monstrous hunk of meat after waiting in line at The Honey Baked Ham store, getting to the cashier, and him telling me they were out of small size hams. The hundreds of people lined up behind me made my judgement cloudy because I wasn't able to properly think, "Is buying a $70 ham a good idea? And will we be able to eat all of this?"
What I thought was, I might regret not buying the ham, and then I will have to wait in that long ass line again, and thats if I'm lucky enough they haven't sold out of them for Easter.
My cousin is babysitting the kids this week because the usual is on a ski vacation. I remember when my cousin was 5 years old and we went to Limited Too where my sister bought her a knitted poncho. Then we went next door and I bought a two inch mini skirt from Bebe that I paired with stilettos because Sex and the City was the rage then and chicks were working the hell out of heels. My cousin is graduating from high school this year and moving off to LA in the fall.
I'm at work, and just returned from the cafeteria to get a bottle of water. I was stopped by someone with a bunch of petitions to sign. Usually I'd run away, fake mute, or just give the universal signal for "I'm about to shit my pants and need to run to the bathroom," which is pointing to my butthole and mouthing "I'm sorry." But I felt bad for this person, standing in the sun with her clipboards, and I signed all her damn petitions. I had to write my address which makes me nervous she might come and kill me later. I tried to get out of it initially by saying, "I'm actually in a hurry and need to buy water."
Then she said, "Oh, I have a bottle of water here, you can have it. It's unopened."
I didn't want to express on my face what I was thinking in my head which is, "How do I know you didn't inject this bottle with GHB, or worse, Visine?"
I reluctantly took it, but was hinting at my unlikeliness to drink it by continuously asking, "Are you sure you don't want this? You are going to get hot? The sun is really beating down right now."
She said, "Oh, yes. Take it. I have other plans."
"Oh really, and what's that?"
She said, "Soda."
Even water can be tiring. I decided to get a soda too, and I'll take this water home to feed to my plants. Then I'll eat ham while my cousin tells me what she did with the kids. She'll remember this when they're graduating from high school. Hopefully, the ham will be gone by then.

Electric Stove

Working

When I watch House Hunters International, the Americans always want to maintain their Texas lifestyle in the center of a metropolitan city, so there is nonstop griping about the apartment not being 4,000 square feet and consistent bafflement about the toilet being in a separate room from the shower. Every freaking episode, this is highlighted as peculiar. Maybe one day someone will do their homework, and see the toilet room, and say, "I've heard about this. It's sort of smart to separate the two, so one person can shit while another person showers." Aside from apartment size being less than palatial, and wall color being the undesired shade, there is usually a request for enough toilets for each family member.
After moving to Sacramento and renting a house with four bathrooms, I vow to not move into another home with that many bathrooms until I'm rich enough to hire someone to clean them. The crazy thing about toilets that aren't being used is they get dirtier faster than toilets that do get used. I was constantly cleaning bathrooms that were never even used.
Another common request on House Hunters International is for a gas stove because of chef sensibilities and having better temperature control. The perk to the four bathroom house was it had a very nice electric stovetop. Instead of having to lift metal grates to scrap every crumb or splash, the entire stovetop is cleaned in a single swoop. Ten seconds of work compared to five minutes, really, it's no-brainer. Excessive cleaning is for the birds, or people who get paid actual money for it.
There are the people who enjoy cleaning, in which case I sort of salute you. I would perhaps encourage you to find more exciting things to do. It reminds me of my sisters coworker who is a health nut and equally body conscious. My sister said she asked her how she stays so thin, and she said she chews her food thirty times before swallowing. I couldn't help but say, "She must be marvelous lunchtime conversation." I picture her bopping her head from side to side with each chew as she counts up to thirty and then swallows. It would be like talking to a wall.
Lately cooking has been tiresome, and it might be from all the dishes, although I do think I should freshen up my recipe cycle. Come to think of it, I might fit right in on House Hunters International. My list of requirements is getting long. I'd like a house with a pool, a chef, and a cleaning person. That's it, really. Oh, and I'd like the walls to be a light grey color. And thats it!

Little Sister

Sunscreen suit

I don't know why I'm watching Jerry Maguire because I fucking hate this movie. Is Renee Zelwiger the most pathetic human in the world. Single moms number one priority is not to find a man they can fix, become enslaved to, and truly enjoy being treated like shit by. They are busy enough. I've watched ten minutes so far, and the only saving grace is that fucking adorable little boy. Little kids in glasses are top tier cutie pies. He resembles my little boogers, especially Kiki who ended up looking like she was born on a Wisconsin dairy farm, made of milk.
I have to slather her in  sunscreen if she doesn't wear her full body bathing suit because she would turn into a tomato after a day in the sun. With the weather heating up, we started swimming in the afternoon. Kiki was in the pool with a group of little girls. Maybe because two year old boys easily flip the uncontrollable beast switch, throwing a wrench in peaceful afternoon outings, I didn't see too many of them around. As Kiki swam amongst the little girls, I chased George up and down the side of the pool, in a fucking bathing suit, that turd. After he started venturing off toward the tennis courts at full speed, I had to give him the ultimatum, hang out at the pool or go to the childcare center. He decided to chill out, and we had a fun time.
Kiki could spend four hours floating in the water talking to herself, but George gets a bit bored, and
mixes it up by jumping off the stairs, or paddling all the way down to the deep end and screaming, "Help!" even though he doesn't need help, so I swim down and join him. For someone who is always running away from me, he doesn't really ever like me to be far from him.
Kiki was chatting with friends, and kept pointing to George and saying, "There's my sister." I think she felt left out amongst all the sister duo and trios, but I cleared it up for anyone who was confused,"Actually, he's your brother." George and I played on the shallow side of the pool, having a great time. I forgot how wonderful pool time is, we are going to have a very nice summer. I'm already bronzing up nice.
The pool is a great mom hot spot. I met a woman who gave me a pros and cons list for every elementary school in Sacramento. I'm looking forward to all the new families we meet. We can get overly emotional and desperate, "You complete me... for now."
I was about to change the channel when I noticed that Jerry Maguire took Renee to Paco's Tacos (the best restaurant in LA) for their date. I used to live around the corner from it, and could write a ten page love letter to their chilli relleno burrito. Yes, they put a chilli relleno in a burrito. Anyways, Rene put on a ball gown for the date because she is desperado, and then she fainted because he gave her kid a high-five or some shit. I never knew skinny blondes had it so hard in LA.
This movie is frustrating the fuck out of me because I hate Jerry and I hate Renee, but what an exceptional soundtrack. Aimee Man, too! Jeez. Aside from the music, I have to turn it off before I die of embarrassment, and I can't die without eating another burrito from Paco's Tacos, and fishing for more elementary school information from the moms at the pool, women who've got more important things to deal with than chasing around broken men who treat them like dog doo.
For example, I am going to sort all the plastic bags George took out from their boxes to line his bed with. I didn't notice he'd been working on this project until I put him to bed. He is such a busy body, an adorable little busy body, who keeps me a busy body.

People You May Know

They're getting in my head

I went to a birthday party last weekend, and spent most of the time chatting with a lawyer who had two toddlers running around. She knew a lot about home health care so my brother and her talked shop, and I stood there, nodding a lot. She was quirky, nice and, most importantly, looks like she enjoys drinking beer and getting loud.
Fast forward two days, and I get an email from LinkedIn. The subject line read 'People You May Know' and a picture of the girl I met at my friend's party, was looking right at me.
"Is LinkedIn stalking me?" My best guess is they got their intel from the group Evite. Anyways, it was a nice way for me to reach out to her. "Umm, yeah, so I'm not cyber stalking you, but LinkedIn is. Weird, right?"

I've had a cold this week, and because of it, we couldn't see my family for Easter since we'd pass the germs on to my sister's new baby. I used NyQuil the first couple nights, and had consistent early bed times. Last night, I figured I'd take a night off because I don't need a NyQuil addiction creeping up on me. I had work to do anyways. My couple nights of NyQuil induced sleep supplied me plenty of bad dreams where I went back to work after spring break, and was unprepared from doing nothing for 14 days.
I was emailed yesterday by the family I tutor, they decided they aren't going to continue having me tutor their daughter since she failed another test, and has to take summer school. It sucks that she failed. I would have liked to contribute towards her succeeding, not the other way around. The last time we had a session she was falling asleep at the table so I don't think it's a brain problem, but a time problem.
My mother warned me about this when I told her I was signing Kiki up for music lessons. She said, "Be careful, Alicia. There was this thing when you guys were growing up called 'the over scheduled child,' where kids gets anxiety and stressed because they are driven from one activity to the next and don't have any time to relax.
"Is that why my favorite after school activity was watching M.A.S.H. and eating Bagel Bites?" I asked.
My mom might be on to something with the kid I tutored, but I don't need to worry about putting Kiki in activities because of possible exhaustion, just yet. I think the student and her parents are not prioritizing. Her parents needs to read Tiger Mom. Amy Chua will let them know math comes before band, tennis and vacations. Without having to tutor two nights a week, I will be less stressed, and not feel like my only time for lecture prep is in the middle of the night.
When I went to bed, my breath was shallow, and I tried not to cough because it would kick start ten minutes of pain. I got out of bed for a new batch of cough drops and saw the time was 11, too late to go back on my no NyQuil stance. I read Shirley Jackson's Got A Letter From Jimmy, and thought Shirley's got some big cajones. Reading up on what the academics think of Ms. Jackson's story, it's deep meaning deals with communication, I think thats a load of rubbish, and this short story with mafia levels of violence was a wonderful outlet for frustrations she felt toward her husband who was being an idiot.
After the story, and the interpretations of the story, I fell asleep, and dreamt my cousin had a baby whose eyes were just white, no pupils or color, and one of them was cracked, and then I yelled at my sister's ex-husband. It was unsettling, but better than feeling like I went back to work with my pants around my ankles.

Our Easter Sunday has been very relaxing. George is sitting with his box of chocolates, rubbing the tops of them with his fingertips, or rubbing them on his cheek, all the while talking to them, "Those are my chocolates." and Kiki is fighting the urge to steal them, and eat them in her closet as fast as she ate hers.
Since I'm all caught up on my work, I can relax today and that entails web surfing, reading and writing. If I get an email from LinkedIn during one of my frequent email checks, saying People You May Know, with a picture of The Easter Bunny, a scary looking baby with white eyes, or a person who I'd like to never see again except to yell at in my dreams, then I know that LinkedIn's intel goes much deeper than the web, their in my head, and I think the best way to get them out is by employing Shirley Jackson's methods. Although it's unclear if my own head should be under attack or the head of LinkedIn.

My precious

White Pants Surrong

Protecting my pants

My mom told me after my little brother turned four, she started wearing white again. The entire decade before she was birthing and rearing, so wearing white was out of the question because even the most anal of children will have a Pig Pen dust cloud following them.
I watch Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and am influenced by Yolanda's super style. Before Erika, she was the only one who didn't look like she was parading in a Spanish Flamenco Fiesta and lost her sombrero.
I bought white pants because Yolanda always looks like a bad ass in hers. I put mine on, and felt like a bad ass as well. After picking up Kiki, we came home midday, I knew I was in serious threat of being swiped by a grubby paw, used as a tissue for a runny nose, or as a very convenient face towel.
When we sat outside, I looked at the lawn chairs, if the kids didn't get me, the furniture certainly would. I went back inside and grabbed a towel that I wrapped around my waist like a fashionable surrong, or Fabio's everyday wear.
Kiki looked at me like I was confused, but she didn't think too much about it, seeing as how she often wears a skirt underneath a dress just because.
My pants made it through the afternoon unscathed. I kept the white pants surrong on as we drove to the pool, and then I used it as a towel.

Activism Trumps

I watched Real Housewives of Beverly Hills after party aka Watch What Happens Live, and the very lovely Rachel Dratch was a guest. Her book, Girl Walks Into A Bar, is two thumbs up. She was on the show with Erika Girardi, who came as her alter ego Erika Jayne. Erika put into perspective how teeny tiny Dratch is because she looked absolutely microscopic, and Jayne looked like a fabulous Glamazon.
Erika had on a fur coat and when asked by a viewer if the coat was real, Jayne said, "Yes." A proud fur-wearing lady. She briefly hesitated, you could feel her thinking, "How should I answer this?"
And then, very absolute, she didn't bat an eye when she gave her answer.
I suppose this will have some backlash, since one of this season's Real Housewives of Beverly Hills story lines is Vanderpump's activism on ending The Yulin dog eating festival in China. Vanderpump can be kind of gross, mouthing her dog's face, or those ghastly geese living in her moat. All the while she is talking to them like she's got one finger up their asshole, "You like that, hanky-panky, don't you, you big dirty bird. Oh yeah."
Anyways, Jayne, says fuck it to the animal rights subplot on the show, and sports a coat made out of, what looks like, snow leopard or polar bear.
I have to be unapologetic in my turing-a-blind-eye to the gay rights movement, by eating at Chick-Fil-A because it's the best, absolute best, restaurant to bring kids. There is a pristinely clean play room, enclosed in glass where kids are set free. There is free Wi-Fi. A good variety of food, soup, salads, sandwiches and ice cream. And the best part, no one fucking cares if your kid acts crazy. All this for a high end fast food prices, avoiding the Jones's trap one might wander into to at Au Fudge.
Before you get your panties in a bunch, I'll ask, "Where'd you get your nails done?"
If you go to any nail salon in America, then you are contributing to fucking slave-labor, and the brainless twats who say, "Well, I tip really well," can go eat two dicks, because the slave-driver is now getting double what he usually takes in.
So what did the nail salon expose do for nail ladies? Who knows? That story went out with the changing tide. So yeah, your human trafficking trumps my Chick Fil A indulgences.
It's good to pick your battles, or partial battles, wisely.
Really though, Chick-Fil-A sort of apologized. Money is money for shits sake. Any nail lady slave driver will tell you that, they're likely doling out apologies by the dozens, and like Chick-Fil-A, I don't think they're apologizing for anything but how their actions caused a loss in sales.

Potty Mouth

My brother came to visit over the weekend. I dragged his ass to an Easter egg hunt, a three year old's birthday party at a gym, and then the after party at her house. When my brother gave me the look that said, "You better take me home now, or I'm going to get George to do that awful thing he does," I gave a quick adios salute, and wrangled the kids.
When we got home, I put the kids to bed, and then Matt and I had the difficult task of deciding what to watch on Netflix.
He said, "How about we watch an informative documentary?"
"I was feeling a bit more like a Rom-Com, or perhaps just a Com."
We went through all the Coms and could't find anything we both agreed on, so he said, "How about an informative documentary."
"Egh, alright!"
So we decided on Ken Burns's The Roosevelts. The series is made up of seven 2-hour episodes. I knew I wasn't in it for the long haul, but the hour and forty five minutes I did watch were very entertaining. Teddy was such an energetic character, and Franklin Delano (that names needs to make a comeback) had been so misunderstood throughout college.
Regardless of how impressive the story was, I had to go to bed, so I went to bed, and Matt carried on watching. The next day, I sent the kids in to wake him up. They sat at the foot of his bed barking like dogs until he finally rolled out of bed.
While I was getting the kids breakfast he decided he'd jump right back into the miniseries, but put his headphones in because the kids were jamming hard to Ricky Martin. He started laughing hysterically to himself, and then pulled out his earbuds and retold me the story he just heard about Teddy being such a long winded conversation dominator.
Kiki was running out the back door to play in the yard, and I asked her come sit down and finish her breakfast. She looked at me and did a head nod toward the outside, like "But, I'm going outside." And she went outside. Then my brother, who already thinks my kids are unruly, said, "Wow, Alicia, your kids are such good listeners."
George, who was sitting in his chair eating, started to sing, "Jingle fuck, jingle fuck, jingle all the fuck."
I just rolled my eys, threw the kitchen towel on the table, and sat down. Matt walked to the bathroom trying not to laugh, "Oh, I just learned a new song, thanks to George, The Potty Mouth."