My Warrior Update #2

I don’t feel any sculpting developing here.  I feel soreness and backaches. Normal for a 35-year old body in training, but I consider myself an athlete so I’m a little disappointed in my muscle metamorphosis, but I’ve got two more months to physically transform into a Warrior. 

Warrior Dash

This week I decided to change it up a bit as it dawned on me that this race is not going to take place on a smooth all-weather polyurethane track. There will probably be elevation changes, dirt, rocks, gravel…all kinds of mother nature obstructions other than the Warrior obstacles. So I went hiking, which when you think of it is really just walking quickly up a mountain. I should have gone running up there, but considering the shin splints I got the next day I think walking briskly was the better choice. What a wimp! Apparently I overloaded my shinbone and the connective tissue with excessive force. So I took two days off to recover.

During my 48-hour training hiatus I decided to work on my muscles in order to prepare for the Rubber Ricochet and Muddy Mayhem obstacles. In the Rubber Ricochet I must “ram my way through a rubber jungle” composed of old Goodyears and Michelins. But what I didn’t understand was whether people would be shoving me into these tires, or the tires would be swinging on their own, either way it sounds painful. I won’t be wearing football pads or anything, so I focused on biceps. I mean I don’t look like Angela Bassett in What’s Love Got To Do With It, but I feel the seeds of strength planted.

I’ll probably also need upper body strength during Muddy Mayhem in addition to quad muscles. In this little adventure I scramble in the mud underneath barbed wire. I’ll probably need arm muscles to keep my face from drowning in the mud, but not too high or I’ll find myself getting stabbed by the sharp edges usually used to restrain cattle. Sounds like Semper Fi training, but I’m not even close to Armed Forces material. I should practice crawling, I guess.

In any case the training continues, the cardio commences, and ten obstacles to go. Giddy up!

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My Dad…The Filet Mignon of My Life

“I know you hear me, but are you listening?”

“Apoco…nooooooooo? Reeeaaaaaaally. Don’t be reee-di-cu-lous.”

“Hey…hey…hey…regaaaaaardless…”

This is what I heard most of my life growing up and most of the time my Dad would use these phrases incorrectly. He cracked me up. We’d both use these phrases in conversation and try to beat the other one to the punch.

But his most popular phrases were: “Don’t get hasty. Are you getting hasty? Don’t get hasty…” and “What am I, chop liver?”

Growing up, I was not really your best morning person (incidentally that hasn’t changed at all) and my Dad was very aware of this fact. So he’d barge in the room with his loudest Robin-Williams–Good-Morning-Vietnam voice and say, “Hey, hey, hey…are you awake. You look awake. Are you awake?”

I’d grumble in anger. He’d continue to torment my morning-monster attitude, until I’d lose it. I wake up yelling “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!”

His response…”Hey, hey, hey don’t get hasty. Are you getting hasty? Don’t get hasty.”

“Dad you don’t even know what that means! God!”

“Hey…I said don’t get hasty.”

“Hasty? Hasty means I’m moving fast. I’m not even moving. You’re using the wrong word!”

“No. No. No. I’m using the right word. Don’t confuse me. You’re getting hasty. Hasty!”

“Dad!”

“Don’t get hasty.”

“I’m not hasty!”

“Your whole attitude is hasty. Get up, it’s morning I need you to help me wash the car. I’ll wait for you outside.”

“I’m not helping you. You’re crazy!”

“HEY!!!”

“Don’t get hasty, Dad. Don’t get hasty.”

So there it was. Our morning routine. But even well after I moved out. I still heard these Dad-isms frequently as we spoke with each other every night, either through telephone calls or in person. We’d talk to each other almost everyday. I’d see him, maybe three or four times a week, whether it was for lunch, dinner, watching football games, watching the Emmys or Oscars, watching our favorite television shows, going bowling, or just hanging out. If I was busy with some writing assignment, tired from work, or out of the house doing something else he’d say…

“What am I, chop liver? I see how it is.”

My Dad on his adventure

 

My dad was never chopped liver. And he knew it, because most of the time I’d drop whatever it was that I was doing and go hang out or end up in some crazy dad adventure.  He was a day-dreamer and  I’m sure he had a Bucket List. In fact I know that I was part of some of his Bucket List adventures some which were ironic, like zip lining. A) He was scared of heights and B) He did not swim very well he was more like a floater that splashed.  You would think he’d adventure this in a controlled environment with safety precautions and personnel. No. Not my Dad. He chooses zip line in Guatemala. There are no harnesses or helmets. Just some dude that says…una…dos…tres! And there’s my dad living off adrenaline, laughter, and adventure as he swings his way across a ravine.

My Dad…he was my biggest fan.

He lost his battle to Interstitial Lung Disease a year-and-a-half ago. He didn’t even smoke. He would’ve been 64 years old today. I miss our conversations. My Dad … he was never chopped liver, he was the filet mignon of my life. Feliz  Cumpleanos, Chito.

El Plato…The Take-Home Plate

Image by revrev via Flickr

I don’t know about your culture, neighborhood, or upbringing but in my inner-city, working-class, Latino culture there is something called el plato…the take-home plate. Whether it’s a quinceanera, birthday party, baby shower, bachelorette celebration, or Tupperware party you got the take-home plate. There was an etiquette to these social gatherings — a certain unwritten code of behavior that my people followed. As a guest you didn’t even have to ask. It was just something given to you, like the air you breathe. However, this day was only the second time in my 35-year existence that it didn’t happen. It was weird…like an inexplicable X-Files that Moulder and Scully needed to investigate.

I didn’t know what to make of it. I mean I barely survived my mayonnaise chocolate cake encounter the other day through the awesome power of  Sal de Uvas Picot antacid. I mean even the Mayonnaise Lady offered me a plate home…granted it was denied because I was on the verge of throwing up, but it was offered. Perhaps  things were changing, but when I got home I realized they hadn’t.  

There I was enjoying the baby shower festivities, which included a nice carne asada tacos, rice, beans, and tostadas. I thought I was having a great food weekend with the spring rolls and cookies and then this savory meal hits my taste buds … whoa. Did I have seconds? Yeah… I did. I even had thirds. My people make enough to feed King Kong’s family. There’s no shame in getting thirds, my people encourage the curvaceous look.

As the celebration came to an end, people started picking up casseroles, moving chairs, cleaning tables, drinking Budweiser and singing Chente’s Volver Volver. Vincente Fernandez‘s song for those of you that don’t know, this is THE HYMN that usually appears towards the end of the festivities. Drunk and sober people sing it all the time.

So as I’m making my good-bye rounds, I notice I’m getting closer and closer to the door and no plato in sight. I make my final good byes to the guest of honor and her family at the door and nothing.

I linger…still no Dixie plate with aluminum foil any where in sight. But I know they still had enough food to feed half of the New York Giants. So I try to drop some hints.

“It was a great party. The food was great. So delicious.”

“Mmm-hmm. Yes it was. We have so much of it.”

“Oh yeah it was good.”

“Thanks…Glad you made it out.”

“Oh, you were?”

“Of course! We always love having you ladies over.”

I glanced over her shoulder. Nothing. No more stalling. It’s just not coming.

“Well, O.K. Gotta go.”

They stare at me. I stare back.

“O.K.”

I open the screen door and leave. No carne asada, no rice, no beans, no salsa. No plato.

 I walk through the door at home. My mom sits on the couch watching something  Don Francisco related. I put my keys on the table and sit.

“What happened? I thought you went to a party?”

“I did.”

“Y el plato?”

“No plato.”

“No plato?”

“No…no plato.”

“What happened?”

My aunt walks down the stairs and says hello. She looks around the kitchen and table.

“So you didn’t go to the party?”

“I did.”

“Y el plato.”

“No plato.”

“Do they not like you?”

“Yeah they do… just no plato.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, not anymore. But initially yeah they did.”

My husband comes down the stairs and gets a beer from the fridge.

“Where’s the plate?”

“No plate.”

“No plate! What’s up with that? Was it an unvitation party?”

“No dude. They like me. There was just no plate.”

“Not possible. Maybe they don’t like you enough.”

So after a thirty minute analytical  inquisition by family I realized, sometimes there are just no plates. Not even an offer of one. It happens. People have brain farts all the time and the unwritten rule remains unspoken and without action. You chalk it up to too much alcohol and their family living on the west side.  

West siders…an interesting no-plato species.

Sal de Uvas Saved Me From This Chocolate Cake

I don’t think I’ll look at chocolate cake the same way again. I love chocolate. It’s my go-to choice for anything catastrophic in my day. I mean other than profanity, chocolate does it for family interactions, writer rejections, traffic, baby blowouts, college football losses and cliffhangers on some of my favorite AMC or FX shows.

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I love the cacao tree. It’s awesome, but what this lady did with it in cake…not cool man…not cool. Bad things should not be happening to chocolate cake.

I went to another get-together in the afternoon and I didn’t repeat my food-a-thon from yesterday, but when I realized that they had chocolate cake, it was on. I was already thinking up an excuse as to why I  needed to take two pieces home with me…you know, invent a relative that’s staying with me and say I’d like to take her some, knowing full well that I’d probably devour it at the stoplight.

I grabbed my piece of cake, not a sliver, not a slice, a healthy ginormous chunk of the bad boy and began eating before I sat down.  The texture was different. Something was different about it. It was softer, but something was different.

When I asked where she got it, she said she had baked it herself.

“It’s my mayonnaise chocolate cake.”

“Your what?”

“My mayonnaise chocolate cake. I saw the recipe it’s sometimes called the ‘Depression Era‘ cake because I guess in those times people used what they could find.”

If you don’t have butter, don’t be making it. Or at least put a label on it and say this is my mayonnaise cake, dig in.

Dude. Depression Era indeed. After hearing that I was depressed. In fact I was sick. All I could think of was a white vinegar-smelling blob trying to molest my chocolate.  Apparently mayonnaise is an emulsion of ingredients that are normally un-blendable. Who wants that with their chocolate. I mean in a sandwich, I get it. Although I don’t really add mayonnaise to my stuff, I’m a deli mustard person myself. But I understand why people put it on sandwiches. It was intended to be a spread, not a major ingredient in chocolate cake.

I was completely grossed out. I mean I know there are eggs and oil in this white blob, but dude sometimes ingredients need to be mixed the cake way instead of forming a sandwich spread and then adding it to your cake as if it were pudding or frosting. I could feel my stomach yelling obscenities at me. It was one of those moments where you so wanted to throw up, but it doesn’t happen so you’re left with this sick feeling.

Sal De Uvas Picot…My Savior

I was grossed out the entire day until the little white, blue and green packet rescued my stomach. Sal de Uvas Picot saved me. It’s an antacid imported from Mexico. One of the best things other than their Tecate or Dos Equis beverages. It rebooted my system and was thankful we had some in the medicine cabinet.

No more visits to Mayonnaise Lady. I don’t need anymore Tupperware, they sell Rubbermaid at Costco.

The Spring Rolls and The Cookies Killed My Phone

I hadn’t been out since my All-I-Wanted-To-Do-Was-Leave-by-8:00 adventure.

I was ready to have dinner made by anyone else but me and not have to wash the dishes or baby bottles.  So I prepared myself to fight traffic and drove about 45 minutes to a friend’s house for a girls night. Beverages included.

I  arrived after the designated dinner time, as any insane mom does, but there was plenty of food waiting for me at the table. Just sitting there on square white plates, saying giddy up girl. Dig in, because you have no square plates at home.

I must have eaten at least 20 spring rolls and 10 pot stickers. In addition I ate a generous Claim-Jumper portion size of the most tender steak, with savory salty drippings that were sopped up by my mouth. No need for bread.

I was like a caveman. I just couldn’t stop eating. And then came the cookies. Warm, soft, gooey. I ate 11. I thought a dozen might be too many. I didn’t want to get crazy. So instead I ate two more spring rolls. I sat there in a food coma. Happy that I didn’t have to serve anyone for once, or hear anybody crying for a bottle, or whining about bath time, or talking about golfing the next day, or getting sassy with me in Spanish.

I savored the moment. So I took another cookie. Why not? 12 is a good number. But maybe 14 is better. Maybe another spring roll.

As I sat there chit-chatting with the girls and continuing with my buffet, I heard the latest romantic adventure of my newly engaged friend, whose story made me re-live John Cusack‘s boombox scene from Say Anything. Complete I-love-you moments. It was like watching a Beaches commercial, except the actors were hot Latinos instead of bouncing blond people.

But I could feel my stomach getting bigger and bigger.

I had to do it…no choice. Didn’t need a muffin top overflowing the waist of my pants. So I unbuttoned the top button of my jeans and sighed.

After a while I went to use the facilities and as I tried to fit my stomach back into my pants the top copper button flew out. I’m not a big girl by any means, but it shot out like a bullet. Granted they were older jeans, but they were Lucky Brand. These buttons were authentic hardware woven into my vintage pants with steel-like thread. Must have used some hard detergent and it loosened it accidentally

No. Not it. Let’s stop playing these games. The button just couldn’t take it anymore. Powerful spring rolls. 

In any case I found it near the bathtub and for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to place it on top of the toilet tank. So as I reached over to put it there I heard a plop and then a clank hit the toilet.

Dude.

My cell phone had decided to jump ship and drown itself in the toilet. Now I’m nothing like Howard Hughes, Howie Mandel, or Monk with that OCD crazy clean factor, but toilet water is not appealing. I was going to let it drown but I figured I needed the pictures on the phone camera more than anything else. So I plunged in and quickly rinsed the phone off in regular sink water. I figured it drowned already what’s a little more water going to do. Then I disinfected my hands with massive amounts of soap. It said antibacterial on the bottle, so I was hoping it did its scientific thing. If there were Comet or Ajax I’d be up to my elbows on that one, but I thought anitbacterial…99.9 percent is all right.

I figured after my button and phone, it was time to call it a night. Besides I had to make it back in time to feed the baby when she woke up at her regular midnight-what’s-up-mom routine. I also wanted to get my phone as dry as possible, perhaps use my Con-Air Infiniti blow dryer, which was so successful with my computer.

All in all it was a good night. And then I returned and just like clockwork midnight approached and there was the baby sending out the blissful sounds of  whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa through the airwaves. Toys everywhere. Bottles on the counter. Dishes in the sink.

I’m glad I took an extra cookie to go. I should have taken a spring roll too.

I Don’t Believe That Everything Happens for a Reason Unless Keifer Sutherland is Involved

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I hate that saying … “Everything happens for a reason.”

It’s like nails scratching on a chalkboard when I hear it. Do we still even have chalkboards in America? Ugh. You’re down in the gutter of disillusionment, clinging to life by a rope made of dental floss and someone says…”Well, everything happens for a reason.”

What is that?

You don’t want to hear that.

Does anybody else hate that?

That just makes me want to tie a noose with that dental floss rope and hang off a bridge. 

At the moment that your hemisphere is crashing on you, all you can think of is what crappy luck you have, because it can’t be karma. You’re scared of that bitch so you tend to walk a straight line and only live vicariously through characters on AMC or FX shows.

So you never really give thought to that saying. You chalk it up to bad luck or bad decisions. As in a bad decision for that person not to give me that job so I’m broke, or bad luck that I got a flat tire and there was no spare in the back. Nothing happens for a “mysterious reason” that will probably never appear. 

I’d probably drive myself into a drinking coma if I tried to find the reason. I’d learned that it was just bad luck and I was probably suffering one of the worst batches of bad luck in the universe, like a degenerate gambler clutching onto his last chip because he gambled his house away and now he’s letting it ride on red 32.  But apparently the universe is interconnected in some way. This is what Kiefer says and it was completely laid out in his new non-Jack Bauer show: Touch.

I normally don’t write about television shows, because I figure everyone has their own sense of great television from Mad Men to crazy reality television on Bravo. But after watching Kiefer’s show last night I finally “got it”. 

All these people were having pretty much crappy existences culminating in one day and Kiefer’s son sort of connected the dots. It was a good visualization of “things happening for a reason,” although the man who lost his daughter and the phone containing his only pictures of her…yeah the universe would have to cough up some more meaningful answers, because that sort of thing never makes sense and has no reason. But the “eventually” happened for everyone in the one-hour show, granted for the characters it was more like a week or so, and for real-life Guat time it takes years. Maybe a decade.

So Kiefer as everything happens for a reason…I’m still waiting for my retrospective moment as to why I’m stuck living with a Dr. Jekyll-Mrs. Hyde mom that does laundry at eleven o’clock when your kids are sound asleep and then woken up to the sound of Gloria Vanderbilt jean buttons whacking away in the dryer. Or perhaps the retrospective moment will happen when my 93rd loss of “Battle of the Bottles” occurs and I say screw it the baby can learn to drink from a straw. 

So now that Kiefer opened my eyes to the road map and the Chinese unbreakable red string that mysteriously connects all these people in my path…what up Kiefer? When am I getting out of purgatory and how many dots in my-everything-happens-for-a-reason map need to be connected for that?

Thanks to Kiefer I’m aboard the train now, just waiting for the transfer to kick in.

Giddy up!

The Surprise Run-In

Blasts from the pasts. You try to avoid them at all costs. You don’t live in the same neighborhood. You don’t go to your high school reunion because you know you’re going to run into people you don’t want to see and anybody you want to “catch up with” you’ve found on Facebook. But then the inevitable happens in a place where you least expect it. At Target. At Trader Joes. At CVS Pharmacy. Even at RadioShack. The surprise run-in.

You don’t go to these places in your best attire, early in the morning. You usually go for a quick in-and-out mission, or if you’re like me you went to RadioShack after working out just to get a special outlet for the battery charger. You figure RadioShack in your neck of the woods…what are the chances of running into anybody?

Image by Bekathwia via Flickr

You show up all perspired in your t-shirt and sweats, with non-matching socks because you were just trying to get out the door. One sock with stripes the other without. No make-up, but you don’t wear much to begin with and if you did your workout would probably have melted it away.

You walk in and hear the ding-a-ling of the bell. You head straight toward the battery section and stare at it for five minutes, thinking you can select one before the RadioShack guy comes to help you out. You feel someone approaching and think time is expiring. You’re a moron. You can’t even pick a battery charger, granted there are like 27 of them hanging there on metal hooks, but you went to college figure it out, right?

As you hear the footsteps, you look up. Someone is smiling at you.

“Heyyyyyyyyy! What a surprise! Oh my God how are you?”

It’s a blast from the past. Your surprise run-in.

You do a quick turn around to run your fingers through your Bride-of-Frankenstein hair, dab your face with your shirt and fold over you drunken socks, before turning around and smiling back.

My surprise run-in wasn’t someone I disliked or an ex-boyfriend or anything. He was a classmate and friend. I was the classic sporty spice, good-looking tomboy that got along pretty well with guys. So I wasn’t really threatening to chicks when I hung out with dudes. I mean they’d take a look at me in my Levi’s and college t-shirts by day and basketball uniform by evening and think nothing of it. They were cheerleaders, wearing short-shorts. I was balling on the court and wearing t-shirts. We did not hang out in the same circles, so I hung out with guys.

My blast from the past and I chatted it up a bit. The basic what-are-you-doing-now stories, although I left the part out about living at my parents. That’s really a need-to-know basis. He was doing well. Had kids. A wife. A good job. Looked happy and sounded happy. I told him about my starving writer gigs and being a parent, and he gave me the congrats pat on the shoulder.  Then he began with his compliments and how great he thought I looked and informing me how he ran into other people and how out of shape and weathered they appeared to be, but that I looked the same as I did over twenty years ago. I was feeling pretty good about my sweaty self until…

“Yeah, you look great! You look the same as you did in high school. You have the same bags under your eyes and everything.”

Dude. I was speechless, and that doesn’t happen often. But there I was with the same bags under my eyes, exchanging emails and saying see you later to an old friend. And as I heard the ding-a-ling when he departed I thought:

Next stop CVS Pharmacy. They got concealer. They got eye moisturizer. Maybe more than 27 of them.

Up A Notch

Ever feel like you’re failing every day? Trying to catch up with what ever it is that you do in life only to realize that you’ve gone only from an F to an F+?

For me that’s parenthood. Well at least, right now. It’s normal, I deal with it. I mean I’m not one of those baby mafia moms that go to the sandbox in their Gucci sunglasses, $1000-diaper bags, and fashion ensembles that make it look like they’re going clubbing. They sit there in their little pack chit-chatting about how their child was potty trained at 12 months, painted a masterpiece, is already reading at first-grade level, and never misbehaves when they know damn well that he’s the kid eating the sand and having tantrums in the car.

Needless to say that isn’t me. I’m up in the sandbox playing with bulldozers and catching my son as he whooshes down the slide. He wasn’t potty trained at 12 months, he paints blobs, he reads at his regular Cat-in-the-Hat level and has attitude. Plenty. I’ve got no shame. When something is wrong, something is wrong. Things suck sometimes when you’re a parent. But I realized that they suck only because you’re trying to do the best. Anyone can be a parent, but it takes sleepless nights, extra patience, wisdom, common sense, and a whole lot of heart and effort to be a good parent. Well … that alcohol and the “bad-assness” of Jack Bauer. Same philosophy applies in my writing career.

But just when you think you’ve fallen through the grading curve. Something awesome happens and it pushes you up a notch. You get the “+”.

I used to be the crazy mom…well not crazy like reality TV crazy, but crazy in the sense that I used to call my son’s preschool teacher every day until he was fully transitioned. It’s heartbreaking to leave your kid for the first time, so as a mom there I was delaying my departure and arriving earlier than usual for pickup and calling the teacher everyday just to see how long it was before he stopped crying. Enfadosa, my  mom would say.

Aren’t you worried that they’ll think you’re crazy? But there’s the thing. I don’t hide it. I’m not ashamed. I am enfadosa when it came to my kid. And I’ve accepted it. It’s like rehab … you’re only successful if you realize that you can’t change yourself. You change your habits, but you just have to accept who you are.  I know … pretty deep, but I can’t take credit for that. I saw that on a Breaking Bad episode. AMC…pretty awesome.

So, anyhow in my crazy acceptance as an enfadosa mom when my kid started school, I picked up some of his artwork, blobs and all, and asked him: What is this?

 His response…

“That’s me. That’s you mom. That’s the phone.  Teacher say you call me everyday. Friends call each other and say hello. You my best friend. You say hello all the time.”

 Ohhhhhhhhhh. I’m up a notch.

My Warrior Update

I was energized…could’ve come out in a Gatorade commercial. I laced up my New Balance and worked out every day, making up for my minor set back a couple of weeks ago. And then the weekend hit…and it was over. No workouts squeezed in the early mornings or late evenings. It was a rough one, two kid parties, massive fruit roll-ups, and cake. Not just any cake…red velvet cake. Do you know how much butter is in that? Ooohhhhhhhhhh. Butter.

And now…here I am eating Doritos with sour cream and making a permanent imprint of my butt on the couch. I don’t even buy Doritos. For some reason they happen to be in the pantry and all of sudden I had flashbacks of late night study sessions in college and bam…half the bag was gone.  What is that? That’s completely not Warrior mentality. That’s fat-ass mentality.

Warrior Dash

I mean do I honestly think that the Warrior Dash is gonna be easy. Dude no. No. I needed to “scared-straight” myself because missing three days can become a week, then two. So I visited the website again and studied the 13 obstacles that await me. I’m doing some push-ups tonight. Maybe even the Doctor Oz Seven Minute Workout. Something.

But incidentally, other than my quick workout, I just have to break it down. I’ll start with my first challenge.

Obstacle #1: Satan’s Steps

I don’t know about this title. Being Catholic and all, I think the odds are stacked against me… but the fact that I fell UP the stairs, well that can’t be good either. I’m supposed to “scamper across staggering steps”. Scamper. Run nimbly? Dude. That is a challenge for me. I just need to put one foot in front of the other. That’s it. I think I’ll practice running up some stairs or as I did in my high school days …”bleachers”. Run the stadium bleachers develop my quads, so that I can scamper. But right now, game plan is to do this challenge slooooooooowwwwwwwwwly. Because with me I can fall up or down.

Giddy up!

Don’t Forget to Feed the Dog

She’s a cranky senior citizen now. Barks at her shadow and stares at herself in the mirror just to see if the other dog blinks first. She drives me crazy, but I still love her, even after the incident.

She usually eats twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening. Once cup. That’s it. Apparently she overweight. Complete strangers come up to me and say “Wow a dalmatian, haven’t seen one in a while. She’s overweight isn’t she?”

I feel like saying…”well you’re ugly and you don’t hear me saying anything.”

 I got her on some kind of senior citizen dog food with weight maintenance and glucosamine. Suppose to help her function better although I don’t know if it helps her hearing…she’s got selective hearing. Husbands have that too. And on this particular morning they were both exercising that skill.

Life was hectic as always in the morning when trying to get two kids ready to leave the house. Brushing teeth, combing hair, breakfast time, clear the table, change diaper, prepare bottles, potty break, change of clothes, more diapers, pack the snacks, walk the dog, another potty break, and fix the diaper bag. Ready to go out the door. I check the dinner table and make sure the computer is off. I do a double-take as I got some cash on the table. I was going to put it in my wallet, but decided to leave it at home. You know the rule with cash…the more you got in your wallet the more you spend. Then at the end of the day you open your wallet find a lonely George Washington and say what the hell happened?

So I left the cash on the computer. Three hundred-dollar bills, two fifties, four twenties, and three dollar bills. We had just cashed a check and were going to deposit the funds in the bank, but it was a Sunday…so we thought we’d wait.

Off I went on my adventure with the kids, returning in time for lunch. I place the diaper bag on the table and see the bills on the floor. No money on the table. It’s scattered. I must have dropped it while rushing out the door. I find two hundreds, two fifties, four twenties and three dollars.

Crap!

Where’s the other hundred? I’ve been known to lose money…falling out of my jacket pocket, dropping it as I pull the keys out of my backpack, falling out of a hole in a plastic grocery bag. It’s all been done and lost. And this time I thought I did it again. 

As I’m searching under the table and in between the couch cushions, my husband walks in and asks me what I’m trying to find. I explain I’ve dropped one of the bills and I’m just trying to look for it.

“Oh. Man. Not again!”

“Dude. Just help me look.”

As we’re both in search of the money the dog gets up and starts sniffing around.  She’s in dire need of a Tic Tac.

“Ugh. Did you feed the dog?”

“I thought you fed her.”

“No.”

“No wonder she’s so friendly.”

“No wonder her breath smells.”

My husband walks over to her food canister, but stops midway. He sees something. Our dog stands at her dog bowl and starts whimpering.

“Dude. I thought you were going to feed her.”

He walks over to the dog bed and sees a crumpled up bill.

“I found it!”

I smile and turn to look at him. He’s not smiling

“Well at least half of it.”

My Dog...looks guilty right?

We both stare at the dog…out of all those bills this bitch decides to eat the hundred-dollar bill. What is that! There were only three of them. She doesn’t eat the twenties or the ones, but hunderd-dollar bill. I’m trying to get out of this living arrangement here at my parents and she decides to have a hundred-dollar appetizer.  Well…fifty I guess.

 

We both stare at the dog. I open the canister, my husband pours in one-two-three-four…four cups of food. Screw the weight maintenance. This bill is coming out.

And now I wait.